Sunday Graphic novel crap

She plopped our eggs Benedict down on the counter and stood back staring at us expectantly. “Are you guys, like, fags?” she finally asked after watching us eat for the better part of a minute. Upon hearing this my friend shot a lump of bacon through his nose, a feat he has only achieved one other time in his life (except the first time was with beer).

“Cute,” I said. “Very cute. People often ask if we’re brothers, I’ve never met anyone who thought we were lovers before.”

“So, like, what are you then?” She didn’t seem to get it - why can’t two male friends sit in a diner eating a breakfast dinner at seven in the evening and not be gay?

“We’re friends,” I informed her.

***

The man in the group stepped forward. He looked older when he emerged from the shadows, his broad forehead and hollow eyes reflecting the fire of the setting sun.

“Before you leave, ask them about Katie,” he said. “Ask them.”

His words were pure and uncorrupted, like mournful singing rising up through the pops and scratches of an old record. His commandment continued to echo in us even after we turned away and started heading back to our car.

“Ask them.”