They didn’t sit at the three-person table inside Fargo’s kitchen and enjoy the omelets. Rather, the box-style house had a small deck out back with a sloped yard. The deck looked out and over the yard, a few oaks, and a back alley, which was empty of vehicles and neighbors, as always. The two men sat in bamboo chairs covered with floral cushions in the shade, across from each other. Both were hatless and talked with their mouths full about favorite foods, restaurants, and beverages. Fargo was never shy about asking personal questions to men who enjoyed kissing him, and questioned, “Which guy was a psycho that you dated?”
“Where’s this question coming from?”
“Because we’ve all been there. You can’t tell me you didn’t have a crazy boyfriend.”
“I don’t know if I want to talk about this,” Ch
