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1
Lenny’s in Homer’s backyard, drinking a beer with Carl. He takes a swig and Flanders brushes past him and shudders out of his way.
“Sorry about him,” says Marge, her lips pursed, “He thinks you and Carl are, y’know.”
She makes a vague gesture with her hand. Lenny doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He’s already slightly tipsy and overfull from the barbecue. Carl seems to frown a little but soon they’ve forgotten it and are engaged in vigorous debate about the best flavours of donut.
“For the last time, maple bacon is the best flavour of donut,” says Homer, slapping his fist into his fleshy palm.
“I liked those beer donuts that Burns gave us in exchange for not suing him when we got radiation poisoning,” says Lenny, swirling his Duff around.
“Well, once I went to this fancy bakery and they had lavender donuts,” says Marge, sighing wistfully.
“Marge,” explains Homer, with a thick air of condescension, “Lavender is a smell. Smells can’t be flavours. Otherwise, I would eat the car freshener.”
Marge’s brow furrows.
“You have eaten the car freshener! I know, because I had to drive you to the doctor, both times!” Marge snaps back.
“Well, excuse me for eating something called Red Licorice,” says Homer, drawing out his words petulantly.
Marge yanks Homer out of view into the kitchen and Lenny can hear the faint sounds of their arguing through the window.
“I’m glad we don’t fight like that,” Lenny says, nudging Carl’s shoulder.
“Why would we?” says Carl, moving away from Lenny.
Lenny sways slightly and his world goes into tilt a whirl technicolour. He hears a sigh and Carl slings Lenny’s arm over his shoulder.
“You’re the best, Carl,” slurs Lenny into Carl’s shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah,” sighs Carl.
2
“Can’t you hang out with your boyfriend or summat?” says Moe, shoving Lenny off the barstool.
“Boyfriend?” says Lenny, confused.
“You know, the black guy, with the whatchamacallit uh pink shirt,” says Moe, looking in the mirror and slicking back his hair.
“Carl? He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Husband. Partner. Whatever. Youse two are always together.”
Moe starts flossing his teeth in the mirror, grimacing at his own reflection.
“It’s actually good that you’re here because I could do with some romantic advice from someone who’s in a committed relationship, such as youselves.”
“Are you going on a date?” asks Lenny.
Moe coughs.
“Something like that.”
“Wow, Moe,” says Lenny, eyes wide, “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”
Moe grimaces and turns away from Lenny.
“It ain’t a broad. Now I gotta ask you, how does a date between two guys work? Who buys the flowers and pulls the chair out? Who pays for the meal?”
“Whoever wants to get laid more,” cackles Barney, swilling his beer around drunkenly.
“Hey, you shut yer face, Barney,” yells Moe.
Lenny thinks about it.
“Well, if you wanna get him flowers,” says Lenny, “You should. People like all that romantic stuff.”
Moe’s chest puffs up.
“Maybe I will.”
The door of the bar opens and Smithers comes through it.
“Mr Smithers, what are you doing here?” asks Lenny, in surprise.
The only bars he’s ever seen Mr Smithers in are ones with shirtless gogo dancers.
“I, uh,” says Smithers, looking at Moe.
“He’s, uh,” says Moe, looking around the room wildly, “Here to help me fix my car.”
“Uh, yes,” said Smithers, “So, let’s go to your car.”
Both Moe and Smithers rush out of the door, leaving the bar in darkness.
Lenny tells Carl about it when he gets back to Carl’s apartment. He’s staying there since his tropical fish tank exploded and flooded his whole apartment.
“Huh,” says Carl, “I thought Smithers was still hung up on Burnsy. Good to see he’s moving on.”
Lenny’s mouth hangs open.
“But he said he was there to fix Moe’s car. “
Carl sighs.
“He was just saying that so they could go out of the bar without anyone asking questions. They were obviously going on a date.”
“Huh, Moe and Smithers?” says Lenny out loud, while he pulls the sheets out and starts fitting them to the bed.
Carl fluffs up the pillows.
“Hey, who do you think would take the other’s name? Which is weirder, Moe Smithers or Waylon Syszlak?”
Carl considers this for a bit.
“I can’t see Burns learning to yell a new name down the hall. Maybe they would hyphenate.”
3
She knocks on the door.
“Lisa?” says Lenny, opening the door, still holding the squash and pumpkin casserole.
“Um, is this a bad time?” she asks, twisting her beret in her hands.
“Well, we have a dinner party with ten people in an hour but I always have time for a fellow Buddhist.”
Lisa follows Lenny down the hall, looking at the photos on the wall; Lenny and Carl standing together in Reykjavik, Lenny and Carl hanging off the edge of a mountain and Carl in a suit, smiling at the camera.
“Who was that?” a voice calls.
“It’s Lisa,” yells back Lenny.
The door opens and Carl appears holding a massive lasagna.
“Lisa?” he says, looking mildly confused.
He looks at her and she knows he is seeing what Lenny has not, the striped t shirt and crumpled banner.
“Model UN didn’t go so good, huh?” he says.
Lisa sits down at the kitchen and Lenny pours her a cup of hot chocolate.
“So what’s wrong, kiddo?”
“This girl at Model UN doesn’t like me because she thought that I didn’t like her when I really like her but I didnt want to tell her that so I tried to ignore her and now she hates me,” Lisa spilled out in one long run on sentence, turning red in the face.
“Woah, slow down there,” Lenny says, “You’re going a mile a minute.”
Carl rolls his eyes, (but only a little because he’s stopped doing it so much now that they live together).
“Why don’t you just tell her how you feel?” says Carl.
“I can’t. What if I tell her and she hates me? Or what if she tells the other kids and they laugh and call me a freak and the scandal follows me all the way to college and then I end up going to Princeton which barely qualifies as an Ivy and then I get married to Milhouse and-“
“Take a deep breath,” cut off Carl.
Lisa inhales a massive breath and chokes on it.
“What if we tell you what to say?”
Lisa considers it.
“Hmm, like Cyrano de Bergerac?”
“Cyrano de who?” asks Lenny.
Carl ignores him.
“Exactly. Now, write this down.”
The doorbell rings and Lenny opens it to find a harassed looking Marge standing there.
“Is Homer here?” she says, fishing lipstick out of her purse.
Lenny opens his mouth to reply but Lisa comes out of the kitchen.
“Lisa,” asks Marge, looking surprised, “What are you doing here?”
“Oh , she was here to-“ says Lenny, before Carl pokes him in the back with the wooden spoon.
“I had a school report due on marriage equality and I figured, why go to the library, when I could get it straight from the source,” Lisa says, laughing awkwardly.
“Well, if you want a lift back you’re going to have to wait for your father to get here,” Marge says, harrumphing, “He’s taken the car.”
“No, I’ll get the bus but thanks for the help on my report,” Lisa says, edging out the door.
Lenny watches her edge out the door then finally start sprinting away.
It’s only after the dinner party’s over that Lenny asks Carl about it.
“What was that all about with Lisa?” says Lenny, grabbing the dirty dishes from the table.
“She wanted to get teenage sexuality crisis advice from us.”
“Teenage sexuality crisis?”
Carl eyes him from where he’s scrubbing lasagne off the pan.
“Yeah, you didn’t ever have one of those?”
Lenny considers this. When he was a teenager, he mostly thought about hanging out with Carl and drinking cheap beer with Carl and playing poker with Carl.
“I can’t say that I have,” he says, grabbing the tea towel.
“Really?” asks Carl.
Lenny shakes his head. They scrub dishes silently for a few minutes until Lenny pauses.
“Wait, why did she ask us?”
Carl chuckles.
4
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, gird your loins, Andy Cohen,” snaps Patty, pushing past him.
“We’re commandeering your living room for the GSA meeting because you guys are the gayest people in town even if you aren’t out out.”
Carl comes into the room, with confusion on his face. Lenny realises he’s just gotten out of the shower and that his tattoo of Foghorn Leghorn is showing.
“Can’t you use Moe’s?” says Carl.
“Him and Smithers are on gaycation,” grunts Patty, with an expression of disdain.
“And Helen Lovejoy said we aren’t welcome in the church after I called her paper bunting tacky,” Julio said, clicking his fingers, “I stand by it.”
“Also, it’s good for the GSA’s reputation to have an interracial gay long married couple who remind people of their uncles.”
“But we’re not m-“ Lenny begins.
“You act like you’re married and that’s all that matters. We need the wholesome PR after Feltem John over here.”
“How was I supposed to know a man that handsome was not gay?” asks Julio.
“Because it’s Ned Flanders,” Selma snaps back.
“It is a crime against humanity to hide that body under sweaters,” says Julio, fanning himself.
Lenny leads them down the hallway and Julio looks around distastefully.
“Your interior leaves much to be desired,” says Julio, “Take my card.”
He hands Lenny a card. Lenny goes to get some wine and listens to Selma complain about the intricacies of permits for the pride parade. Carl squeezes his hand.
+1
Lenny’s in bed, Carl squashed up against his back, (he is a notorious bed hogger) when he realises something.
“Carl,” says Lenny.
“Uhuh,” mumbles Carl into Lenny’s shoulder.
“Are we a couple?”
Carl shifts in the bed and cranes his neck to look at Lenny.
“Yeah,” says Carl, like it’s obvious, like Lenny’s head isn’t reeling, “You didn’t know?”
“No.”
There’s a long pause.
“We live together.”
Lenny sits up in the bed.
“We can take the same car to work,” he reasons.
“We sleep in the same bed,” says Carl, bemused.
“Because it’s cheaper for one double then two singles.”
“I kiss you on the mouth.”
“You’re European,” cries Lenny.
Carl sighs.
“Listen, it’s 2 in the morning, can you do this tomorrow?”
Lenny thinks about it and lies back down, his heartbeat thrumming in the dark.
“Are we married?” he says quietly.
“Do you want to be?”
“Can we hyphenate?”
There’s a chuckle and Carl wraps his arm around Lenny again.
“Of course.”