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Portia LaPuss is an enigma of a woman.
She goes out every Saturday night in handmade dresses that glitter when the street lights hit the vibrant fabric. Her shoes click loudly on the pavement but barely match the level of her voice as she speaks vivaciously with her friends. She climbs onto the stages and bartops of clubs to serenade all the patrons. They even give her tips that expand to fifty dollars because they are so entranced with her animated personality. She lures the boys in with a wicked smile from her crimson lips and traps them with an intense stare. Yet, she never goes home with them. She leaves a kiss stain on their cheeks before sneaking out the backdoor of all the clubs, and the cycle repeats again the following Saturday.
Yes, Portia LaPuss is an enigma of a woman.
But she is also nothing more than a persona.
A persona created by a young man with a love of performing and putting a smile on the faces of strangers he meets every Saturday night.
Portia LaPuss is a drag queen.
And Christopher is in love with her.
—
“You managed to bring your own cigs. Finally.”
Christopher looks up from the ground he found fascinating for the past thirty minutes. He didn’t know what it was that caught his interest. Maybe it was the leaves dancing with the plastic wrappers in the light breeze, or maybe it was the mice who were “wrestling” with each other.
(Christopher wishes he could bleach his memory of said “wrestling”.)
Yet, the activities below could no longer hold his attention because when Christopher hears the familiar sultry voice, his eyes drift away from the ground and catch the amused stare of the person across from him. The dark brown eyes glint under the moon’s glow and Christopher has to grab at his chest to make sure his heart is not trying to tear away at the skin keeping it trapped.
The effect Portia has on him is detrimental to his sanity.
“Portia,” Christopher says. Cigarette smoke flows free as he speaks.
Portia grins back at him, “don’t let it go to waste, Chrissy! I thought you knew how to smoke.”
She knows he can properly smoke, but Portia loves to tease him. It’s part of her lively personality so many people love. The same lively personality that caused Christopher to fall as hard as he did when they first met.
What a fateful meeting it was.
It was when the nights were at their coldest, early February for those who want to be exact, and Christopher was heading back to his dingy apartment after another overtime shift at the warehouse. He had been working for the same damned shipping company the past few years and while the pay was decent, he had wondered if the recent late nights were worth it. He wasn’t able to crawl back into his bed until one in the morning and only slept a few hours before his alarm rang at five for breakfast. It wasn’t healthy to only run on four hours of sleep, but Christopher didn’t like the idea of breaking routine.
As Christopher was heading home, he slid his hand into his coat pocket and let his fingers search for the familiar paperboard packet; his cigarettes to be exact. Walking through the city at night always made the man tense, another con to the recent overtime, and a cigarette or two helped to put him at ease. His cigarettes were as important to him as headphones were to the regular person. Yet, when Christopher’s fingers grazed around in his pocket, they felt nothing.
“Fuck.”
He had left his pack at the warehouse.
Christopher groaned loudly, fighting the urge to scream in frustration at his stupid mistake. He felt the tension in his shoulders build as he kept searching his pockets. He was hoping, maybe even praying, that he had just grazed over it and it was actually deeper in his pocket. Yet, when he pulled the fabric out, there was nothing more than astray strands and random crumbles. Not a cigarette pack in sight.
He sighed defeatedly and let his back hit the brick wall behind him before he slid down to the cold, dirty pavement. His ass shook at the contact of the freezing ground, but he pushed it aside. All he had cared about at that moment was easing the tension out of his body before he could continue his walk.
There went the easy fix he needed.
“Honey, do you not realize how cold it is out here?”
A sultry voice.
Christopher turned his head in the direction of the voice and right in front of his face was a cigarette delicately held in a thinly gloved hand. The glove’s raven color made the white drug stand out in his eyes.
Christopher’s focus drifted from the cigarette and traveled up the arm of the gloved hand. His eyes drove through the faux fur trim and up a white wool road until they parked at their destination: the face behind the gloved face.
And what a gorgeous face it was.
The color of their cheeks obnoxiously stood out from the rest of their soft tanned skin as the cool temperatures and applied blush made them flush a bright red. Their nose was tiny and delicate, a little pointed even while their quirked lips were plump and dressed in a dark shade of red lipstick. While the lips were pretty and nice to stare at, Christopher was more entranced with the feline-like eyes, which were decorated in multiple shades of brown, that stared at him.
Amusingly stared at him.
They were beautiful.
“Listen, honey, I don’t know if you smoke or not but trust me when I say that it will warm you up a bit. Take it.”
They waved the cigarette in front of Christopher which snapped him out of his staring episode. He took the stick from them and placed it between his lips. The stranger kneeled down beside him and pulled a pink lighter out of their coat pocket.
“May I?” They asked.
Christopher nodded.
Their gloved fingers reached over and caressed the skin of his jawline. The fingers gently pulled his head closer to their face. Christopher swore he felt the faintest graze of their noses touching.
Click!
They brought the lighter’s flame up to the tip of the white stick and watched in fascination as it crackled and glowed a bright orange with a hint of yellow, as if the lit end was the most beautiful sight to them.
As they watched the cigarette, Christopher watched them.
They blew the flame out of the lighter and shoved it back into their coat pocket. Their lips quirked again, “warming up yet?”
“I’m Christopher.”
They seemed taken back by the sudden introduction, but their surprise quickly faded away as they arched their brow and chuckled. The amused glint was back in their eyes and Christopher couldn’t help but blush at his sudden eagerness.
“You’re cute.”
Christopher blushed harder.
“It’s nice to meet you, Christopher. The name is Portia LaPuss, but you can just call me Portia.”
Everyone has a night they will remember forever, whether it be good or bad. For Christopher, it was meeting Portia on that chilly February night.
“Christopher dear.”
Christopher snaps out of his daze and cocks his head at Portia. He raises a curious brow at her, to which the drag queen giggles in return.
“Hurry up and finish! I’m starving,” she whines. “I’m afraid I might die if I am not fed soon.”
To up the dramatics, Portia rests the back of her hand against her forehead and obnoxiously sighs. She flutters her fake lashes at Christopher and leaves her mouth agape. Her other hand animatedly flaps as she pretends to fan herself. She looks straight out of a horrible black and white movie and Christopher chuckles at the image he comes up with in his head.
“How cute,” he says.
“I know I am,” she fires back.
Once the cigarette reaches the end of its life, Christopher throws the limp stick to the ground and smashes it into the pavement. The last of the flames fade away due to the impact of his converse.
He looks back up at Portia and smiles, “so, hungry eh?”
“Starving, Christopher dear.”
Portia holds out a perfectly manicured hand and–without any hesitation–Christopher takes it.
They find themselves in a seasoned diner an hour later, sharing a basket of fries with matching large sodas but different sandwiches on their plates. If Christopher’s tongue was to judge these fries, they would receive a solid seven out of ten; a decent taste, but could use a little more salt to heighten the flavor. As for the drinks, the two friends both had a flat coke that became harder to drink with each sip. The sandwiches? Probably the best part of their meal. Christopher settled for a classic cheeseburger but held the pickles (they creep him out) and asked for extra onions. Meanwhile, Portia had a black bean burger with extra pickles but held the onions (she didn’t want her breath to smell).
Funny, isn’t it? They are so different and yet so similar to each other.
As Portia pats her mouth with the paper napkin, Christopher couldn’t help but watch her face. He examines every detail of her skin, from the excessive use of blush on her cheeks to the tiny mole on her nose. It’s barely visible thanks to the foundation and powder on her face, but when you have been in love with someone for a while, you start noticing the tiny things about them—whether it be physically, mentally, or emotionally.
“Chrissy, be a darling and check my teeth. Do I have anything stuck in them?”
She leans over and bares her teeth to him. There are no pieces of food stuck in her teeth, but there is a lipstick stain on her front tooth (the crooked one that Christopher has grown very fond of). He grabs his own napkin and wipes the stain away, making sure he avoids messing up her lipstick.
He smiles fondly, “all better.”
Portia grins in return, “you’re a sweetheart.” She kisses his cheek as a way to validate her comment.
(Christopher does not have any plans of cleaning the lipstick stain off his cheek for the rest of the night. Maybe even forever.)
Portia pulls back and rests her chin in the palm of her hand. She looks at Christopher through her lashes and teasingly clicks her tongue, “Chrissy, Chrissy. What are we going to do this time? I have you all to myself again.”
Ever since their first meeting, the pair had found themselves in an unusual arrangement. Every Saturday night, once Portia was done with her drag performance, she would sneak outback to meet Christopher. They would grab a grease-filled dinner from a random diner or a fast-food chain, whatever floats their boat that night. Afterward, they would walk around the city and do any activities that would come to their minds. From something harmless like window shopping to something that could be considered borderline illegal like carving their names into the park benches. They never had anything planned ahead, it was always on the whim and while that could bother some people, it worked for them.
Even if the arrangement was unexpected for them both.
“Okay, listen. I may have a game plan,” Portia says. She wraps her lips around the straw tip and takes a tiny sip. Christopher looks away to protect his sanity.
“Do tell. I’m all ears,” he says.
Portia gives one of her famous grins before nodding to her bag on the table. “Take a look inside.”
Her bag–a big white crossbody with red detailing–lies unopened against the black surface of their table. Christopher leans over, unzips the bag, and peeks inside to look for what Portia was talking about. There were the normal necessities such as her makeup bag, her pack of cigarettes, a pocket knife, tape, padding, and a pack of comfortable clothes. Yet, what stood out among the usual items was two cans.
Spray paint cans.
Christopher raises an eyebrow at the drag queen, “spray paint? Someone is feeling naughty tonight.”
Portia giggles, “I wouldn’t say I’m feeling ‘naughty’!” She dramatically waves her hands around, “it’s more like I want to show off our artistic abilities.”
Christopher fondly chuckles. Leave it to Portia to twist the situation into a more positive outcome than it actually is.
“And where exactly will we be showing off our artistic abilities, Portia Darling?”
And Christopher can guess her answer, he really can. This is the animated, buoyant drag queen he has grown to fall in love with. At this point in their friendship, Christopher knows Portia like the back of his hand.
So when he finds himself in front of a downtown bakery with an offensive sign in the window less than half an hour later, he can’t even pretend to be surprised. Especially when he gets a better look at what the sign says.
“God Hates Fags!”
It’s a disgusting sign that Christopher has seen one too many times in his life. Portia herself was no stranger to the horrible outcries of homophobic crowds. In fact, she has most likely faced more of their hate-filled rants than Christopher has due to her performing in drag.
It’s an unfair world the pair find themselves in.
Christopher looks over at the drag queen and examines her body. He can see the tenseness in her entire body from the way she holds her shoulders to the tightness of her fists. He reaches out, wraps a hand around her fist, and gives it a comforting squeeze. His thumb gently caresses her knuckles to try and ease the tightness out of her fist.
“It’s okay,” Christopher whispers.
Portia nods, “I know, Chrissy.”
Nothing more needs to be said as they unleash their chaos.
Red and blue paint dance around each other as they are sprayed against the shop’s window. Loud giggles fill the air and bodies bump against one another. Joy and adrenaline are surging through their veins; the excitement between them doesn’t seem to be stopping any time soon. It is nothing but satisfying to release their frustrations against the homophobic shop (in an “artistic” way as Portia would say).
Slowly but surely, they near the end of their creative project. The pair take a step back to examine their work and are extremely satisfied with their end result.
It’s nothing museum-worthy like a Monet classic or a Van Gogh stunner. The red and blue paths have no clear destination. Instead, they seem to keep running forever with no plans of stopping any time soon. It’s the chaotic side of their piece. Yet, with the chaos comes the calm. Anytime the red and blue cross paths with each other, they blend well with each other. Two different shades belonging to different color families come together as one beautiful blend.
Just like Portia and Christopher. Two different worlds come together as an unusual pairing.
“Oh Christopher dear, look at our work! We might just be the next Pizzaso!” Portia boasts.
Christopher chuckles, “It’s Picasso, Portia.”
“Is it?”
He hums.
“Pizzaso suits him better.”
With a huff, Portia bends down and uses the last of her spray on the bottom corner of the shop window. Once she finishes, Christopher leans in to get a look at what she put. In beautiful–well, as beautiful as it can get with spray paint–handwriting, there is a set of initials he doesn’t recognize.
‘M.L.’
“‘M.L.’? Who is that, Portia?”
Instead of answering Christopher, she just smiles at him. No verbal answer is given, but he realizes he doesn’t need a verbal one. When he looks into Portia’s eyes and reads everything she is telling him, Christopher understands.
And he doesn’t say anything else.
Portia cracks her neck and stands back up with a groan, “alright! You ready Chrissy? We should get going before we are caug–!”
“Hey! What do you two think you’re doing?”
Oh, fuck.
Right behind them is none other than a fun-sized police officer viciously waving his flashlight at them with an ablaze look in his droopy basset-like eyes. His uniform is painted with donut powder and a coffee stain on the collar of his undershirt. He is a stereotypical mess.
Yet, it’s the last thing they could care about at the moment because he is storming his way over to the pair.
Portia quickly slips off her heels, thrusts them into her bag, and throws it on her shoulder. She grabs Christopher’s hand and tugs his arm, “RUN!”
She takes off and Christopher is not far behind. Their hands remain clasped together as they make their great escape from the law. Instead of fearing the possibility of arrest, they just laugh loudly. The adrenaline, the thrill of being caught, and the joy of standing up for what they believe in is radiating off their zooming forms. They are an unstoppable force and the officer stands no chance against them.
A few blocks away––running around corners and narrowly avoiding crashing into a few pedestrians––Christopher and Portia deem themselves safe as they are taking a breather in one of their city’s many dirty alleyways. They are pretty sure they had lost the officer a few blocks earlier when they saw him grabbing his knees and taking a breather, but they didn’t stop running until now.
Portia leans against the wall and takes deep breaths to slow down her heart rate, “shit. Who knew… all that excitement… could make us the next track superstars?”
Christopher breathlessly chuckles and gently punches her arm. She giggles and pushes him in return.
When they catch their breath and their hearts do not feel like they will jump out of their mouths anymore, Portia and Christopher head out the alleyway and walk to their usual spot to wind down after all the excitement.
Usually, the pair would try to find more activities to do during their Saturday meetups; it never just ends with a late-night meal and one “innocent” scheme. In reality, they would try their best to fill up any silence with rambunctious noises of fun. It is their personal routine.
Yet, tonight is different. Christopher can feel it in his bones.
The sudden change should be concerning to him, but he can’t find it in himself to care so much about it. Maybe it’s because they have been through this before they had met; back when they had personal routines they stuck to.
Christopher’s B.P. (Before Portia) routine was very boring to put it lightly. Every day he would wake up at 5 AM to workout while running on only 4 hours of sleep. After his workout, he would make himself some breakfast, clean up, and then sit on his couch and waste away the hours of free time he had before work. He never reached out to anyone, just stuck to himself because he never felt he had the time to catch up. His routine had sucked.
Now, after meeting Portia and her friendly personality rubbing off on him, he finds himself reaching out to people he hasn’t seen in years; from family to friends to even exes he was on good terms with. Slowly and surely, he broke free of the lonely barrier he put around himself long ago.
As for Portia, Christopher didn’t know much about her routine B.C. (Before Christopher). The most he had gathered when they discussed it on one of their first hangouts was that she would go out to random clubs and bars every Saturday night after a draining work week. She would try to make herself known to the boys in the bar, lure them in with her charm, and dance the night away. The boys would be happy because they would think she was letting them, but in the end, Portia always left. The fear of letting them figure her out more, the fear of opening up her heart to them always hung above her head.
Now, she sneaks out to meet with one man: Christopher.
They find a crickedy bench that’s under the tiniest willow tree in the park. When they get a closer look, they can only estimate how old the bench truly is through its appearance. They can see paint chipping off the armrests and the legs and the wood’s paint slowly fading as well. As Christopher grabs the back of the seat and wiggles it, neither are shocked to find the bench moving with the pressure instead of staying in place. It looks as if it is only a few days away from snapping into two.
Portia and Christopher take a seat in it.
The drag queen looks down on the bench and runs a manicured finger across the bumpy surface. She smiles, “it’s a pretty ugly bench. A sorry excuse of a bench.”
Christopher nods, “it is.”
“But it has character, unlike the other benches we have sat on. Probably has a lot of stories to tell if it could talk.”
“Agreed.”
“Should we add another one?”
Portia pulls out her pocket knife from her bag and flicks the blade out with her signature smile. Christopher smiles and gestures for her to take the lead, but Portia shakes her head. She grabs Christopher’s dominant hand and wraps it around her own dominant hand. He raises an eyebrow at her and she just smiles in return.
“Write it with me.”
And how can Christopher refuse?
Together, the pair–messily–carve their names into the bench’s seat, along with a “was here” and a big heart to trap the words in. Christopher’s brain tells him it means nothing as he looks at what they did. Yet, his heart tells him there is more to it.
Christopher likes to think of himself as more of a logical person. He listens to his brain over his heart a majority of the time because it is just more practical for him. It is only when he started meeting up with Portia that his heart’s voice has been louder and fighting back lately. His brain has been able to push it to the side and take control, but tonight it seems to be losing this battle.
When Portia looks up and locks eyes with Christopher, his heart is the winner.
“Christopher?”
He really loves hearing his name slip from her lips.
“Are you okay?” She nervously chuckles, “you’re kinda scaring me here.”
He really loves the mole on her nose and her crooked front tooth.
“Helloooo?”
He really loves how easily she can make him laugh or comfort him with sweet words when he is having a bad day.
“Am I Medusa or something? Did I turn you to stone?”
He really loves her confidence, but also her vulnerability.
“Aish, I should whack you for not answering me. That is just rude behavior, dear.”
He really loves that he was given the opportunity to meet someone as amazing as her.
“Oh my god.”
Christopher really loves Portia LaPuss.
“Chrissy!”
“I love you.”
Her breath hitches.
There are a million things her eyes are saying, many emotions are on her face. Yet, she remains silent.
Christopher feels knots form in his stomach and the palms of his hands are starting to sweat from nerves. He wants to take it back. Maybe laugh it off and say he is kidding, but he can’t find it in himself to do it because he has kept this a secret for too long. Not only does she deserve to know, but Christopher needs to be truthful regarding his feelings.
“Portia,” he whispers. “I… I’m in love with y–”
“No, you’re not.”
Her voice isn’t harsh and she doesn’t look angry. Her voice is wavering and her bottom lip is trembling. Her breath is shaky and her face darkens. The light in her eyes slowly fades and her terrific brown shade becomes dull.
She’s sad.
“You… you don’t love me. You’re not in love with me, okay? So, get that idea out of your head.”
Christopher furrows his brows and only grows more confused, “what are you talking about? Yes, I am!”
“Chrissy, it isn’t good to lie about our feelings here–”
“I’m not lying about anything, okay?! I know what I’m feeling here! Portia, I am in love with you!”
Portia cries, “you’re in love with Portia! Not me !”
Anybody else would be confused. They would ask her what she means or if she was trying to be dumb. “Of course, I’m in love with Portia” or “Yes you! Your name is Portia!” Yet, Christopher knows better and he understands what she is trying to say.
She thinks he is only in love with Portia LaPuss the drag queen; not the man who is behind the lashes and blush.
“Portia…”
She waves him away, “i-its okay. Y-You’ll realize what you really feel, okay? Why don’t we end this earl–”
“I do love Portia. I love Portia a lot.”
A sniffle, “gee, thanks for realizing it so soon. I feel fucking great now.”
Christopher just chuckles and shakes his head. He grabs her hand and gently squeezes it, “mind letting me finish?”
It is a lot of him to ask, especially since he can see that this is pushing Portia’s comfortability. She’s suffering emotionally right now and Christopher’s heart breaks for her. Yet, he knows it is best if she hears what he has to say. If she understands what he’s really trying to say.
So, once he receives her consent, Christopher tells her everything.
“I love Portia. I was bound to fall in love as she performed on stage. I was bound to fall in love with her as she charmed her audience. I was bound to. Yet, that wasn’t when I fell in love with her. No. I fell in love with her the first night we met and she gave me a cigarette to help keep me warm.
“I fell in love with her off the stage. I fell in love with her need to make sure I am warm. I fell in love with her lighthearted teasing. I fell in love with her refusing to eat onions because she hates having smelly breath. I fell in love with her ridiculous use of nicknames like Pizzaso and Chrissy. I fell in love with her passion for the things she cares about. I fell in love with her finding beauty even in the ugliest of things like this old park bench or me.
“Yes, I was bound to fall in love with the woman I saw on stage. There is no denying that I did fall in love with that woman as well. Yet, I am also in love with the person she is off stage. I am in love with the man who is behind her.
“I am in love with you, Portia.”
There’s silence between the two.
Christopher doesn’t know how long the silence will last. It could be seconds, minutes, or hours. Maybe even days, he didn’t know.
Several noises fill in their silence. The breeze blowing hard and tickling the trees making them giggle. The ducks obnoxiously quacking to one another while they swim in the water. Loud honks coming from a car that got its emergency button accidentally clicked. There are even the murmurs of strangers who were on late-night walks to clear their heads or tire themselves out for sleep. Everything around them is noisy, and they continue to sit in silence.
Portia breaks the silence.
“Christopher…”
He can hear his heart beating loudly in his chest. He is craving water because his throat feels so dry and his hands will not stop sweating. He is a huge nervous wreck because for the first time ever he can’t read Portia.
He doesn’t feel comforted when she smiles at him. He doesn’t feel comforted when she squeezes the hand that’s holding her’s. He doesn’t feel comforted when she leans in and kisses his cheek. He wants to consider these as good signs. Maybe she is going to give him a chance. Maybe she reciprocates his feelings.
Yet, when she pulls away and stands up his heart stops.
And when she speaks it drops to his stomach.
“Same time next week?”
She walks off, leaving Christopher alone on the park bench.
—
Christopher surprises himself by getting out of bed the next morning and heading to the coffee shop he has recently been occupying every Sunday.
After Portia left him alone on the park bench, it had taken him an hour to process what had happened. It took another hour to drag himself back to his home and another hour to get ready for bed. It took him two hours to lay in bed and stare at the ceiling until he had to get up and get ready for breakfast.
The misery and zero hours of sleep must have been very prominent on him as he trudged into the coffee shop and ordered his usual–a plain black coffee and two butter croissants–because the employee at the register looked so concerned. She even asks him if he’s okay and while he appreciates the question, he can’t find it in himself to answer her.
Once Christopher gets his order, he walks to his usual table and sits down. Instead of eagerly diving into the food like he usually would, he just stares at it in disgust. The food doesn’t look inedible or anything; in fact, it looks spectacular. Yet, the pain in his heart from Portia’s rejection has put a dent in his appetite and as much as he would love to eat the pastries he ordered, he just can’t find it in himself to do it right now.
Everything hurts too much right now.
“You know, it’s unhealthy to let your food go to waste.”
A familiar sultry voice.
Christopher snaps out of his staring contest with the croissants and turns his head upwards. He locks eyes with a pair of dark brown eyes; the same dark brown eyes he is used to seeing at night. This time though, they are not dressed in any shades of brown eyeshadow or thick lashes.
The eyes are naked.
The person standing in front of Christopher is dressed up in a pair of baggy sweatpants, a large white t-shirt that loosely fits their figure, and a pair of ugly white bunny slippers. Their short, light brown hair is on the messy side and it looks like there was no effort made in taming it. Their skin was smooth and free of any makeup. Christopher can even see a tiny mole on their tiny, delicate nose. Their lips? Naked and plump and when they smile he can see a crooked front tooth.
Even in a low effort look, Christopher’s heart still skips a beat at their beauty.
“Portia?” He whispers.
The person chuckles fondly and shakes their head, “not quite, Chrissy.”
They sit down across from Christopher and reach out to steal one of his croissants. He lets them take it, his body is still frozen due to their presence.
“So, this is how you spend your days without me? Honestly, it’s quite nice.” They tear off a piece of the pastry and throw it in their mouth. They hum at the taste, “I see why. This is pretty damn good, Chrissy.”
“...Portia?”
They chuckle, “already told you, not quite. Do you need to get your ears cleaned?”
They finish off the rest of the croissant while Christopher continues to stare at them in shock. They steal one of his napkins and wipe off any crumbs that were stuck to their lips as well as any that fell on their clothes. When they deem themselves clean, they toss the napkin on the table and rest their chin in the palm of their hand.
Christopher cocks his head, “so…?”
They giggle, “I think we are long overdue for a proper introduction.”
With that said, they stick out a hand and smile their signature smile, “my name is Minho Lee. My pronouns are he/him, I am the proud father of three cats, I perform in drag, and most importantly, I am in love with you, Christopher.”