When James sees Andrew at a gay coffee shop, the attraction is immediate. They exchange smiles and Andrew makes friendly overtures, so they go for a walk and end up at Andrew’s apartment. As they begin spending time together, James’s friends are supportive but cautious. One of the men Andrew has been seen with in the coffee shop was a known Republican supporter. James dismisses the dark implications of this, carefully avoiding any talk of politics with his new boyfriend.
Then, James's friend Glen makes a horrible discovery while visiting Andrew's place with James: Andrew has a MAGA cap hidden in his chest of drawers. He takes a picture of it and confronts James with the evidence. James has fallen in love, but he knows he faces a terrible hurdle. Can he love a man who apparently is a member of the hateful MAGA movement?
A few days later Glen, Frank and I were again in the Cozy Café, sharing news about our days, when Glen suddenly held his cell phone out to me.
“Here,” he said.
I looked at the photograph displayed on the phone. “What’s this?”
“What does it look like?”
“A MAGA cap, in the open drawer of a dresser. So?”
“Look at the top of the dresser. The stuff on it. You don’t recognize it?”
I looked, and after a moment experienced a sickening, sinking feeling. I knew that dresser; I had seen it a lot lately.
“Darling.” I felt Frank’s hand gentle on my shoulder.
“You know?” I asked him. He nodded.
“Oh.” My mind was whirling. I wanted to say that it didn’t mean anything -- but somehow, I couldn’t believe that. Glen would never photoshop the cap into the picture. He wasn’t like that.
I stared at the photograph, going over the various items again and looking at the cap. It was definitely Andrew’s dresser. There was no escape.
Frank pushed his seat back. “I’m headed home,” he said, getting up. He looked at me, adding, “Why don’t you come with me?”
I nodded. Glen didn’t offer to join us.
Outside, Frank lit a cigarette, and we headed off. After a minute or two, he exhaled a lungful of smoke and said in his deep, gravelly voice, which was always more noticeable when outside, “So, darling. Where are you at?”
I looked at him. “I don’t know,” I said unhappily. “I just don’t know.”
“Could you overlook it?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Frank. I mean -- MAGA? That’s not just Republican. It means he’s part of the MAGA movement.”
“Mmmm. Populism, you mean?”
I shook my head. “You know, I’ve never understood that word. Isn’t populism a good thing, in principle? I mean, listening to the popular sentiment, rule of the people and all that?"
Frank shook his head. “That’s not the way it’s used now.”
“I know,” I said miserably, then turned and asked him, “What would you do?”
He was silent for some time, but at last he shook his head. “But darling,” he said quietly, looking at me seriously, “I’m not you.”
I nodded, and as we approached his street the conversation turned to Frank’s garden, his plans for spring. He lived in an elegant three-floor semi-detached house, exquisitely furnished as befitted one of the top hair stylists in the city. Once we were inside this space, I began to feel a bit better.
Frank mixed himself a vodka martini and I made myself a cup of tea. We sat together at the kitchen’s bay window that overlooked the street.
After a time, Frank reached out and touched my hand. He said, “Darling, I’m thinking it might help to talk about it.”
