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The music faded, and there was a brief lull with the patrons before Madonna (as Eva Peron)

began singingDon't Cry for Me Argentina. The crowd roared with approval.

"Oh, Lord," said Alec, palms to cheeks. "Calling all divas."

"Fan favorite… and probably the last. It's almost ten."

Alec looked across the sea of men, upstairs and down. Bathroom breaks on nights like this

required strategy. You didn't dare leave your barstool for the danger of losing it between eight and ten. The key was to arrive early, get seats, potty at 7:30, then hold your bladder until after hours, when the show-tuners thinned into a more manageable mob. He checked his watch. Demarco was on

the money—this would be the last number.

The first chorus swelled, everyone more familiar with those lyrics, and Alec watched the

undulating crowd behind Demarco. It was pretty much impossible to have a decent conversation in

such a cacophony, but they were accustomed to it, attuning their homo-telepathy over years practice.

And there was something even more magical about the transformative power emanating from the

combination of loud music and men singing that made visual communication between the two more

keen. Often, instead of shouting to be heard, much of their communication was through eyes and

gestures.

He's hot.

Oh?

Yeah.

He's a bottom.

Really?

Short bursts of clairvoyant conversation, humorous and familiar. They had been friends for the

better part of a decade, and there wasn't much unknown between them.

During the final chorus, some clever DJ managed to mash a perfect segue intoSomewherefromWest Side Story, and the excited crowd threw their hands up, voices in a surging collective crescendo. Everyone was singing about a place for us…SOMEHOW… SOMEDAY…

SOMEWHERE…

Alec looked at his watch. It was a little past ten, but the mash of transparent finale choices

meant that Tuesday Tunes was, as always, going out with a bang—and whatfeltlike the end, was just the beginning of the end, as the DJ-mix cleverly brought the chorus back around yet again for another thumping, mountainous swell.

"Never underestimate the power of a Sondheim closer," shouted Demarco.

"It's like a mass orgasm," Alec said, overly mouthing the words. He killed his beer and saw a young couple reflected in the mirror behind the bar, singing, kissing, groping—comrades in harmony, strangers in love… for the night at least.

Demarco's phone lit and he picked it up to read a text. He set it back down.

Alec raised an eyebrow.

Demarco shook his head.