The Saturdays I worked with Lou at Catille’s were always a whirlwind. He always forgot something, so my bag, already weighing down my shoulder with extra padding, makeup, and tape, unsteadied me every step down the stairs. The garment bag with his dress slid off my arm and almost beat me down the stairs. 

I would have been on time, but finding a shirt that made do without a bowtie wasn’t easy. And I spent thirty minutes talking myself out of whether I’d watch Lou’s performance or worse, visit this bar he told me about. I didn’t mind staying to have a drink in “The Nest,” as they called the upstairs former gin mill, but I wasn’t at the stage of loneliness where I’d have some roll in the hay for giggles. 

No, it was peachy that I still hadn’t heard from Mathieu. I didn’t need him to return my calls or answer the door, and I never expected to see him between the racks of blouses and pedal pushers. My eyes landed on the second to the last door on the first floor. Was I actually lonely? This should have been my sign that his absence didn’t make my heart grow fonder, only realizing how little I meant to him.  

He could have been busy with other parts of his life that I wasn’t privy to, so I had no right to probe him. This wasn’t the first time it happened, but I was more set on it being the last. Thinking it out loud made all the sense in the world, but looking back on all I put up with revealed the desperation I shamefully possessed. 

That was probably the kick in the pants I needed; no more wasting time on someone who didn’t reciprocate. I shifted gears and drove to the club, vowing that I would do something different tonight and get back to the version of myself I almost forgot.

***

Catille’s open layout could almost pass as a church rec center if it wasn’t for the bar taking up the right side of the room. It was one of those old dinner theaters back in the day, and like half the buildings in West Hollywood had their fair share of false doors and hideaways. 

They’ve since added an exterior entrance to The Nest, so the high and mighty patrons who get jazzed over light-hearted crossdressing won’t have to see what this place really has to offer. I greeted the usual staff and exited stage left, rounding the corner to the makeshift dressing room. 

The rest of the girls were stepping into heels or inches from the mirror lining their eyes. I dodged pants and bras on the floor to get to Lou in the middle of it all, painting his nails.

“Well, it’s about time you got here,” Lou said, blowing his fresh coat. “I thought you ditched me. I was just telling Moana all about how worried I was.”

Ramoana Fizz perched next to Lou, sharpening an eyeliner pencil with a razor. She was one of the newer queens at Catille’s and became fast friends with Lou since the other girls were cliqued up—and Lou had someone to rag on them in Spanish with.

“Lou thought you were getting some catching practice in,” Ramoana replied. “Probably face down in a pillow letting some no-good—”

“Nadie te pregunto.” Lou fanned his hand and smiled at me. “Doll me up while my nails dry.”

I almost risked the dough I’d get from Lou tonight. But after I worked on this gown all week, I’d suck it up and get him ready for showtime. Or sew his mouth shut, whichever came first. 

“If you must know,” I dabbed rouge over the liquid makeup, “I’m running a little late because I may watch you tonight and needed something to wear.”

“Really?” Lou tried to smile, but I snapped his mouth close so I could contour his jaw. “That explains why you’re not dressed like some Ivy Leaguer. I guess you needed a break since, well… You know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

Lou opened his free eye and made sure none of the other girls were listening. “You didn’t hear this from me, but your little Caribbean lover boy was up for a screen test, but they gave it to someone else last minute. Threw a hissy fit about it and everything, told him to cool off for a few days.”

The hinges on Lou’s compact squeaked in my hand. Months of waiting for Mathieu to come around and wondering if his reluctance was circumstantial or more personal. Hearing the outcome of the news he first shared with me through the grapevine did a bang-up job of showing me the latter. “Who did they give it to?”

“Some white boy they practically plucked off the street. But if you ask me, he ain’t no gringo. Heard he didn’t do too well either and that there was a bit of a scuffle. RGE’s keen on saving face, but I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.” Lou inspected the pink polish on his nails. “Real shame.”

“How do you know all of this, Lou?” Ramoana asked.

“People talk. I do a little folding, and they spill more than bleach when they’re washing their whites.” Lou asked Ramoana to add another coat while I dusted rouge on his cheeks. “You give a little inflection while making small talk, and next thing you know, they’re telling you who’s sleeping with who between what they had for breakfast.”

I swept the brush so much that the pigment splotched Lou’s cheeks. He was too engaged in the past week’s gossip that he didn’t notice. I’d scoped out a spot to watch the performance and wore one layer of clothing—I had my arms out, dammit—to treat myself to one of these inhibited nights I’d gone so long without. Mathieu’s name preceded him once again, and I wouldn’t allow him to ruin anything else for me.

I brushed off the excess powder and reapplied the lipstick he talked off. I spoke up to change the subject, having had enough actors or studios for the night. “What time are we meeting tomorrow?”