“Come on, Zach. This is going a little overboard, even for you.”
My friend, Luke, sat on a closed toilet lid, watching me apply eyeliner. I held the pencil back and looked over at him.
“What? I am who I am. I’m not going to change for them. I told them that when I left, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to change now.”
Luke sighed and put his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.
“I know, Zach. I’m not telling you to change. I’d never do that. But this isn’t a club opening, it’s a funeral.” He paused, looked me up and down, and then repeated himself with more emphasis. “It’s your mother’s funeral.”
I shrugged and finished my eyeliner. He was right, of course. The look I was going for here wasn’t just a little overboard—a skin-tight, pink tank top…