“Oh, my heart! Gotta love that man,” I said.
“Save your breath, girl. He’s gay,” said my companion.
“Mine isn’t a colouring book life with lines and little tinted paint compartments.” I grinned. “It’s more an impressionistic Chagall painting, a beautifully blurred togetherness of pigment. The colour of love.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“He mightn’t even know it, but I can love a gay man if I want to."