South Park tourism was anchored on the downtown strip, a block of 1930s storefronts with chintzy boutique businesses and coffee shops. There was a post office, a toy store, and, for some reason, an outpatient rhinoplasty clinic. Less suspect were a pair of antiques stores — a regular staple of the rural American town. Despite the similar premise, however, stores A and B were about as different as they were overpriced. One was only accessible by buzzer, and a sign on the door bore the following: Opening Hours Tues.-Thurs., noon-4 p.m. or by appointment. Cosmopolitan travelers through town would press their noses against the window to get a glimpse of startling 90-degree angles and overblown glass forms in tangerine and aquamarine, curling around themselves on stark marble coffee tables. Unfortunately, a nose pressed up to the glass would usually leave an unsightly smudge, which had the effect of sending the shop owner into something approaching a blind rage.

And if scaring away formerly potential customers by going apeshit on them was bad for business, well, Craig didn’t really give a crap about that. He was the sort of man who catered to the sort of customers who were fonder of mid-century modernism (anti-kitsch, Craig would say) than they were of their own dignity. If the man selling them this Barcelona chair was howling at them to get their fucking hands off of the Red Wing, it must only have been because he was just so dedicated, so passionate, about his trade. And besides — what Craig lost in sales thanks to his temper, he generally made up at the espresso bar in the back.

Craig had a second source of income — he was a landlord. Thanks in part to his miraculous forethought during a real estate downtown a couple of decades back, he was the proud owner of not only his own store, but the retail space inhabited by the town’s second antiques shop. (He also owned the apartment he inhabited, but he was loath to call this space his own, since he cohabitated with someone, a blond man with a tenuous grasp on his own stability, who happened to go fittingly by the name Tweek.)

Said second antiques store was a travesty by Craig’s account; a pitiful excuse for a business largely cluttered with chintz and doilies and strange, glassy-eyed dolls. Mint-green velveteen sofas dripping in golden trim butted up against someone’s grandmother’s rolled-up Oriental rug, which was half-leaning and half-laying on a dressmaker’s dummy, probably rescued from some old dressmaker’s estate sale or worse yet, the alley behind the dry cleaners. Often Craig would catch Tweek pressing his nose against the glass of this store, and he would pause for a moment as the shopkeepers would give both of them friendly waves before getting back to whatever it was they’d been doing, going through Life magazines or scratching one another’s backs or something. With each neighborly wave, Tweek would begin to return the gesture, and then Craig would give his tenants the finger before grabbing his skinny companion and dragging him back into their store. And on the way, while Tweek halfheartedly kicked in objection, Craig would glower at the charming wooden plaque attached proudly to the door: Kyle Broflovski and Stanley Marsh, proprietors.

~

On a Thursday evening, Mr. Broflovski and Mr. Marsh were sitting down to dinner in their dining room with Mr. Marsh’s parents. The elder Marshes, Randy and Sharon, were privileged to have an open Thursday night invitation to their son’s house. Stan and Kyle shared the belief that nothing was more important to either of them than family — and that included each other. After 40 years of friendship — and something like two and a half decades of ‘courting,’ as Stan’s mother would coyly put it — it barely registered that they were not actually family by way of any technical definition. No, this was family of their own making, and in theory Kyle was more than happy to have his in-laws over.

He was a complicated man, Kyle Broflovski. He was not particularly interested in antiques, but when Stan had grinningly owned up to harboring a curious fascination with old junk, Kyle was there to support him. In the interest of making things happen, Kyle procured an MBA, which helped him master the technical and financial aspects of owning an entire shop full of old junk. And Stan went to work immersing himself in the daunting yet fulfilling world of antiques appraisal. Despite his complete disinterest in the subject, Kyle found something he loved in this business — a joint project. Something they could nurture together. Indeed, this was a sore spot in their relationship, and in the middle years — the middle years being relative to where they were now, not the projected ending — they had tried to fill the gap. Or rather, Kyle had tried, bringing home a string of unsuccessful plants and, when that went bust, pets. It turned out that cats set off Stan’s asthma, and Kyle did not want to keep the schnauzer because it “didn’t respect” him, a concept Stan found inherently laughable. For a few years there was a betta in the picture, but eventually he died, and all Stan and Kyle were left with, once again, was each other and their antiques business.

Furthermore, there was the small problem of Stan’s father. It bothered Kyle, really and truly, that he never seemed to acknowledge their relationship. Sometimes he really felt the guy had no idea, and at other times he felt it must be denial. Randy saw Kyle as Stan’s roommate, best friend, and business partner — and, well, he wasn’t incorrect; Kyle was all of those things. But he felt this was missing the important part of the story — and he was becoming slowly but surely enraged with Randy Marsh’s bizarre inability to see it. So as he served Stan’s mother some green beans, he gritted his teeth and tried to tolerate Stan’s father’s ridiculous rambling.

“I don’t know, Stan,” he was saying, poking at his pork chop. “I’m beginning to think there’s more to your relationship than you let on.”

“Well, Dad,” Stan replied through a mouthful of stuffing. “There is.”

“I mean, I liked a lot of the guys I worked with, but I never moved in with any of them.”

Stan’s mother just rolled her eyes at this. “Would you please pass the gravy?” she asked her son.

“Sure,” Stan said sheepishly. Kyle gave him a warning look as he sat down and preciously folded his napkin into his lap. Stan handed the gravy boat to his mother, and returned Kyle’s look with his best, I know, but what am I supposed to do? expression.

“People are going to start thinking you guys are a little…” Randy thought for a moment. “You know, closer than you should be.”

“Okay,” Stan agreed. “They can think that. We want them to think that.”

“Please tell me,” Kyle said mock-pleasantly, his fork of green beans in mid-air, “How close do you think we should be?” He took bite of green bean. “Mr. Marsh,” he added through his full mouth as a sign of cursory respect he didn’t really have.

“Well, I don’t know. You ever think instead of sharing a bedroom and having a guest room, you guys should maybe just … have separate rooms?”

“Oh, Jesus, Randy,” Sharon sighed, rubbing her temples. “Must we go through this every week?”

“No,” Stan said. “Dad, we like sharing a room. We love each other. In a lot of ways.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Sharon repeated. “Stanley, do you have any wine?”

“Yeah,” Stan said slowly. “White or red?”

“Both.”

“Yeah.” Stan got up from the table, but not before wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Excuse me,” he said softly.

Randy pressed on. “I mean, I can appreciate good, platonic, manly love.” He directed these words to Kyle, who almost immediately wanted to just grab the other man by the collar and shake him and scream in his face, We’re homosexuals, godammit! But he was slightly too polite to do this — although not by much, really. “It’s like, what are you going to do if Stan decides to get married?”

“I don’t know,” Kyle said, intrigued by something all of a sudden. “I guess we’d have a wedding.”

“Right.” Randy nodded. “But where would you go? Would you get your own place?”

“I am not going anywhere, Mr. Marsh,” Kyle said sternly.

“It’s kinda weird for a married guy to be living with his buddy.” Randy paused. “But no weirder than a couple of bachelors living together, I guess,” he added.

This was when Stan returned from the kitchen, with a bottle of de-corked chardonnay and a glass for his mother. “Here you go, Mom,” he said warmly, setting these things down in front of her.

“Took you long enough,” Sharon mumbled, going straight for the bottle.

“Stan,” Kyle sighed. “Your father wants to know what would happen if we got married.”

“To other people,” Randy clarified.

“No one’s getting married,” Stan said definitively, seating himself again.

“But what if you finally meet the right person?” Randy pressed.

“He did,” Kyle insisted.

“Yeah,” Stan agreed. He smiled and reached for Kyle’s hand. “Look, Dad. We have each other, okay? That’s all we need. No one’s getting married, or moving into the guest room. No one’s moving out. This is our house.”

“Okay, so you’re a committed ladies’ man,” Randy conceded. “What about you, Kyle? Don’t you want to meet a nice girl and settle down?”

“No.”

“But how do you know for sure until you’ve met someone?” Hearing this, Kyle whined softly, and put his head in his hands, elbows on the table, narrowly avoiding knocking over the salt, which Stan quickly grabbed and moved.

“Randy,” Sharon seethed, fingernails clicking on the surface of her wine glass. “Can we please not talk about this anymore?”

“I’m just wondering, is all,” Randy said pathetically.

“Well, I don’t think the boys want to be having this conversation.” She sniffed, and then added, “again.”

“Is it just me, or is it hot in here?” Stan asked, fanning himself a bit too demonstratively. “And how about those Nuggets, huh?”

“Just drop it, Stan,” Kyle ordered.

“You guys fight like you’re married,” Randy observed. “But then, I guess that’s what happens when you live together for so long. I used to time my roommates’ showers when I was in college.”

“Did you also used to fuck them in the ass?” Kyle asked.

Stan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose and uttered, “Make it stop.” His mother’s hand shot out for the wine bottle.

“Actually,” Randy said brightly, “I did, once.” He paused.  “Oh, wait. That was my roommate Esteban’s girlfriend. Sorry, I thought she was living with us at the time, but she wasn’t.”

Kyle finished the meal with his head in his hands, pondering whether he was trying to stop himself from laughing or crying or both.

~

“It’s been years, Stan,” Kyle hissed as the door slammed behind him, mere moments after Stan’s parents’ departure.

“Has it?” Stan asked, voice somewhat ringing with trepidation. “Wow. The time goes so fast when you’re spending it with someone you love and think is spectacular and you want to take them to bed right now.” Stan put his hands together in mock devotion, appealing to the god of Kyle’s sex drive, wherever he or she was at the moment.

“Yeah right,” Kyle snorted. “Like I could possibly maintain an erection after that pathetic excuse for a family dinner.”

“Oh, you’re just saying that,” Stan scoffed. “Give me three, no, two minutes, and I’ll prove you wrong.”

Kyle crossed his arms and leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. He was half-hoping Stan would make good on his word, but he shook it off to continue his berating. “It’s been 25 years, Stan,” he growled. “I’ve had to deal with your fucking father treating me like I’m just some goddamned roommate for 25 years.”

“Yeah,” Stan agreed, now focusing on trying to side-step this argument altogether. “You are so right about that.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Me? I have nothing to do with it!”

“I’m sick of being treated like a second-class citizen in my own house!” Kyle screeched abruptly.

Stan frowned at this assessment. “Oh, second-class citizen, that’s rich. I’m the one who has to spend my life amid your horrible late-1980s decor because you’re too goddamn cheap to redecorate.”

“Oh, wah wah wah, Stan. Do you want to spend your retirement in South Beach, or do you want to spend it in some sleazy old people home in the middle of rural fucking Colorado because you couldn’t stand the fact that I put lavender Corian in the kitchen?”

At the mention of the sore subject that was the lavender Corian, Stan really cracked. “It’s hideous! It’s hideous and you’re hideous and I hate you sometimes, I just fucking hate you!” Kyle uncrossed his arms, and his face fell. No longer angry, he slumped and shuffled into the living room and plopped down into a chair. “Oh, God,” Stan sighed. He followed him, realizing his mistake. “Kyle, I’m so sorry.”

Kyle rubbed his eyes. “You think I’m hideous?” he sniffed.

“Oh, no, no — Kyle, you’re the most attractive person I know.”

“That is such a lie. I know you secretly want George Clooney, Stan. I know you don’t make me sit through those ER reruns because you enjoy medical drama.”

“Well, maybe a little,” Stan admitted. “But I don’t know him. You’re the most beautiful person I know, Kyle, really.”

“Well, is that really saying so much in South Park?”

Stan thought for a minute. “Yes. For a tiny mountain town where no one knows how to dress themselves, an outsized number of people here are remarkably attractive.”

“And I’m the most attractive?”

“Yeah.”

“Even though I have a big, ugly Jew nose?”

“Especially because you have a big, ugly Jew nose.”

“You mean it?” Kyle pressed.

“With every fiber of my being,” Stan confirmed. “And I feel bad about my dad, Kyle, I really do. But what do you want from me?”

Kyle rubbed at his nose. “Well,” he began thoughtfully. “For one thing, I want you to come out to him.”

“Okay,” Stan said slowly. “I understand that. But we’ve been living together for 23 years, Kyle. You were my date to my sister’s wedding. Hell, you walked down the aisle with me. We were holding hands. He’s seen us kiss and, um, cuddle, and fucking slow dance. I know I never sat down with him and said, ‘Daddy, I’m gay, do you still love me?” but the fact is, well, it’s not like I’m hiding it.” Kyle just rolled his eyes. “I mean, for god sakes, Kyle, I run an antiques shop!”

“So he’s an idiot. I don’t care. I’m sick of him thinking that I’m your bachelor roommate, and I’m going to move out when one of us gets married.”

“Well, what do you want me to do, then?”

“I want you to tell him you’re gay with me, Stan!”

“I need more specifics.”

“Okay, fine. You want more specifics? Here is what you can do, specifically. One, ask your mother to make dinner on Sunday night. Two, bring me to dinner. Three, after dinner, sit down in the living room with me and your parents and in no uncertain terms say, ‘Daddy, I’m gay, and Kyle is my husband, and I love him very much.’ ”

Stan sighed, and uncrossed his legs. “All right, fine, I can do that,” he conceded. “But there’s one problem with your plan.”

“And what would that be?”

Stan clasped his hands together. “You’re not my husband. We’re not married.”

Kyle’s expression soured again. “Well, maybe you need to fix that.”

“What? Aw, come on!”

“No, Stan. This is something I want.”

“Can’t this end like our other fights, and we just skip to the makeup sex?”

“No! I want a wedding!”

“Okay, that’s great, but someone’s going to have to pay for it, and I don’t want to spend that money because we need it to buy our shop from Craig!”

“My parents will pay for it!”

“Oh, that’s just swell, you just think of everything,” Stan grumbled. “The answer is no, Kyle. I can’t control my dad, and I’m not having a wedding. If you can’t take my love for what it is, then maybe you don’t deserve it.”

“When do I get what I want?” Kyle asked miserably. “Honestly, all I ever wanted was a pretty little house with pretty little children and a little extra money so that when I got too old for the mountains I could move to Florida like my parents and be with my husband. Is that so much to ask, Stan?”

Stan thought for a moment. He gestured to the couch. “Come here,” he said gently.

“No.” Kyle pouted, and crossed his arms again.

“Come on, Kyle.”

“No, I’m pissed at you!”

“Aw, come on. Come sit next to me.”

Kyle slumped his shoulders, and sighed. He got up from his chair and sat down next to Stan on the couch. He felt an arm go around his shoulders, and Stan pulled him in sort of close. “I know this isn’t exactly what you wanted,” Stan said calmly. “Well, it’s not what I wanted, either. You think I wanted to still be paying Craig rent every month? Of course not. I thought I would own my own shop by the time I was 41.”

“Sometimes I wish we could just close the fucking store.”

“Well, I don’t want that, either. We’ve put our lives into this business. I know some people have children, but we have an antiques shop.”

Kyle felt Stan’s chest rising and falling with his head pressed up against it. He let Stan grab one of his hands. “But I want babies,” he said pitifully. “I want to be just like everyone else. I want to have what they have.”

He searched for words, but Stan found none. He did what he could manage, which was try to be reassuring, tactile, breathe steadily and avoid making sudden movements. He wondered, once again, why Kyle had to worry about the future so often, leaving him alone to focus on the quiet moments that stitched their relationship together.

~

Kyle and Stan had a five-year lease on their shop. While Stan generally kept important dates in his head, Kyle meticulously scribbled little notes in the agenda he kept in the top drawer to the right of the sink in the kitchen. Each month, he used black block print to write out the message RENT DUE. (He scribbled notes about MORTGAGE DUE and OPTOMETRIST-STAN and DAD’S BIRTHDAY in different colors.) At the end of this month, however, instead of RENT DUE, he had scrawled SIGN NEW LEASE. And indeed, with their lease coming up for renewal in a mere two weeks, Kyle was beginning to wonder where Craig was, and why he had yet to turn up with their paperwork.

On Friday afternoon, Stan was talking on the phone to a customer with a question about cleaning the surface of an old table while Kyle worked in the back. While he generally pretended to feel rather put-upon by these greenhorns with their lame questions, Stan actually felt quite proud of himself for having some information other people might just be interested in hearing. “I’d just try dusting it first,” he suggested. “Maybe go over it with a damp rag. Can you use a paper towel? I mean, I guess so. I usually don’t.” He paused when he heard the bells on the shop door tinkle. “Can I call you back?” he asked politely. “Someone just walked in.”

Peering around an ornate bookcase, Stan saw that, at long last, Craig had come to discuss the renewal of the lease. “Great,” he heard someone say behind him, and he realized that Kyle had emerged from behind his stack of receipts to see what was going on. He knew little to nothing about antiques or, for that matter, sales, so he generally didn’t do anything when a customer came in. But Stan had noticed that Kyle was becoming very antsy about this business with their landlord, wondering what kind of increase if any there would be in their rent, and so on. “Wait,” Kyle breathed, clutching at Stan’s hand. “What the hell is he doing?”

Instead of any forms, Craig was holding a short, black leash. And on the end of that leash, looking particularly terrified, was Tweek.

“I don’t know,” Stan admitted.

Craig was looking around, impatient, and Tweek was just standing there, holding himself, shaking. That was pretty much all Tweek did — in their experience with the guy, Stan and Kyle found him to be a walking personification of the nervous system, all synapses and no grace whatsoever. He had ear-length blond hair and pale skin and sunken eyes. He was prone to looking eternally frightened. They’d known him at school obviously. They’d spent some time hanging out with him, in fact — but that was a long time ago, and 30 years had gone by. They saw him around, mostly trailing Craig wherever he went, flinching and gasping at each order Craig barked to him. It never seemed like a great romance, but to Stan and Kyle, anything that failed to mimic their own relationship made no sense.

“What the fuck kind of weird S-and-M game are they playing now?” Kyle asked. Stan has no answer. He was studying what Craig was wearing: cut-off jean shorts and a wife-beater, both of which were appropriately tight, flattering nicely developed muscles. Oddly enough, in the eternal winter wonderland that was South Park, Craig somehow managed to remain perpetually golden, like he’d just gotten back from Morocco or somewhere. (Morocco was the furthest away Stan could imagine ever going, both figuratively and literally.) Craig wore his black hair short, shorter than Tweek’s. But all of this was unremarkable, considering his shoe situation.

“I don’t know,” Stan replied. “Tell me, is he wearing flip-flops?”

“I think so.”

“It’s 25 degrees out!” Stan marveled. “What is wrong with that guy?”

“Don’t know,” Kyle whispered. He smacked Stan on the ass, for no particular reason. “Hi, Craig,” he said calmly, stepping out into the open of the shop. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Craig announced this as if there were any more than two people in this space, like it was a bulletin from the font lines. “Never been better.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Stan flinched at these words, because they sounded syrupy sweet — it was so un-Kyle-like that no matter how many times he heard it, Stan felt he would remain perpetually unused to this misplaced, overly familiar and yet completely plastic business tone of voice.

Without returning any inquiries about Kyle’s health, Craig just asked, “Where’s the other one?”

“I’m here,” Stan announced, stepping out into the shop. “Hey, Craig. What’s up?”

“You were hiding behind a bookcase,” Craig said, unimpressed. Not knowing what to say to this, Stan just gave a goofy smile and put an arm around Kyle’s shoulder. Upon seeing this, Tweek tried to step backward, to conceal himself behind Craig, but he was unable to, because Craig stopped him.

“Say hello, Tweek,” Craig said merrily, tugging on the leash and forcing Tweek to step forward and speak to Kyle and Stan.

“Hello,” Tweek managed.

“Hi,” Kyle said uncomfortably.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Stan asked, eyes bulging.

“A little,” Tweek admitted. Craig tugged his leash again. “Ow!” Craig smirked in satisfaction.

“He likes it,” Craig asserted. “Don’t you, baby?” Tweek nodded vigorously.

“I think you’re hurting him,” Stan said meekly.

Craig sighed, and scowled. “Tweek’s wellbeing is none of your concern.”

Kyle clicked his tongue. “Of course not.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Stan asked.

Tweek looked at Craig, who pursed his lips. “He’s fine. Don’t look at him. Pay attention to me.”

“Do you…” Kyle began cautiously. “Do you want to talk about the lease?”

“Yes,” Craig answered simply. “Let’s do that.” He walked over to a sofa by the window and seated himself. Tweek looked around nervously, but at least there was enough slack in his leash to allow him to stand upright. Craig answered Tweek’s uncertain expression by pointing at the floor, and indeed, Stan and Kyle were amazed to see Tweek get on floor by Craig’s nearly naked feet.

“You’re currently paying what, exactly?” Craig asked. His thick legs were spread out so that both Stan and Kyle, who were standing in front of him (forming a tableau not unlike a couple of low-ranking vassals appealing to their monarch), both got an ample view of what was going on down there. Kyle had to stop himself from continuing to admiringly ogle; Stan just tensed his lips and gave Craig what he hoped was his blankest poker stare. “Hello?” Craig asked again. “I’m waiting.”

“Uh,” Kyle said slowly, still somewhat distracted, “like a thousand dollars a month.”

“Do you think that’s fair?” Craig asked.

“Sure,” Stan said aimlessly, although he shut his mouth when Kyle shot him a threatening let me handle this glare.

“Well, I…” Kyle began, but he looked down to Craig’s crotch again to see that Tweek was now, well, pawing at his thighs.

“What is it?” he asked, bending over to pet Tweek’s hair lovingly, like he was tending to a cherished pet.

“It’s starting to chafe,” Tweek whined, tugging at his collar. “Oh my God, get it off me.”

“Oh, you don’t like it anymore?”

“Gah, no! Get it off me!”

“Okay,” Craig agreed. He began to undo the buckle on the black collar Tweek was wearing. “Does that feel better?” he asked.

“Yes! Thank you!”

Craig thought for a moment. “Maybe you should go sit in the shop until I’m done here.”

“You mean it?” Tweek asked.

“Yeah.” Craig bent forward and fumbled around in his back pocket; with his attention on Tweek and digging around back there, Kyle had a moment to finish his inspection, which earned him a soft slap from Stan, who mouthed the word stop soundlessly.

Blushing, Kyle returned the gesture and mouthed back, spoilsport.

Craig finally fished something out of his pocket, and he handed it to Tweek with an encouraging, “Here.”

“You’re giving me the key to the store?” Tweek asked, beaming.

“Don’t do anything crazy,” was Craig’s only reply. “Just go in there and lock the door behind you and sit down on the floor and don’t touch anything and wait for me to get back, like a good boy.”

With a dramatic seize Tweek pushed himself up off the floor and the sweet bells that Stan had tied around the doorknob with a velvet ribbon rang as he left. This noise always seemed to make Craig shudder, and he visibly had to pry his disgust away from the door, back to Stan and Kyle, to whom he delivered his words imperiously.

“I’m raising your rent to 10,000 dollars a month.”

Stan immediately grabbed Kyle’s hand, impulsively, unthinkingly. Kyle just gaped, and then he managed, “Excuse me?” in a hushed tone.

“Ten thousand a month,” Craig repeated. “Seems unfair, I know, but it’s a small strip, there isn’t a lot of retail opportunity.”

“But … that much? Are you kidding?” Kyle asked.

“Well, you know how it is, the economy’s practically in the fucking gutter. I import most of my stuff from Berlin or Barcelona, and the euro is killing me.”

“Well, don’t blame me,” Kyle scoffed. “I didn’t vote for him.”

“Neither did I,” Stan added.

“You didn’t vote for anyone, Stan.”

“I voted for there not to be a 12-hour line at the polling place.”

“Okay, both of you,” Craig sighed in a very belabored fashion. “Both of you, shut up. I don’t care which one of you votes or which one of you tops or which one of you knows how to fucking do the tango. All I want is 10,000 dollars a month. Understand?”

Kyle nodded dejectedly. Stan pointed at Kyle and whispered, “bottom,” which earned him another smack across the face. “That wasn’t very nice,” Stan muttered.

“Oh, we’ll see how nice it is when no one’s bottoming for you, you closeted non-voting sweater vest-wearing goy.”

“Oh my god,” Craig moaned. “Will both of you just shut up already?”

Kyle began cautiously. “Look, Craig.” He paused. “Listen. We can’t really afford this. I mean, we’d have to start making at least that much every month in net profit to make it up and, well, as I’m sure you’re aware, the antiques business isn’t what it used to be.”

“I know,” Craig said wisely. “That’s why I have a second option for you.”

“Oh,” Stan said stupidly, feeling left out.

“Let’s hear that,” Kyle suggested.

“A one-time, 100,000-dollar buy-out fee.” Craig paused. “I retain full rights to your brand, I have the prerogative to close this store, and I insist on a non-compete clause preventing the two of you from ever working in the antiques trade in the state of Colorado ever again.”

Stan and Kyle both stared at Craig dumbly, waiting for him to do something like pull out one of those New Year’s Ever champagne popper noise-makers and scream “Just kidding!” and then hug both of them, although they both knew deep down that all three of these things were about as unlikely as Stan’s father grasping the concept of his son’s sexuality.

“Craig,” Stan said slowly, his voice absurdly low, hitching on the name. “This store is our life. It’s … it’s ours. It’s what we have together.”

“Well then,” Craig said smartly. “Don’t sell.”

“We don’t have that kind of money,” Kyle repeated, more clearly this time.

“I know. That’s why I’m offering you a sum of money to disappear completely.”

“But what good does that do you?” Stan asked. “I mean, if the antiques business is so fucking bad, why pay out like that?”

“Because,” Craig said. “I know you can’t raise the money to keep the store, and you’re going to need to take the fee. I’m going to dissolve your business, and I have an interested party willing to pay me in excess of the pittance I’m offering you two for this property.” Craig coughed. “So this really works out great for me on all fronts. One, the money. Two, I get to finally be rid of you boring, second-rate excuses for faggots forever. Three, I no longer have to suffer the humiliation of coexisting in the same market as your tired recreation of my dead grandmother’s front parlor.” He paused. “Which was the cutesy thing she always called her living room.”

“How dare you?” Kyle asked, face red.

“You don’t like our store?” Stan stammered.

“Face it, guys,” Craig said knowingly. “Your aesthetics are just like your sex life: boring, trite, and over 20 year ago.”

“I resent that!” Kyle cried, pointing at Craig.

“Resent it all you want,” Craig said. “Any man who can spend eight hours a day in this sad little excuse for Grandma’s parlor has no dick.”

“That’s not true,” Stan countered. “We both have penises, Craig, and just because we only show them to each other doesn’t mean we don’t use them just as well as you do.”

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. “At least we have what you’ll never have.”

“What and what would that be?”

“A good, solid relationship built on shared hopes and dreams and trust,” Kyle said in a very self-satisfied way.

“Oh,” Craig said loudly. “Isn’t that sweet? I thought you were going to say ‘The deed to the shop,’ and I was about to be like, ‘No, I have that.’ ”

“Godammit Craig!” Kyle shouted in response. “Shut up!”

“There’s no need to get angry,” Stan said softly, yanking Kyle by the back of his shirt.

“Yes there is!” Kyle replied, although he calmed back down anyway.

Craig was looking tense and annoyed, and he crossed his solid, hairy legs and cracked his knuckles. “I could care less what you guys do in the bedroom,” he said. “Although I’m sure your lovemaking is as sweet as it is vanilla, I’m not here to mock your sad little simulacra of heteronormative relationships. This space isn’t for sale. Either you let me buy you out, or you cough up the extra nine grand a month.”

“Well, you’re fucking us either way,” Stan said. “I don’t see why you can’t just be a pal for once.”

Craig rose, and picked his shorts out of the crack of his ass. Kyle stuck his tongue out in disapproval, but he managed to get it away before Craig saw. “Cry about it,” he said. “Your lease is up in two weeks.” He gave them a goodbye finger. “See you suckers around,” he said sweetly. The bells on the door jangled when he exited; it slammed shut behind him.

Kyle and Stan looked at one another, both at a loss for words. “Damn,” Stan finally breathed. “What a cunt that guy is.”

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. “And people think I’m a money-grubbing Jew.”

“It’s not just the money,” Stan pointed out. “He hates us. He really hates us.”

“What’d we ever do to him?”

Stan just shrugged in reply.