S.: Alex, tell me, what did you make of her? Too much? That doesn't surprise me. Danny's always preferred his men to be as straight as possible. A tedious form of self-loathing, that I've unsuccessfully tried to wean him off.
D.: Scottie, I was telling Alex...
S.: I hope you told him this is where we first met? You must be wondering how the old queer like me ended up friends with a handsome man like him? 19 years old, he walked through that door as lost as a person could be. I saw him in his tatty jeans, with his cropped hair and puppy dog eyes. I could guess his sad story without hearing a word. I presumed, if I bought him a drink, there wouldn't be a single second when he wasn't hoping for someone better to come along. But what can I say? I'm a soft touch. So I bought him that drink - and to my surprise he talked to me for the whole night. He didn't leave even when others stalked him. A small gesture, but it meant a great deal. And we've been friends ever since. I'm the one he comes to when the times are tough. And they often are. Poor Danny has a terrible track record for picking the wrong man. He's an insufferable romantic. One of the last. *pause* Does it fall to me to say "don't break his heart"?
A.: I could never hurt Danny.
S.: May I ask as someone who's been to the breaking of many a heart how you can be so sure?
A.: Because he is the only friend I have.
S.: I'm pleased for you. I'm pleased for both of you.