I was buying a birthday card for a friend today, when I saw a new category: Gay Wedding.

One card had two guys at the altar, with the Justice of the Peace saying, "You may now exchange recipes." Another had two guys in tuxes holding hands, carrying huge happy face lollipops.

It would be interesting to see how greeting cards have changed over the years to reflect society. I'm sure somebody way smarter than me, with more time on their hands, is already putting together a doctorate on exactly this topic.

It's great to see that gay wedding cards are hitting the mainstream.
My only complaint? Most gay people are way funnier than these cards.

"$112.58, ma'am."

The woman nodded and handed over six twenties. The people in line sighed in quiet relief: cash was quick.

As the cashier made change, the woman sensed a commotion: someone pushing through the line to get out. She squeezed closer to the counter to make room, but the person didn't pass.

"Excuse me, miss?"

The woman faced the man and smirked, "Yes?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, but..." his face screwed up sheepishly, and he scratched the back of his neck. "Well, I noticed you a few times while I was shopping, and..."

The cashier was ready with the woman's change, feeling awkward and too close. People in line strained to hear. The store quieted. Aisles held their breath.

"Well, I know this is crazy. But you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and was hoping I could take you out for dinner, or just a drink, or..."

The woman blushed, then made an exaggerated motion to brush the hair from her face; her fourth finger wore a thin gold band. The man continued, undaunted.

"Or, well anything really. Just to talk to you."

The people in line tried to look detached; they smiled to each other, embarrassed, intrigued.

"Do you have my receipt?" the woman asked the cashier, "and may I borrow your pen?"

The cashier handed them to her, and she wrote a name and phone number on the back of the receipt, folded it slowly, and passed it to the man, letting her hand rest in his for a moment.

"Thank you," he said, and walked to the doors, looking back often.

The aisles exhaled. The sounds of the Sunday errand became clear and loud again. The woman gathered her bags of groceries together.

The lady behind her moved forward and whispered, "Was that your real number?"

"Yes," the woman said.

"But aren't you married?"

"Yes," said the woman, looking toward the door. "Isn't he lovely?"

He is tall with bad hair. His knapsack blocks your view of the muffins. He orders slowly, quietly, flirting with the redhead behind the counter. She smiles perkily and slides him an espresso and a nanaimo bar. Nice breakfast. He walks away to find a seat.

"Um, I'll have... an Americano," you say, stepping forward, "and one of those." You point to the banana nut muffins. Red grunts and plops the muffin onto a plate before turning to get your drink. You smile, and the lines of a Tori Amos song come into your head:

"Boys all think she's living kindness/
Ask a fellow waitress."

When your coffee arrives, you turn to find that the only empty spot is an overstuffed chair across from Knapsack Flirt. Nuts. You take the seat quietly and pull off a crusty bit of your muffin. Not bad.

Then you hear it, just above the gurgle of the other customers: humming. Faint. Familiar. It's Radiohead: True Love Waits.

You look up. It's KF. He's reading Tom Robbins' Skinny Legs and All. Sensing your attention, his eyes come off the page and find you: your face, your hair, your lips. He's not looking at you, he's tasting you. And when he settles into your eyes, it's as though a Christmas cracker has gone off, and you are each holding an end.

The humming stops. His mouth opens, then shuts, and he gives you a crooked, closed-lipped smile. He closes the book and puts it down on the table between you. "It's haunted all my days," he says, red-faced, and you recognize the line from the song. You smile and he looks startled.

Several hours later, Red comes out from behind the counter and asks if you guys are gonna order anything for lunch or what.