The Q in QUILTBAG (II)

I think you can figure out when this one is set.

Here’s a sample from my draft of the plutogram story “Menage a Quatre,” in which a few college students gather to enjoy themselves just as some news breaks that’ll upend all their lives.

I confess to no small amount of nerves about this project, and this story in particular. As if dealing with one touchy q-word isn’t enough, this one has two—queerness and quarantine. Does it work? Will it work? I think the best thing I can do is just present it—along with tomorrow’s sample—and let you draw your own conclusions about that.

Kwame's laughter cascaded through the cramped confines of their modest living quarters. He mixed a pair of tequila daiquiris, the ice cubes clinking and squinking in rhythmic accompaniment to the sounds of Queen from the Bluetooth speaker.

His fingers twisted a quarter-cut of lime onto the rim of a glass, and with a quick flourish, he handed the drink to Monique. Her appreciative eyes sparkled like sequins.

"On the house," he quipped.

Monique sipped the tangy liquid and let out an approving hum. "You could quit college and go pro with these skills."

"Ah, but then who’d grace you with my exquisite mystique in Aquatic Biology class? The squid? Too handsy," said Kwame, leaning on the banquet table near the quesadillas and taquitos. “Snack cake?” he offered, pulling out a Suzy Q.

“Naw. You know what they say. Candy’s dandy, but liquor is quicker.”

“Quicker for what?” he grinned.

She winked coquettishly.

Across the room, Jacques quirked a half-smile from his outpost by the doorway, his arms folded as if they equipped him protection from the earthquake of bodies and noise. The party was quintessential Kwame—an exuberant affair teeming with quick-witted chatter and laughter—but Jacques' quiet presence was like a eddy in its aquatic stream.

"Hey, Jacques, quick question: do you like fun?" Kwame called.

"Guess not," Jacques replied, his voice barely audible above the squawk of conversations.

"Suit yourself," Kwame shrugged before turning back to Monique, consequently missing the furrow that lined Jacques' forehead. With a backward glance, Jacques relinquished his spot in the room.

Quentin, meanwhile, lounged on the sagging banquette, phone in hand, his face bathed in its aquamarine glow. “Hey, you hear about this new flu from Quzhou, China?”

“Yeah, sounds like more flavor-of-the-month disaster news,” said Kwame. “Bird flu, swine flu…what’s this one, flying squirrel flu?”

“Bat flu,” said Quentin as he scrolled. "And yeah, it reads like some QAnon-style conspiracy-theory bullshit."

Kwame rolled his eyes as he mixed a hard-liquor quaff. The queue for his bar services was increasing: he quickened his pace. "Dude, they always predict the apocalypse, but it never quite happens."

“Besides,” Monique chimed in, “we’re supposed to believe, unquestioningly, what the quacks in China’s medical system say? Because they care so much about quality of life over there? Shyeah, right, I’m quakin’ in my boots.”

"Exactly," Quentin agreed with a wave, his focus already shifting as he pulled up QVC.com.

To Kwame, though, the air felt thicker, as if the living quarters had shrunk a few square feet. He fought to maintain the cheer he’d acquired a reputation for, but a strange unease gnawed at him, a quiver of anxiety he wasn't used to feeling at his own parties. He poured more liquor, more mixer, more laughter into the night, hoping to quash the disquiet lodged in his gut.