Queen Christina

To celebrate his final Pride, in June, my friend, lymphatic, thin, and in distress, managed to dress in drag. He shot the moon: outstretched, he’d used his dying to think—obsess— about the Prada pumps, their skin a snake; the heavy pantyhose, two pair; the moot but lacy underthings; the makeup, cake, to overlay his pain. I called him beaut- i-ful; he said he felt like Greta Garbo in Queen Christina(our campy interplay); I countered that he looked more like a hobo- sexual in heels. We howled. That day, we never left his Castro flat. His rhinestone glittered, and everywhere, the smell of cologne.