It wasn't the college kids who neglected to tip me on a $60 check. It wasn't the table of cotton-tops who accused the bartender of not knowing how to make a scotch and sour, or who claimed the decaf wasn't "fresh." And it wasn't the friend of a friend who left me an insulting 10 percent tip, even after I had comped all of their drinks.

It was the endless procession of gay couples, all happy and in love over their plates of fried calamari and of cumin-crusted salmon. Fuck. You. And your boyfriend is ugly.