The Blue Parrot had been a lot of things in its sixty years. A speakeasy, a disco, a briefly unfortunate fern bar. Now, in the humid Atlanta evening, it was a sanctuary. The jukebox played vintage Tracy Chapman, and the air smelled of old wood, nail polish, and something lemony from the diffuser behind the bar.
A young trans man with a septum piercing and a cowboy hat walked by and gave Leo a small, two-fingered salute. Leo blinked, then returned it.
“That obvious?” Leo asked.