Her hand was warm in mine as we waited for our order to be announced, and it was perfect. It was perfect until we heard him. You know, Jesus loves you.

I looked at him, wondering what I should say or how to react, remembering all the stories I’ve heard on the internet, but he decided to say it again. Jesus loves you.

I don’t know why, but I felt my heart drop. There was no malice, no threat, but I could sense there was something off with his tone. Was his meaning to help us reach salvation because queers go to Hell, or was his meaning to tell us Jesus loves everyone, especially the queers?

I knew it was the former, especially as I blocked my partner from his view. But the lamest response came from me. Thank you. All I said was thank you because I was afraid. I was afraid of conflict. I was afraid of arguments. I was afraid of old, white men, even if they were in wheelchairs.

He kept preaching to us. I didn’t hear a single word he said, but it almost looked like we were having a conversation. He said something about his church. I nodded. He said something about their Sunday meetings. I nodded again, how interesting. He mentioned one more thing, the motif
of strangers like him, Jesus loves you.

So I’ve heard.

Have a blessed day.

As much as I wanted to tell him that he made me uncomfortable, that I wanted nothing to do with
him, that I would respect his faith if he would leave me be, I said something infinitely lamer.

You, too. Thank you.