It’s Saturday night, and all the heterosexuals in smart little dresses and sport coats are streaming into what we didn’t know was the hoppingest spot between Las Vegas and LA. Janet and I are in jeans and fleece — not a tube of lipstick or mascara wand between us. Grayheads: a species easy to identify without a guidebook, the over-the-hill lesbian couples of the Pacific Northwest. Janet’s carrying our red-and-white cooler with snacks for the road across the marble tile of the Art Deco lobby when we turn and see the couple entering through the tall glass doors, slicing through the crowd like a whetted blade. The butch is ordinary enough, a stocky white woman in tailored shirt and slacks, but the confection — no, the pièce de résistance — whose hand she holds is of another genus entirely. Her burnt-cinnamon skin, her gold gown spread like icing over a cake. And her deep décolletage, exposed enough for open-heart surgery. She’s a yacht in a sea of rowboats. An Italian fountain by Bernini. She’s the Statue of Liberty. The Hubble Telescope that lets us gaze into the birth of galaxies. O, may they set that hotel room ablaze, here in this drab land of agribusiness and oil refineries, outdoing Pittsburgh as the top polluted city in the nation. May they trash it like rock stars, rip up the 300-thread-count sheets, free the feathers from the pillows. And may that grand femme be consumed right down to the glitter on her sling-back, four-inch stilettos and whatever she’s glued on her magnificent skin to keep the plunge of that neckline from careening clear off the curve.