My mother and I get along well, so well that we like to travel together. Next week she’s taking me on a cruise. At dinner we’ll be sitting at a table for six with four strangers. In the past we’ve been very fortunate with our table mates. In fact, last time around we sat with a gay couple from the Netherlands and a straight couple from Michigan, and we all bonded over the dual joys of laughter and 6,000-calorie desserts.

But I’m fretting that our luck can’t continue to hold. This could be the trip where I find myself sitting next to the red-state poster child.

On the first night we’ll all take our seats and introduce ourselves. In my worst nightmare, my neighbor, Bill, will comment that he’s devoted his retirement to bringing this country back to its senses.

“In what way?” I ask, praying his goal is a balanced budget.

“This gay marriage foolishness. This gay-anything foolishness. Those people are evil and it’s time we stopped coddling them.”

My mother’s seafood paté stops on the way to her mouth. She stares at me, wondering what I’m going to say. So do I.

In the interest of peace and good digestion, I offer a softball. “That’s an interesting point of view.”

He turns to me. “Don’t you agree?”

Dammit. I know Mom would prefer tranquility, and she is paying for this trip. One more softball.

“I’m afraid I don’t agree, but we live in a great country where we’re free to hold different opinions. My, those rolls look delicious.”

“What do you think?”

“I think I’ll have one.”

“No, about gay rights,” he persists.

His wife retreats behind her compact. My mother, currently on crutches, readies them for a quick getaway. But I haven’t given up hope.

“I think we’re all on vacation, and politics is such a touchy subject.”

“This isn’t about politics. This is about God’s word, and the soul of America,” Bill responds.

The other couple at the table appear to be turning green, and I don’t think they’re seasick.

I heave a big sigh and turn to him, “I’m a lesbian, jackass.”

All my indignation melts when I realize it might’ve sounded like I called myself a lesbian jackass. But apparently the message got through properly, as he throws his napkin on the table and turns the color of his chilled strawberry with tapioca soup.

“You, you are what’s wrong with America!”

“You’re generous. Surely I can’t be the only thing.”

“Admitting it in public, saying out loud that you’re one of those! I fought for this country!”

My mother chimes in. “So did her father.”

“So did and do a lot of gay people,” I add.

“Steward!” he bellows, and the steward appears. “My wife and I need to be reseated. Put us with normal people.” When the steward explains they can be moved, but starting tomorrow, he says to his wife, “C’mon Dot, we’re getting out of here.”

“Not yet, Bill. Wait till I’ve had my filet mignon.”

“You can’t catch it, Bill,” I say. “May as well finish your meal. Tomorrow you can eat free of filth.”

I can’t resist. “And so can I.”

We all eat in silence. I picture the following evening when the stewards parade through the darkened dining room toting baked Alaskas. By that point the flaming dessert might appeal to Bill as a weapon. Better that he move far from me. And I hope he winds up sitting with atheists, socialists and a PBS employee.