Slice o' life on wry

So, after having eaten at the little table, I go to pay for my sammich at the deli. Counterman who made said sammich rings me up. As he does so, sez:

"Did you hear that woman behind you? Sorry you had to hear that."

I go, "no," truthfully, was engrossed in my book. Had vague recollection of irritating noise somewhere. Why?

"She was just..." the man searches, clearly embarrassed..."vulgar."

I go, "o'rly? How so?" (I have to ask).

He seems more embarrassed. "Just...very vulgar, the things she was saying. She just -assumed-, I guess...you know, because I work behind the cash register? that I'm...homosexual. Like I'd know or care what she was talking about...she just assumed"

I look at him.

A note: we are in, not only San Francisco, but essentially on Main Gay Street in Gayville, San Francisco. And the guy is...well...okay, one doesn't want to stereotype, no; but, well, "being behind a cash register" isn't the stereotype I would've thought of. And, I doubt the woman (whose laughter and a few snatches of her bawdy repartee are sort of coming back to me now, as in a dream recollection, although still v. vague about content) was thinking of that, as such, either.

Oh well. "Homosexual." Bless. One doesn't quite know what to say.

He seems anxious to please. "Your sandwich...did I make it okay?"

I smile. "It was fine. Great. No worries." One tries to reassure in whatever way one can...