She is exceptionally well put together from her Donald Pliner made in the mountains of Italy shoes to her perfectly coiffed mid-length dark brown hair.
She is tone on tone. Even lines of colour and of soft, touchable fabric that moves seamlessly from head to toe and includes her hair, glasses, lipstick, jewelry, clothes, shoes, skin.
She is smart: you find that out when you talk with her. After chatting with you a while, she begins to laugh easily, makes cheeky comments when there is a lull in the conversation and then just as you are about to leave, mentions that she’s been thinking about how technology is changing what we mean by human communication.
A subject matter over which you quietly might obsess a little bit.
You excuse yourself a moment, asking if she would like another drink, and when she says yes, you ask her what she is drinking and when she tells you, a gate opens in your mind.
“Prosecco and pear juice, please,” she says with a slight smile, handing you her fluted glass. You pretend not to notice that her little finger touched your forefinger as she placed the glass in your hand.
Not overly good looking or even overly attractive, but there is something compelling about her.
You go to the kitchen. Your first dinner party in a long while since you’ve been single, since you’ve noticed, since you’ve looked at another woman with anything that might pass as interest.
Friends brought friends. It is the thing that friends do after all, work together to line-up the potential next one.
In the kitchen, your very good friend (VGF) for ages and ages is mixing something that you know does not have a name, can’t be good for you, but will taste amazing.
She offers you a sip. Yep. Tastes great. You don’t ask what’s in it.
“I see you’re talking with Marianne,” says your very good friend.
“She’s interesting,” you say.
VGF doesn’t look at you. “She is that,” she says stirring her elixir.
Warning bell. “Tell me,” you say in that voice that no-one ever ignores.
VGF sighs. “Well, here’s the thing about her. She only sleeps with women. But she isn’t a lesbian.”
Your nostrils flare imperceptibly at the impact of cognitive dissonance which gives you the same feeling across the bridge of your nose that comes with ice cream brain freeze.
But you are, if nothing, cool. Aloof even. Inscrutible when you want to be. You pour the Prosecco and pear juice into her fluted glass and into yours.
“Explain to me how that works, please?” you ask VGF.
“I can’t. I don’t get it.” VGF takes another sip of her concoction.
“Marianne doesn’t date women, she only sleeps with them. She doesn’t consider herself bisexual. And she sure doesn’t consider herself a lesbian.”
You look at VGF. “How do you know this?”
VGF finds something very interesting on the countertop that calls her attention and she leans over, away from you.
” I, um, slept with her a few times.”
“I see. Does she sleep with men?” you ask as your brain tries to wrap itself around this data, as you try to avoid stereotyping a woman based on second-hand information.
The countertop still seems fascinating to VGF as she mumbles something that sounds a fair bit like, “occasionally.”
You breathe in, blink once and head back to tone-on-tone, smart, cheeky and interesting woman, handing her the drink as you reach her. She smiles at you.
Small talk for a few minutes. Your mind … simmering.
You ask her who she knows here and she points out some of your second-line acquaintances and two friends, one of whom invited her along. You note that VGF is not in the group she pointed out.
You smile softly, nodding, listening. “Been out long?” you ask when she is obviously finished.
“Oh, I’m not gay,” she says. “But I do like women sexually.”
Her eyes hold yours a moment and you wonder if she noticed that your right eyebrow raised a fraction and that the hair at the back of your neck stood up a wee bit.
You call on Mindfulness. Call on it again when it doesn’t come the first time. Lesbian Buddhist tribe and Lesbian Yoga Chick Tribe training kicks in simultaneously. You ease up. Each to her own. Something bubbles up from memory, a relevant credo in a book that you recently read. “Love As Thou Wilt.”
You smile. And raise your glass inviting her in a toast: “Vive la Femme!” after which you graciously excuse yourself for the comfort of your best straight friend and her husband.
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