I try not to let on, I try not to let the smile bob up to the surface, but teenage and stupid and in love are synonyms and I can’t quite submerge it.
“Yeah,” I say, and bite my lip against liquid happiness. “I’m going to fly over to meet her.”
“Don’t fancy girls because you can’t get a boyfriend,” my mum snaps, and my mouth sinks at the corners.
In the story I’m reading it’s all plain sailing. They’re in love and they fight and there’s drama but it’s never about the them
of them, a world without the depths of history and ignorance and bias to anchor it, and I don’t see a reflection of myself in it at all.
“Hey,” he says, his smile rippling a little. He wants to run away to sea. He has a skull and crossbones bandanna just in case. “Hey, let me know if you need to cheat on me with a girl.”
I laugh because it’s not always easy to spot the icebergs when you’re breathing softly together in the dark, and it’s two more months before we founder and sink.
In the story I’m reading they’re in love, they’re in love, and the
character’s ex-wives and ex-girlfriends are carefully washed away;
they’re sponged off the solid rock of his sexuality because it’s more
romantic that way.
It makes it more real.
I love bisexual girls the website tells me want a 3some? I click the little cross in the corner and sail past.
we’re looking for a third
do you need one of each?
just don’t tell my wife!
x. x. x.
In the story I’m reading someone feels like they’ll drown with it, feels fear washing up the inside of their throat, feels like they can’t even get the words out. It’s okay, someone tells them, you’re okay, and I’d read it over again if the words would stop blurring.
“I’m sure there are lots of lovely boyfriends,” my mother says carefully, mouth dry, “or girlfriends in your future,” and there’s something in my throat, there’s something in my eye, and I make sure my phone won’t let on that I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.
I’m… flexible, says the character on screen, and something in my chest feels sharp like ice, and transparent.
“Actually,” I say. My hands won’t stop shaking. “Actually I’m bisexual.”
All of the tension runs like water out of their shoulders, out of their expressions, out of their nostrils with an unconscious little snort.
“Oh,” they say. “Well.”