Meeting Myself For The First Time

Allison stood in her kitchen with Sandra, voice low like she hated saying the words out loud. The divorce was slow poison, she said. Took months before she stopped resenting him for lying about being gay, for wasting her years on a secret she never got the chance to see. She had felt stupid, blind. A whole marriage built on nothing but pressure and habit. Then it hit her—she never really loved him either, not that way. Maybe both of them had just followed the script. Now the page was blank. Single. Unsteady. And something else. She might not even like men. Might be queer. But how the hell could she know when every lesbian she’d ever met existed only on a screen. Sandra offered Lily’s number. Said she was kind, honest, the real deal. A few nights later Allison brought Lily home from the café. They lingered in the doorway. Allison thanked her for the answers, apologized for every blunt question. Lily brushed it off. Said Allison had survived enough already. Then her tone shifted, heat under the calm. “I really enjoyed tonight.” Allison’s pulse kicked. “Are you flirting with me? God, nobody’s done that in years, and never a woman.” Lily smiled slow. “I can be direct.” She kissed her—slow, certain—and Allison’s knees gave out under the surge of it.