The One That Got Away Read Free Page B

of dark hair framed furrowed brows, and the thin seam of her lips suggested impatience with the photographer. I had an urge to press my thighs close together. I added the book to my stack.
    Near the front of the store, a man sat behind a display case. He eyed my stack of books, arched an exquisitely shaped eyebrow, and said, “Maxing out your credit card?” A sign propped up on top of the glass read, “Nellie’s Tchotchkes: Fill Your House with Pride Stuff.” There were rainbow candles, rainbow flags, rainbow wind socks, rainbow pot holders, and rainbow switch-plate covers. If there’s a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, Nellie was sitting pretty.
    â€œAre you Nellie?” I asked.
    â€œIn a manner of speaking,” he replied. “I couldn’t help noticing that you spent a great deal of time in the Coming Out section. Might I suggest one of our Starter Kits? The basic kit comes with a rainbow bandana, complete with styling suggestions, your choice of freedom ring necklace or labrys, a rainbow pen with purple ink, and this lovely journal.” The journal had a photograph of Glenda the Good Witch on the front, with the words Come out, come out wherever you are .
    â€œIf you buy these items separately,” he continued, “they would cost $65, but the kit is only $44.95. Our deluxe kit for lesbians has packages of lavender latex gloves, finger cots, and dental dams, plus six lube samples. So much less embarrassing than buying them alone, and only $12 more.” He looked at me expectantly.
    â€œI’ll take the deluxe kit,” I said. “And a pair of those ruby slipper earrings.”

    When I got home, I pulled out the bandana and styling suggestions and put on the labrys and earrings. If I wore the bandana around my neck, it covered the labrys. If I wore it on my head I looked like I was getting ready for spring cleaning. Well, in a way I was.
    â€œLook,” I said to my cat, brandishing the labrys between two fingers. “The weapon of the Amazons.” Truffle blinked at me. “Let’s dance,” I said, scooping him off the dresser and draping him over my shoulder.
    â€œY.M.C.A.,” I sang, then hummed the rest, because I couldn’t think of the words. Sliding sideways, I whirled around in a dancing fool’s polka until Truffle stopped purring and started squirming. Then I put him back on the dresser, and he lay down under the lamp and began to clean himself.
    â€œNow for the good stuff,” I said, picking up What Lesbians Do in Bed (and Other Places) . The phone rang. I knew it had to be Renee because of the awkward timing. Renee always called during the denouement of a murder mystery, when the pasta had one more minute to cook, or as I was about to step into a bath. An offer to call her back, or even a blunt statement like “Uh-oh, something’s burning,” wouldn’t dam the flow of Renee’s stream of consciousness. I sighed and picked up the receiver.
    â€œBambi? I was expecting your machine.”
    â€œHi, Renee.”
    â€œI heard this really funny lesbian joke, so I had to call you.”
    Renee was one of my straight friends. Or, as she liked to say, bisexual, because of the one time she’d had a threesome with a man and a woman. She felt this gave her an edge over my other heterosexual friends. Renee was thrilled that I had come out as a lesbian. She called me constantly with suggestions of movies to see, booksto read, places to visit, and to ask if I’d had sex with a woman yet.
    â€œOK. Tell me,” I said.
    â€œTell you what?”
    â€œThat really funny lesbian joke. You said you called me because you heard this really funny lesbian joke.”
    â€œI did but I just realized I’ve forgotten it. I was going to leave it on your machine, but I was so startled when I heard your voice that the joke went right out of my head.”
    â€œWell, if you remember it, you can call me