Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice by April Sinclair Page B

didn’t teach me nothing,” I lied. “You practically choked on it yourself. It was more like the blind leading the blind.”
    â€œWell, I taught both of y’all the difference between cashmere and cotton, when it came to men,” Today sniffed.
    â€œIt will never be like old times again,” I swallowed.
    â€œY’all nursed me back from bronchitis.” Today sighed.
    I saw the shuttle bus pull up outside the thick glass door. I pointed. “Well, I guess it’s time.”
    â€œDon’t forget to call us when you get back to Chi-town and tell us all the intimate details.” Sharlinda winked and mashed her cigarette in an ashtray.
    â€œHey, how’s about a three-way hug?” Today suggested.
    I was sort of glad when the hug was over and Today and Sharlinda had disappeared into the airline shuttle bus. It was a relief not to have to pretend anymore. I felt sad that I couldn’t be myself with somebody who’d taught me how to inhale my first joint, and someone I’d nursed back from bronchitis.

summer 1975

6
    The next day Traci drove me across the Golden Gate Bridge to Mount Tamalpais in Marin County. We hiked for several hours. I complained every step of the way, but when we reached the top and looked out over the Bay Area, it took my breath away. Traci and I kissed and held hands. It was nice; I was really getting into her. I still wasn’t quite ready to take that big leap, so I planned on sleeping in Kate’s bed. But I’d be dreaming about being with Traci.
    On Wednesday night, Traci made us a delicious catfish dinner. She and I sat in her room in front of a toasty fire. I couldn’t believe that it was cold enough to need heat in June. But it was cool and windy out there tonight.
    Traci wondered aloud if the roommate interviewee they were expecting was a no show. Then Jawea stuck her head in the door and announced, “She’s here.”
    Traci told me that I could learn a lot from Jawea because she was on a spiritual path. But I had my doubts about the slightly chubby white woman whom I imagined would be pretty if she ever combed her long, tangled hair, or ironed her rumpled clothes.
    â€œI think this one is a separatist,” Jawea whispered.
    â€œHow could you tell already?” Traci asked, leaving the blazing fire.
    â€œShe asked me if Artemis was male or female. I told her female.”
    â€œWhat did she say?”
    â€œâ€˜Good, because I want to live in a woman-only space. I don’t want to put my energy into anything male.’”
    â€œTell her you’re not sure about the turtle,” I joked as Traci and Jawea headed toward the kitchen.
    I felt sorry for the two of them, and yet it must be interesting to interview prospective roomates; especially in San Francisco. Last night a woman had shown up with a black eye, explaining that she was into S-M. Another claimed to be an ex-Weatherwoman. She meant as in terrorist, as opposed to meteorologist. And a nice woman who did macramé said she had to consult her four children and three teenagers about the space. She nonchalantly explained that all seven beings lived inside of her body. So far, Jawea was leaning toward her, and Traci was partial to the masochist.
    Traci reappeared in the room, rolling her eyes.
    â€œI can’t understand why somebody named George with a beard and tattoos up and down her arms can be so down on men!”
    â€œYeah, she does have a funny way of showing it,” I agreed.
    â€œGeorge says she was a part of a collective in Mendocino County. They gave away their boy children. She’s a stone separatist.”
    â€œGave away their boys! That’s terrible!”
    â€œWell, look at it this way,” Traci said, standing close to the crackling fire. “The kids were probably better off.”
    â€œYeah,” I agreed, watching the embers burn.
    Traci sat down next to me. “I don’t know why Jawea is still