two hours hoping to see you. The rain chased me away.
I pulled the chapter in front of me and laughed. The Post-Its had nothing to do with the story. Six yellow ones covered the page. They read: Avoid half-breed American Indians with bad attitudes . Blue is everyone’s favorite color . My clit is perfect . I’m a sex goddess . I am a breath of fresh air . I am a talented writer who should share her work . I could not stop smiling.
I went into the bathroom and placed five yellow squares around the edge of the mirror, covering others to make room. The one with Avoid half-breed American Indians with bad attitudes I posted smack in the center of the mirror and laughed.
Back in the kitchen, I finished my sandwich and looked over the chapter. On the last page it read: Are you Katness? There were a lot of red lines throughout, but I could easily see how his suggestions would make the story better.
I felt excited.
Now a normal person would be happy enough with that, but I was far from normal. Was I happy because I heard from Tate? Or because Bond sounded like he was ready to come out to the group? I wasn’t sure I really wanted that. Was my mood uplifted because Tate liked my story? Or maybe because we would see each other again? Blah, blah, blah, and around it went.
And then, I didn’t feel so excited anymore. Did I want what either of them offered? Why did men only want halfway with me? Could I stand another relationship that had no chance of progressing? Should I go see Bond? Text Tate? Decide to be a lesbian? I sometimes wished I could just turn a switch like that.
I tapped the screen on my phone and sent a text.
Me: I found your envelope.
Tate: Sorry I missed you.
Me: Loved the Post-It notes.
Tate: Thought you might. What are you up to tonight?
Me: Undecided.
Tate: Maybe I can help you decide.
Me: Okay, should I go see Bond? He wants to talk about letting the group know about us.
Tate: That’s an easy one, not tonight.
Me: Why?
Tate: Because you’re coming to see me?
Me: You ended that with a question mark, but it didn’t seem like a question.
Tate: Blue, I’d like to see you.
Me: I don’t know. Seems to me you’re offering me the very same thing you said I shouldn’t settle for.
Tate: I am.
Me: Great.
Tate: It’s all I have, but you’re right, you deserve more. However, I can’t stop thinking about you and our time together on Wednesday night or I’d leave you alone.
Me: Neither can I. Your hands.
Tate: My hands?
Me: Yes, and your departure.
Tate: I’ll come to you.
Me: Definitely not. Well maybe. My first thought was that you wouldn’t be able to take off if I came to you, but you could still kick me out of your place. How about neutral territory?
Tate: Where?
Me: The Beach. Hollywood.
I loved the beach at night. I rarely had the opportunity to go because it wasn’t safe for a woman in South Florida to go there alone.
Tate: Okay, I’ll meet you by the bandshell in 20.
Me: Perfect.
Once dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, I texted Bond.
Me: What time are you getting off?
Bond: 3 a.m. or so.
I checked the time on the stove: 12:45 a.m.
Me: I’ll text you when I’m coming over. It’ll be awhile.
Bond: Good! Anytime.
I filled a glass with water and drained it. Phone and keys in hand and driver’s license in my pocket, I hopped down the steps to my car. I fought with the car door, but this time I won. The door creaked and popped as it shut. Once settled, I turned up the music and sang Rude along with MAGIC! I loved the reggae beat.
During the day, it was impossible to park on Johnson Street in front of the bandshell. At night, I had my choice of spots and pulled in next to Tate’s Harley. I didn’t even have to feed the meter because it was after hours.
“Hi.” No smile on the jean-clad man.
“Hi, cheer up, it’s a beautiful night, and the rain has already passed through.”
“I’m happy to see you.”
“That’s usually
I pulled the chapter in front of me and laughed. The Post-Its had nothing to do with the story. Six yellow ones covered the page. They read: Avoid half-breed American Indians with bad attitudes . Blue is everyone’s favorite color . My clit is perfect . I’m a sex goddess . I am a breath of fresh air . I am a talented writer who should share her work . I could not stop smiling.
I went into the bathroom and placed five yellow squares around the edge of the mirror, covering others to make room. The one with Avoid half-breed American Indians with bad attitudes I posted smack in the center of the mirror and laughed.
Back in the kitchen, I finished my sandwich and looked over the chapter. On the last page it read: Are you Katness? There were a lot of red lines throughout, but I could easily see how his suggestions would make the story better.
I felt excited.
Now a normal person would be happy enough with that, but I was far from normal. Was I happy because I heard from Tate? Or because Bond sounded like he was ready to come out to the group? I wasn’t sure I really wanted that. Was my mood uplifted because Tate liked my story? Or maybe because we would see each other again? Blah, blah, blah, and around it went.
And then, I didn’t feel so excited anymore. Did I want what either of them offered? Why did men only want halfway with me? Could I stand another relationship that had no chance of progressing? Should I go see Bond? Text Tate? Decide to be a lesbian? I sometimes wished I could just turn a switch like that.
I tapped the screen on my phone and sent a text.
Me: I found your envelope.
Tate: Sorry I missed you.
Me: Loved the Post-It notes.
Tate: Thought you might. What are you up to tonight?
Me: Undecided.
Tate: Maybe I can help you decide.
Me: Okay, should I go see Bond? He wants to talk about letting the group know about us.
Tate: That’s an easy one, not tonight.
Me: Why?
Tate: Because you’re coming to see me?
Me: You ended that with a question mark, but it didn’t seem like a question.
Tate: Blue, I’d like to see you.
Me: I don’t know. Seems to me you’re offering me the very same thing you said I shouldn’t settle for.
Tate: I am.
Me: Great.
Tate: It’s all I have, but you’re right, you deserve more. However, I can’t stop thinking about you and our time together on Wednesday night or I’d leave you alone.
Me: Neither can I. Your hands.
Tate: My hands?
Me: Yes, and your departure.
Tate: I’ll come to you.
Me: Definitely not. Well maybe. My first thought was that you wouldn’t be able to take off if I came to you, but you could still kick me out of your place. How about neutral territory?
Tate: Where?
Me: The Beach. Hollywood.
I loved the beach at night. I rarely had the opportunity to go because it wasn’t safe for a woman in South Florida to go there alone.
Tate: Okay, I’ll meet you by the bandshell in 20.
Me: Perfect.
Once dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, I texted Bond.
Me: What time are you getting off?
Bond: 3 a.m. or so.
I checked the time on the stove: 12:45 a.m.
Me: I’ll text you when I’m coming over. It’ll be awhile.
Bond: Good! Anytime.
I filled a glass with water and drained it. Phone and keys in hand and driver’s license in my pocket, I hopped down the steps to my car. I fought with the car door, but this time I won. The door creaked and popped as it shut. Once settled, I turned up the music and sang Rude along with MAGIC! I loved the reggae beat.
During the day, it was impossible to park on Johnson Street in front of the bandshell. At night, I had my choice of spots and pulled in next to Tate’s Harley. I didn’t even have to feed the meter because it was after hours.
“Hi.” No smile on the jean-clad man.
“Hi, cheer up, it’s a beautiful night, and the rain has already passed through.”
“I’m happy to see you.”
“That’s usually
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