would be heaven.” This made Anne’s eyes flicker away from the page. Reluctantly. She did not want to be interrupted right now.
“Flannery,” she said slowly, unable to resist entirely the sound of the name in her mouth, “don’t you have work to do? Haven’t you got a paper to write?”
Flannery took her eyes away from where they wanted to be and returned them, dutifully, to the arguments of Susan Sontag.
“Yes,” she said forlornly. In a voice heavy with the wretched melancholy of frustration. “I guess I do.”
F lannery only ever wanted to speak poems, unforgettable lyrics, about her nights (and days and mornings) with Anne. That time was sublime. Of course. Yet sometimes, prosaic girl that she more naturally was, she had to accept a blunt fact, too, of her Anne hours: that, at a certain technical level, she was getting the how-to.
One December evening in the dining hall Flannery overheard a conversation fragment from a neighboring table. Crew types, more or less, looking at a flyer advertising a Gay and Lesbian dance and making cracks about gay sex. “Hey, it’s got to give you a serious advantage,” ventured a bulky, joky guy, “to know the equipment so well in the first place. I mean, think about it: you’re already a licensed driver.” But that was the whole point, Flannery wanted to lean over and tell him. She wasn’t a licensed driver at all—she’d just gotten her learner’s permit. She was still more comfortable in the lower gears and would not yet have considered herself safe for freeway driving.
She learned about herself by learning Anne. And as Anne explored her, she brought to life parts of Flannery she had never conceived of and couldn’t have begun to name. Once, Anne had found a spot within Flannery that seemed to be the single concentration of her excitement. It was the place of pleasure, purely, and when it was touched, Flannery just flooded with delight. Literally. As though Anne had turned on a tap. Flannery would have been embarrassed, if she hadn’t been so high on the sensation of it. Besides, Anne herself was crowing with the discovery.
Later, when Flannery had recovered and come back to the ground after her free flight, she wanted to return the favor. She searched, with clever fingers; and she was rewarded. Gold. Eureka! Flannery was as proud as any pioneering forty-niner.
Afterward Anne, as stunned as Flannery had been, panted her thanks.
“Well,” Flannery said modestly, “I had to try to do what you’d done. It felt—it felt so good.” When Anne laughed at that, Flannery said nervously, “What’s so funny?” She was too sensitive yet to take teasing about her lovemaking. “What?”
“No, I’m sorry. I was just thinking. Of what they say.” Anne smiled, then winced with apology. “You know—how imitation is the sincerest form of Flannery.”
T here were other games Anne played with her name. “Flannery will get you nowhere” became a common currency between them: Anne said it to herself in Flannery’s presence, when she felt she wasn’t getting enough work done—when their love and lovemaking were distracting her from what she only half-jokingly called her higher purpose. On a good day, when Anne was teasable, Flannery would counter with a touch, and a correction. “Oh no. Flannery will get you everywhere. ” On a dour day, when the job search worry made Anne’s limbs go rigid, Flannery didn’t try it.
Another time Anne called her “my flâneur ,” affectionately, “or my flâneuse , I should say.”
“What’s that?”
“ Flâneur. It’s someone who strolled up and down the boulevards of Paris watching the life of the city. Benjamin writes about them. From Baudelaire.”
“I’ve never been to Paris.”
“Really?” It was kind of Anne to act as though the fact weren’t obvious.
“ Flâneur. I like that. It sounds a bit like ‘Flannel,’ which is what my mother used to call me when I was a kid. When she was trying to get
“Flannery,” she said slowly, unable to resist entirely the sound of the name in her mouth, “don’t you have work to do? Haven’t you got a paper to write?”
Flannery took her eyes away from where they wanted to be and returned them, dutifully, to the arguments of Susan Sontag.
“Yes,” she said forlornly. In a voice heavy with the wretched melancholy of frustration. “I guess I do.”
F lannery only ever wanted to speak poems, unforgettable lyrics, about her nights (and days and mornings) with Anne. That time was sublime. Of course. Yet sometimes, prosaic girl that she more naturally was, she had to accept a blunt fact, too, of her Anne hours: that, at a certain technical level, she was getting the how-to.
One December evening in the dining hall Flannery overheard a conversation fragment from a neighboring table. Crew types, more or less, looking at a flyer advertising a Gay and Lesbian dance and making cracks about gay sex. “Hey, it’s got to give you a serious advantage,” ventured a bulky, joky guy, “to know the equipment so well in the first place. I mean, think about it: you’re already a licensed driver.” But that was the whole point, Flannery wanted to lean over and tell him. She wasn’t a licensed driver at all—she’d just gotten her learner’s permit. She was still more comfortable in the lower gears and would not yet have considered herself safe for freeway driving.
She learned about herself by learning Anne. And as Anne explored her, she brought to life parts of Flannery she had never conceived of and couldn’t have begun to name. Once, Anne had found a spot within Flannery that seemed to be the single concentration of her excitement. It was the place of pleasure, purely, and when it was touched, Flannery just flooded with delight. Literally. As though Anne had turned on a tap. Flannery would have been embarrassed, if she hadn’t been so high on the sensation of it. Besides, Anne herself was crowing with the discovery.
Later, when Flannery had recovered and come back to the ground after her free flight, she wanted to return the favor. She searched, with clever fingers; and she was rewarded. Gold. Eureka! Flannery was as proud as any pioneering forty-niner.
Afterward Anne, as stunned as Flannery had been, panted her thanks.
“Well,” Flannery said modestly, “I had to try to do what you’d done. It felt—it felt so good.” When Anne laughed at that, Flannery said nervously, “What’s so funny?” She was too sensitive yet to take teasing about her lovemaking. “What?”
“No, I’m sorry. I was just thinking. Of what they say.” Anne smiled, then winced with apology. “You know—how imitation is the sincerest form of Flannery.”
T here were other games Anne played with her name. “Flannery will get you nowhere” became a common currency between them: Anne said it to herself in Flannery’s presence, when she felt she wasn’t getting enough work done—when their love and lovemaking were distracting her from what she only half-jokingly called her higher purpose. On a good day, when Anne was teasable, Flannery would counter with a touch, and a correction. “Oh no. Flannery will get you everywhere. ” On a dour day, when the job search worry made Anne’s limbs go rigid, Flannery didn’t try it.
Another time Anne called her “my flâneur ,” affectionately, “or my flâneuse , I should say.”
“What’s that?”
“ Flâneur. It’s someone who strolled up and down the boulevards of Paris watching the life of the city. Benjamin writes about them. From Baudelaire.”
“I’ve never been to Paris.”
“Really?” It was kind of Anne to act as though the fact weren’t obvious.
“ Flâneur. I like that. It sounds a bit like ‘Flannel,’ which is what my mother used to call me when I was a kid. When she was trying to get
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