CATHERINE LEWIS
CO N T EN T WA R N I N G : homophobia
CATHERINE LEWIS // 28
LIMINAL “G
irls, I have something to tell you,” I say. Sipping their Sunday brunch lattes and slicing up whipped cream–topped waffles under the hipster restaurant’s pot lights, my three work friends look at me, eyes bright. My heart beats faster. “So … I have a crush on a girl. This has never happened to me before,” I tell them. My friends’ eyes widen. We’ve been friends for over a decade, since our single-girl days when we spent every office lunch hour discussing the guys we were seeing, before we all married our husbands, before my friends moved on to other firms. “Oh,” one friend says, her eyes still wide. “Wow.” “Well, yeah,” I reply. “Wait, so what does this mean? What about your husband?” she asks. All eyes are on me. Heads are cocked.
“Oh … well, yeah. I still love my husband. I guess this means I’m bisexual?” I say as whimsically as I can. “Wow.” Everyone nods, their eyes still wide, still on me. I am a zoo animal. A forty-year-old exhibit on display. “Do you have a photo of this girl?” my friend asks, mirth in her eyes, as they all wonder who could have inspired this sudden … change. I finally breathe out. This, I can do. I take out my phone, open a social media app, and find a photo. Leather jacket. Long wavy hair with no grey just yet. Symmetrical features. Tasteful makeup. Huge, dark eyes. The photo doesn’t capture how kind and bubbly she always is. “Well, she’s very pretty,” my friend says approvingly. Each friend peers at my phone, nodding and smiling. “Very pretty,” they all agree. At least they think I have good taste.