Catherine Sharpe Catherine Sharpe wrote mostly for live performance in the 1990s before turning her attention to gay marriage, in vitro fertilization, gay divorce, parenting, dating, fiction, and nonfiction. Her first collection Ambition Towards Love hasn’t yet been published, but you can read some of the interlocking essays and fictions in Opium Magazine, The Battered Suitcase, Weave Magazine, A cappella Zoo, and Word Riot.
Pen Dates
A
fter a year or so, Pen seriously considered dating. She reasoned that after the dissolution, modeling healthy adult relationships would be good for her daughter, impressionable at six, but not easy to fool. Kate, that traitor, had dumped Pen, half-dumped Carly, and started seeing someone else almost immediately. Maybe sooner. Pen practiced casual with her new hair stylist, “I’m dating. Online. Nothing serious.” Nikki-Just-Nikki nodded, then noted that Pen must have been wearing her bangs slicked back for quite some time. “Thirteen fucking years,” Pen answered. Nikki suggested an update. Jig-jags of razor-cut black and silver bangs now bisected the skeptical furrows of Pen’s forehead. So hip, so current! Ready to jack into lesbianmatrix. com where hearts and minds meet online. Dating could mean someone to try out new recipes on, a little self-esteem booster, an affirmation. I am not a loser. I am a dater, I am a winner, Pen repeated. Sharing custody of her daughter untethered alternate weekends from her schedule. And she was no longer busy with the puzzle of family counseling appointments, child custody appointments, attorney appointments, therapy appointments, and financial advisor appointments, allowing her to implement a rigorous skin care and exercise regime. Routine exfoliation cost nothing but time, but anti-wrinkle cream cost $108 for two scant ounces. Over the past year, she’d plugged thousands into the local yoga economy — reminded to breathe despite the autonomic nature of respiration. Some things were no longer automatic, much less autonomic. Was it possible to yoga yourself to death, Pen wondered? Rereading her profile on a Saturday night, Pen sat in front of her computer. Accepting some help from one of her friends in book club, a corporate marketing professional, she’d already
posted it online. I wax, wear eyeliner, but insist on a manual transmission. Perhaps this defines me as a femme top. What side of the bed are you? Is your dishwasher half-full or half-empty? I plant tomatoes every year but always get them into the ground late. I often cry. But just lately! Did I mention that my upper lip is a little too thin? That I know the difference between broth and stock? I love weddings, especially when there’s a good band, and always want to sleep just once with the tallest bridesmaid. Religion permitting. Do you love oxygen? I do, too! Honesty is very important to me, especially yours. Kate had said in uncouple counselling, “Nothing happened after Laurie kissed me. It was fantasy, we never went beyond fantasy. I’m her boss!” And then later, “I’m sorry I can’t be the person I want to be. With you.” Poor Kate. Trying to find herself untangled from Pen, from family, from habitual love passed back and forth like a ball in a basketball drill. Enough practice! Pen had posted a headshot with her profile — bangs soft, dimpling with deliberate ease — despite the ridiculous fear that someone she knew might recognize her, might feel pity, might tell Kate. But Kate had moved out, or moved on, or, at least, moved over. There was plenty of room. Kate with her brandnew Calphalon (Pen kept the old set), her tidy little house, her new girly girlfriend — maybe second wifey wife. Little Carly called her Auntie Laurie without a hint of familial confusion. Kids are so credulous. Well, Pen could get back in the game now, too. She logged onto lesbianmatrix — her profile was an enormous success! Not a Fortune 500 success, but definitely a Small Business Owner success. Randee4u, SqueekyClean, Hotmama23, ParisUmbrella, GeekGirl, etc., had sent the opening gambit — a winking smiley face with a bubble of dialogue, “Your profile made me smile!” What a giddy bunch! Pen smiled back until her face hurt Summer 2011 ▪ The Battered Suitcase ▪ 95