Romance
The smell in the garage is lousy. Old bulbs coated with years of dust and cobwebs don't cast the best light either. But when I pick up my guitar and my fingers find the strings, and that first riff comes screaming out of the amp, the only thing that matters is sound.
That picture I sent? It was taken last year, before Mom left. Before I packed on all this fat. That was a good eighty pounds ago though: you wouldn’t even recognize me if you saw me now.
I barely recognize myself.
Isn't she fazed by any of this? Does she do this all the time? Make unsuspecting, seemingly straight girls squirm? Or am I making it all up? But making up what? The butterflies are real. The fact that I want to kiss her is real.
Would kissing a girl be different from kissing boys? If all I did was kiss her would that make me queer? Are you queer just for thinking it? Or does doing it make you queer? And what if I don't want to be queer? Do I get a say in this at all?
I'm starting to feel dizzy again—and scared. I need to sit down. I make my way slowly to the table and collapse into the moulded plastic chair. On the table is something I hadn't noticed before: a white envelope. With my name on it.
