Dating a lesbian would mean she was a lesbian and if she was a lesbian then…

She couldn’t wear her cute shoes anymore.

She would have to get her hair cut short and that meant it would curl into its natural Afro state.  Not her best look.

She would have to carry her lipstick in her pocket because lesbians don't carry purses.

They also don't wear lipstick, so nix on the last reason.

She would have to learn to cook so she could attend lesbian potlucks.

She would have to learn to like hummus.  And learn how to pronounce it.

She would have to get a cat.

Then, in an act of fairness, her brain came up with reasons to become a lesbian.  Here were the reasons in no particular order:

She would save a lot of money by not buying…

Pantyhose

Dresses

Make-up

Curlers

Razors  (She was uncertain whether lesbians shaved their legs and under their arms.  She hoped so.)

She could share a wardrobe with Jordan.

Amy knew she was being a little silly.  Not all lesbians were exactly alike.  She had seen a couple of episodes of The L Word.  She was pretty sure her career wouldn't suffer and her mother – her father was long gone – would eventually warm to the idea.  Still… it was a pretty big step.  Especially for someone as clumsy in bed as she was.  See prior banana peel story.  However, Jordan had woken up certain parts of her body that had been hibernating for the past ten years.  And like a bear crawling out of her cave after a long winter's nap, Amy was ravenous.

She wished somebody would write a guidebook.  Lesbianism for Dummies.  It would make things a whole lot easier.  Or maybe she should infiltrate the periphery of lesbians.  Study their culture, their mating habits, their sense of humor (assuming they had one), their sense of style (assuming they had that also).  She could acquaint and acclimate herself to lesbians after careful study.  She could be the Diane Fossey of Lesbians.

Early in the a.m. hours after zilch sleep, Amy decided to quit thinking with her brain.  She made a pledge with herself to leave her brain out of the equation and let her heart and body do all the thinking.

The next morning, her heart and body took a shower, bought a new, funky wardrobe, and picked up her new car.

First Kiss

Amy parked her new Smart car right in front of the Portland Art Museum, marveling over how it could fit anywhere.  It was bright yellow and cute to boot.  She loved how it complimented her new Tardis-blue Converse high-top sneakers.  She had also followed Isabel’s gypsy advice and purchased a dozen do-rags to wear while at work.  She felt they gave her flair.

Amy hurried up the museum steps, her mind blank, her heart pounding, her body tingly. She was so deliriously happy at the prospect of spending the afternoon with Jordan that she didn't even feel tired or sleepy; she felt exhilarated.

She was barely inside the lobby when Jordan appeared in front of her.  She was wearing a pair of baggy plaid shorts (she had shaved legs, thank God) and a plain white T-shirt.  She had on sandals and her toenails were painted red.  She was adorable.

"I hope I'm not late," Amy said for want of anything more original to say.

"C'mon," Jordan said, taking her by the hand and pulling her toward the escalator.

"What's the rush?"

"No rush.  I just want you to see what I found."

Jordan pulled her up the escalator, taking the steps two at a time, and down the wide hallway.  She pulled Amy into a room and stepped directly in front of her.  "Close your eyes.”

"We're in a museum," Amy said, "I thought the whole idea was to see things."

"You will, you will, trust me.  Close your eyes."

Amy did as told.  Jordan took her hands and slowly walked her forward.  Then Jordan’s hands were on Amy's shoulders and pressing gently down.  She whispered, "Sit."

Amy sat.  She felt Jordan sit beside her.

"Okay, now you can open your eyes.”

Amy opened her eyes.  She saw a large painting, covering most of the wall.  It was whirls upon swirls of bright, thick paint.  Bold strokes of every color imaginable.  A mass of writhing, curving, serpentine vividness.

"What do you see?" Jordan asked.

Amy looked at Jordan.  "Is this a trick question?"

Jordan shook her head.  "No, not at all.  I'm just wondering what you see."

Amy looked back at the painting.  She tilted her head to the right.  "I don't know.  It's interesting in a messy kind of way."

"Keep looking."

She looked at Jordan.  Jordan was clearly enraptured with the painting.

Amy looked at it again, determined to see something.  She tilted her head to the left.  She still couldn't discern any shapes, any type of anything.  She thought it looked like a colorful tornado.  Or maybe a bunch of different paints being flushed down a toilet.  Or a rainbow caught in a whirlpool.

She looked back at Jordan and studied her profile as she gazed at the painting.  Amy asked, "What do you see?"

Jordan took her time answering, "Ecstasy.  Surprise.  Gratitude.  Joy.  Elation. Happiness."

"All that?"

"And more.  So much more."

"Hunh," Amy said.  Clearly she wasn't up to snuff on modern art.  She looked back to the painting and tried to see what Jordan had described.  "But those are feelings."

"True."

"So, you're telling me that you're seeing emotions when you look at this painting?" Amy asked.

Jordan looked at Amy and smiled.  "That's what art does.  It shows you emotions."

“Oh.”

"Close your eyes again," Jordan said.

Amy closed her eyes, wondering where Jordan was going to take her this time.  But instead of taking her by the hand, Jordan kissed her.

Amy savored the feel of Jordan's lips on hers – the tingling, ecstatic, joyful sensation of a simple kiss.

"You can open your eyes now," Jordan said.

Amy did.  She followed Jordan's gaze back to the painting.  And this time, the colors swelled to life.  They danced and twirled across the canvas.  And she felt it.  The feeling was tiny at first, no more than a pinprick.  It centered in her chest then grew larger and larger.  It was warm.  Was she glowing?  She felt as if she were lit from the inside like one of those paper Chinese lanterns.

Amy didn’t know how to describe it.  She had no words for this feeling.  It was more.  More.  So much more than a kiss.

“Maybe I do see a little something,” Amy whispered with her eyes still glued to the painting.


Car, Duct Tape, Art

 

Jordan and Amy stood on the museum steps, each wanting to spend more time with the other, each unwilling to let the afternoon go.

Amy said, "I can't believe I've never visited here before."

"I come here all the time.  At least once a week.  I find it very inspiring.  Especially the children's art.  They have such freedom.” Jordan led the way down the steps and to the bicycle rack where she had locked up her bike.

Amy said, "So, when you're painting, which comes first, the color or the emotion behind it?"

"It's hard to explain.  Colors can make me feel, but feelings make me see colors.  It's a matter of translating the feeling into color and onto the canvas. You've heard of the expression 'seeing red?'"

"Sure, when somebody's angry," Amy said.

Suddenly, Jordan's face turned a bright crimson.  She clenched her fists and spun in a circle, punching the air, stomping her feet, and saying, "Damndamndamn!  I can't believe it!"

Amy laughed at Jordan's antics.  "I know what anger looks like," she said.  "You don't have to show me."

"I'm not showing you.  I am angry!" Jordan said.  "Look!" She pointed at her lime green Trek bicycle.  Both tires were flat.

"Oh my God," Amy gasped.  She moved in for a closer look.  "The tires have been slashed.  Who would've done such a thing?"

"I have a good idea." Jordan fumed and paced away from the bike.  Petronella had obviously followed her again.  When she saw her kissing Amy, she'd taken out her revenge on the bike.

 Jordan wiped her hand over her face, took a shaky breath and collected herself.  "Sorry I lost it like that."  Now, she was embarrassed.  She didn’t want Amy to think she needed anger management classes, but this clandestine vandalism was getting old.  Petronella had demolished her car, now her bike.  What was next?  She’d be reduced to roller blades?

"I'll give you a ride home," Amy said.

"Okay," Jordan said.  “Thank you.”

Jordan carried the bike, following Amy to her car.  Jordan scrunched her face up when she stared at the car.  “This is it?”

“Yes.”

“I like it,” Jordan said, leaning her bike up against the parking meter.  She walked around the car.  “It’s adorable.”

“It doesn’t have a trunk exactly.”

“Oh, that’s all right.  We’ll just duct tape the bike to the roof,” Jordan said.

“Really?”

“Sure.  I’ll line the part that touches the roof so it won’t get sticky.”

“But I don’t have any duct tape,” Amy said.

“I do,” Jordan said, pulling a roll of hot pink tape from a small leather bag that hung behind her bicycle seat.

“Wow,” Amy said.  “Maybe I should buy stock in duct tape.”

In a matter of minutes, Jordan had her bike secured to the top of the car.  Amy backed away from the car and studied it.  “It looks like art.  Like some kind of modern art sculpture.”

“It really does, doesn’t it?” Jordan said.

A Japanese man stopped by the car, whipped out a camera and took a picture.  Several other pedestrians stopped and gazed at the car.  “Amazing,” one man said.  “It’s a very interesting juxtaposition on the evolutionary drama between humans and their various modes of transportation.”