CUPID PULLS A PRANK

AND OTHER LESBIAN TALES

Q. Kelly

Thanks and acknowledgements

Melanie, my wife, deserves a medal for her support and patience.

Thank you to all my readers. I mean everyone: my beta readers, including Erin Saluta, my editorial readers, the people who have bought my books and the people who took the time to review them and/or email me. Thank you all. You are a big part of what keeps me going.

Ride the Rainbow Books

www.ridetherainbowbooks.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or actual events is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced without the permission of the author.

"Cupid Pulls a Prank and Other Lesbian Tales" Copyright © 2012 by Q. Kelly

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Q. Kelly on the Web:

http://qkellybooks.com

http://qkelly.wordpress.com

Email me at yllek_q@yahoo.com

Q. Kelly's Other Short-Story Collections

The Old Woman and Other Lesbian Stories

Miss Lucy Parker and Other Short Stories

Q. Kelly's Books

Switch

Waiting

Strange Bedfellows

Third

The Odd Couple

All in the Family

Table of Contents

Cupid Pulls a Prank

Cupid pulls a prank to end all pranks. For the first time in American history, both the Republicans and the Democrats have female candidates running for president. The Republican is Alice Cowell, and the Democrat is Gillian Marshall. Cupid strikes them during a live, nationwide televised debate, and Alice's and Gillian's reactions shock even Cupid.

Roxanne and Ms. Winslow

When Roxanne Rogers was eighteen years old, she did a bad thing. A chance encounter at three a.m. may be the opportunity Roxanne needs to make amends.

Toasted

Lottie finds out that some women do get toasters for converting straight gals. And not just any old toasters, but toasters of all shapes, sizes and colors. Heck, there's a blue race car toaster, a zebra toaster and a full-sized purple unicorn toaster. Can Lottie win the toaster of her dreams?

Lesbian Speed Dating

Ginny Yost is intrigued when she sees an ad for lesbian speed dating. What happens is a comedy of errors. Will Ginny find the woman she's meant to be with?

The Jumper

Kim tries to talk a woman out of jumping off a bridge.

Mrs. Claus's Klondyke Secret

Candace Claus, a.k.a. Mrs. Santa Claus, is on her yearly two-week cruise with Santa after the madness of the holidays. She is tired of living in the shadow of a man who has gone from jolly to cranky, plus she will no longer deny her true self. The time has come for Candace to fess up to Santa that she's a lesbian.

Westinhoffer, Andrew Brian, 16

Elizabeth is reading the obituaries when one catches her eye. She thought she said goodbye to Andrew Brian Westinhoffer when he was a baby, but she must force herself to say goodbye again.

So This Woman Meets This Chick Online And...

A joke from the early days of the Internet goes like this: a young woman sets up a hotel rendezvous with a man she met online. They meet, and turns out he's her dad. Yep. They cringe in embarrassment and promise to never tell anyone what happened. Guess what? This happens to Jillian too, only she is gay, so the person she encounters in the hotel room is her mom.

Three Wishes

Evangeline is tired of being lonely. One day, she comes across a bottle. She rubs it, and out pops a genie. Evangeline can make three wishes. Her first wish is for a woman to be her friend, possibly her lover. But, alas, the path to true love is rarely smooth.

The Robot

Ramona is grateful when her scientist husband brings home a prototype for a lifelike maid robot his company is developing. Turns out the robot, Mya, is also functional in the bedroom. Very functional.

Q. Kelly's Other Works

Cupid Pulls a Prank

Cupid woke up on the naughty side of the bed. Too long had passed since her last big prank. She itched for a screecher to end all screechers, although no way would she top the prank by Discordia, the goddess of discord. They had always been trying to outwit each other, and after a nap one lazy Roman afternoon, Cupid woke up permanently female. Discordia refused to say how she did it, and Cupid conceded victory. No matter. Being female was better, and Cupid did not care for the marble Vienna sausage on the Cupid statues.

She scanned the headlines on Yahoo:

THREE-HEADED CAMEL BORN

CONJOINED TWINS SEPARATED

OHIO GOV. INDICTED ON RACKEETEERING CHARGES

PRESIDENTIAL DEBATE TONIGHT

"That’s it!" Cupid exclaimed. Her trick would be huge. This was the first American presidential race featuring female candidates from the major parties. The Republican, Alice Cowell, was the current vice president. She was fifty years old but had the body of a thirty-year-old. She ate right and worked out religiously. She was married to a flashy lawyer dude and was the mother of two sons. Her opponent was fifty-five-year-old Gillian Marshall, a two-term United States senator from Virginia. Gillian was married to an accountant, and they had one child, a girl.

Cupid decided to strike Alice first. Perhaps during her answer to the opening debate question, as long as she was looking at Gillian. Cupid hated Republicans. Democrats too. Politicians! They were uptight, hypocritical jerks. They were funny in a bad way, and Alice Cowell was their queen. How would Alice, and the public, react to her falling in love with her opponent? In front of a live, national TV audience, no less?

Of course, Cupid had not altogether abandoned her senses. She would let the prank last an hour, maybe two. Then she’d de-witch Alice and Gillian.

First she needed the right pair of wings. Cupid pulled her closet doors open, and the wings burst before her in a dazzle of feathers, glue, glitter and straps. The wings chattered among themselves; obviously they agreed with her mischievous mood.

"Pick me!" a polka-dot pair shrilled.

A six-foot-tall pair of black wings shoved the polka-dot pair out of its way.

"Sorry, guys," Cupid said. "I need red. This is a big one." Strictly speaking, the wings were not necessary. She could fly without them, and her default state for humans was invisible. However, the wings made Cupid Cupid. Plus, she loved to accessorize.

She wandered a ways into her closet, ignoring the cries and the scrambles of various wings until she saw it: a vivid-red feathery pair, not too small, not too big. She strapped them on and grinned. Alice Cowell and Gillian Marshall were in for the night of their lives.

*****

Alice Cowell was nervous, and that troubled her. She was a brave, take-charge woman. She was also a master debater. She would squash puny Gillian Marshall like a bug. Gillian got under Alice's skin like no one else. That fake kindness. The big doe eyes. The holier-than-thou voice. Ugh. Alice hated being nervous and not in control of herself.

You will be fine. She forced a smile at her reflection in the dressing-room mirror, but her eyes remained somber and apprehensive. At least she was alone. She had shooed off her gibbering, hyperactive staffers and makeup/fashion consultants. Female political candidates had to put up with much more crap than the male candidates. Did the media obsess over the male candidates' hair and suits and shoes? Of course not. But a female candidate had to grin, balance sexy and demure, and jump through sky-high hoops. Must show the right amount of thigh, makeup must be exactly right, hair professionally styled.

The game was ridiculous, but Alice played it perfectly. Much of her learning came during her first campaign for vice president. She had been attacked for being too revealing, for showing teeny tiny cleavage. Ridiculous. But it was what it was, and Gillian Marshall had not learned yet. Alice would use that to her advantage. How had Gillian managed to win two terms to the U.S. Senate, much less the Democratic nomination for president? She dressed like a librarian. She did nothing with her hair. She was a frump, and that coupled with the doe eyes…Gillian Marshall had to be the least photogenic politician in the nation, although some reporters labeled her look "down home and earthy."

Alice shuddered. She forced another smile, and this time, it reached her eyes. She loved her smile. It was bright and white. Genuine. Plus she smiled often. Gillian did not. Gillian was too serious, too intense. But, yeah, okay, she was passionate. When she got going, when she got into one of her speeches, passion transformed her. Fire lit her eyes, her voice, her whole being, and she brought a crowd roaring to its feet like nobody's business.

Alice never had that effect on crowds. Eight years ago, people said she amounted to a grinning bobblehead doll. She proved America wrong during her first vice presidential debate. She blew her opponent out of the water, she did the same to subsequent opponents, and she'd do exactly, precisely, the same to Gillian Marshall tonight.

Alice checked her hair, which was pulled into a bun. She had refused to let it down for the debate. You’d look softer. More womanly. Blah blah blah. Silly staffers. Alice's hair needed to be out of the way. Otherwise, she would fiddle with it. That would send the wrong impression on national TV. She had to project the aura of the cool, decisive leader she was.

Alice reached into her pocket for the photo. A grinning face with blond hair and twinkling brown eyes greeted her. Gillian, her fist raised in victory right after she nabbed the Democratic nomination, Gillian displaying a rare moment of levity. Alice bit her lip. Good thing Gillian doesn't smile much. Her smile is charming. Damn that Gillian. Two weeks ago, as Gillian pulled neck and neck with her in the polls, Alice started carrying the other woman’s picture with her. Glancing at it for even a second was enough to remind Alice what she needed to do: crush Gillian Marshall and her huggy, touchy-feely policies. Gillian Marshall was not the woman to lead America. Every issue, minor or major, would be put before a committee and talked to death. "Not gonna happen," Alice muttered.

******

It was time. Alice strode onto the stage. Hot lights bore down on her, and she shook hands with her opponent. Alice smiled for the TV audience, taking care not to appear too cheerful. She needed to be solemn and dignified.

"Madam Vice President, how are you tonight?" Gillian asked.

Alice was tempted to grab a Lysol wipe from one of her staffers—handy little creatures, these wipes—and exterminate Gillian’s condescending smile. "I’m fine, Senator Marshall. Looking forward to a lively night. How are you?"

"Wonderful. Let’s have a good one."

"Indeed."

The debate moderator was Charles Highfill, a prominent TV news anchor. He quickly reviewed the format: "I will first ask Vice President Cowell a question. She has two minutes to respond. After her time is up, Senator Marshall has two minutes. The vice president then gets one minute to wrap up the issue, as does the senator."

Alice beamed. Gillian beamed.

"Let’s begin!" Charles said. "Madam Vice President, the South Dakota Supreme Court ruled this week that gay marriage is unconstitutional. Do you support this decision?"

Alice grinned. Easy one. Her answer would solidify her appeal to her key constituency. "The South Dakota Supreme Court has overstepped its reach." She glanced at Gillian. "Gay marriage is—"

Prick.

Alice felt something in her heart. Tiny, like a needle stabbing. It lasted a half second, if that. She shook her head. Move on. "Gay marriage is—"

Alice became aware of Gillian studying her. Gillian’s nauseating doe eyes were intent. But Alice was not so repelled anymore. Gillian’s eyes were a unique shade of brown, they really were. And she must have hired a beauty consultant because something, just a little something, was enhanced about her. That something was enough for Gillian to cross the line from not photogenic to entirely photogenic. If only Alice could pinpoint exactly what had turned Gillian's makeup and hair exquisite. Alice made a mental note to get the name and number of Gillian’s new consultant and lure him or her to Alice's camp. In her own way, Gillian was a beautiful woman. Always had been. She was brainy and sexy. Her lips were ripe for kissing. "Gay marriage is—" I wonder what it’d be like to marry Gillian.

Charles Highfill interjected a concerned note: "Are you all right, Madam Vice President?"

*****

Gillian Marshall was not sure what was going on with the vice president. Alice Cowell was all over the place. She kept saying: "Gay marriage is—" then she’d look at Gillian. Gillian was no fan of insufferable Republicans, but she admired Alice Cowell’s strength. Alice had made great strides for women after being elected vice president two straight terms. Gillian liked being around Alice. Alice was charismatic, confident. A smooth talker. She could sell anyone beachfront property in Montana. It was too bad they disagreed on most major issues because they would be formidable as a team. Gillian was looking forward to a feisty debate. So what was this?

She replayed the first time she met Alice, in the bathroom at a fundraiser for children who lived in poverty. Gillian came out of her stall, and this gorgeous dark-haired woman was washing her hands at the sink. The woman wore a pinstripe business suit, and Gillian had to work hard to keep her gaze off the woman's shapely buttocks and the curve of her hips. Gillian washed her hands, and her companion turned to her. Smiled.

"You're running for the senate in Virginia, right? Gillian Marshall?" The other woman's voice was husky. Deep. Sexy.

"Yes," Gillian said, surprised. She was running for the Senate, but she had not made a name for herself. She was performing badly in the polls and had little hope of landing even the Democratic nomination. "I, uh, I don't know who you are. I'm sorry."

The woman laughed, and her laugh was rich and throaty, reminding Gillian of multi-textured coffees and chocolates. "I'm Alice Cowell." She held her hand out. "I'm the governor of Kansas." She flashed a self-decrepitating smile. "Alas, I'm a Republican."

Kansas. Explained why Alice must not get much press coverage, because if Gillian had seen one picture of Alice, just one picture, she would never forget that face.

Gillian took Alice's hand. "Hello, Alice Cowell, governor of Kansas." Alice would go far. She had the flair, the charm, Gillian lacked. "How do you know about lowly me?"

Alice puckered her lips. "You're a woman running for office. I make it my business to know the women candidates. We need more."

"You're right. I wish I could…I don't know."

Alice's eyes took on a hardness. "Lowly you? Don't talk like that. I saw one of your speeches on TV. You have potential. Practice. Get a new speechwriter. Get someone to help with your body language. You have the right stuff. Just believe in yourself."

They had chatted about a minute more, then Alice said goodbye. Gillian watched her go, hating that she had disappointed Alice. The next day, Gillian poured newfound energy into her campaign. Alice Cowell was going places, and if Gillian wanted to stay in touch with her, Gillian would have to pull herself up to Alice's level.

So Gillian had won the Senate race, and Alice was later picked to run for vice president. Now, for some unfathomable reason, the vice president was on the verge of spiraling out of control during the debate.

Alice took a deep breath and rushed through her stock answer on gay marriage: "The will of the South Dakota voters is for marriage to be between a man and a woman."

Gillian opened her mouth to take her turn. Personally, she supported gay marriage. Politically, she dared not go that far. She would have to tread carefully, but her advisers had prepared her. "The South Dakota Supreme Court," Gillian began, shooting Alice a concerned look, "was—"

Prick.

Alice’s eyes were deeper, more stunning, than Gillian realized. Her throat went dry, and she understood that she could stare at Alice’s eyes for hours. Lose herself in them. Alice’s hair was up in a bun. You should wear your hair down. It’s nice and shiny and flowy. And I love your voice. I could listen to you all day.

Alice blushed red, as if she were reading Gillian’s mind. Then Alice did more than blush. She said: "I loved shaking your hand. Nice and smooth. What lotion do you use?"

"Commercial!" Charles Highfill shouted, and Gillian was woozy. The hot lights fried her alive, causing the stage to wobble under her, causing the walls to close in.

"Excuse me." Gillian fled the stage.

*****

Alice followed Gillian. How could she not? Somehow, in a nanosecond, Alice had fallen head over heels in love with Gillian Marshall. And Alice could not bring herself to be upset about it. Her stomach fluttered. Her pulse raced. She was alive. She had never felt this way. She had married Tom because he was the perfect accessory, like her looks. Alice had ambition, and Tom was the type who would grease palms and help her get places. He was the perfect backdrop for a politician.

Alice found Gillian on the couch in her dressing room. Whatever sent Gillian scurrying had upset her so much she'd left the door half open.

Alice knocked. "Gillie?"

"Don’t come in!"

Alice entered and locked the door behind her. Gillian was pale, and Alice resolved to make her smile. "I keep your picture with me at all times." Alice drew the picture out of her pocket to prove her point.

Gillian’s eyes widened. But no smile. "Oh," she said. Many meanings hid in that one utterance. Pleasure, surprise, admiration.

"I look at the picture at least once every few hours."

Now a wisp of a smile touched Gillian's lips. "Why?"

"You know why. And I can’t help myself. We’re meant to be together."

"We’ve been rivals for ten years," Gillian said. "Now this?"

"You can’t deny it."

Gillian swallowed. "I’m not. I just...I don't understand."

Alice sat with Gillian, inhaled her strong sweet perfume. "Let's not think. Let's enjoy this for what it is."

Loud, angry knocking. "Madam Vice President! Senator Marshall! We're due back on the air in sixty seconds."

Alice ignored the summons. She trailed her fingers down Gillian's cheek, and Gillian trembled. "Gillie," Alice whispered, "we must go back out and finish the debate. Then the world is ours. Let's spend tonight together."

Panic mixed with eagerness entered Gillian's gaze. "I...oh, Alice."

Gillian's despairing voice affected Alice deeply, intensely. She pulled Gillian up, wrapped her arms around the woman and kissed her. Gillian moaned. Her mouth was warm, alive, and she pressed into Alice.

*****

Cupid stopped the joke right then, plucking her magical golden arrows out of Alice and Gillian and sheathing them. The prank had ceased being funny. On stage, it had been hilarious, with Alice going in loops about gay marriage and with Gillian's eyes bugging out.

Rarely did Cupid's tricks penetrate this much, this quickly. Alice and Gillian evidently had true, subconscious feelings for each other, and Cupid would leave it up to Alice and Gillian to act on their feelings.

"Damn," Cupid muttered. "This bombed."

*****

Prick. Alice felt something leaving her heart. She blinked, and emptiness filled her.

Gillian seemed to be undergoing something similar. She wobbled in place, and Alice had to catch her. "What happened?" Gillian whimpered.

Alice felt numb. "I don’t know."

Furious knocking again. "Ten seconds! Get out here now!"

*****

On January 20, Alice played deathly ill so she would not have to attend the festivities. She watched on TV as Gillian Marie Peters Marshall was inaugurated president of the United States. Gillian wore a dark-blue dress, a light-blue coat and a simple strand of pearls. Red stained Gillian's cheeks, and the cold framed her breath. Alice had been lucky at her own inaugurations: sunny and temperatures in the fifties both times.

Gillian laid her hand on the Bible and in a clear, unwavering voice, said: "I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

On "States," her voice trembled as if she realized at last the immensity of her new position. She had won the race handily. Since the incident the night of the first debate, Alice had not been herself. She ran a half-hearted campaign. She forbade personal attacks against her opponent. She said nothing but the nicest, most gracious things about Gillian. Alice hated the emptiness inside her. All she wanted was for the fullness of love to return. All she wanted was to feel how she had for those precious few moments—in love, alive, her stomach crowded with butterflies. She wanted her arms around Gillian again, wanted to kiss Gillian again.

Alice hated that Gillian had channeled her emptiness differently. She attacked Alice, her family, her record, while Alice only became nicer to Gillian. Alice would give Gillian time and space. Eventually, they would be together. Or so Alice hoped.

The last time Alice had spoken to Gillian was when Alice called to concede the race. She had retreated to her office at campaign headquarters, which was somber. No party, after all. Alice locked the door, shut the lights off and walked to the windows overlooking twinkling downtown Kansas City.

"Congratulations, Madam President-elect," Alice said at two a.m. "You win. I wish you the best. You will be good for our country."

No answer for a moment. Then a stiff: "Thank you, Madam Vice President. It was a good race."

Gillian was not alone; cheers thundered in the background, cheers that contrasted with the distance in Gillian's voice.

"I've thought about what happened," Alice whispered. "I don't know what it was. Couldn't have been something we ate or drank. Something pricked my heart. This is ridiculous, but maybe Cupid's arrow?"

Gillian snorted. "Goodbye, Madam Vice President. Best of luck to you."

Click.

*****

Gillian was three months into her term when she saw the headline in The Washington Post: FORMER VP COWELL FILES FOR DIVORCE.

"I have the greatest respect for Tom," read Alice’s statement to the media. "He is a wonderful man and a tremendous father. Unfortunately, our interests and philosophies have diverged. We ask for your privacy in this very difficult time."

Gillian cancelled her morning meetings and sat in stunned shock in the Oval Office. She had tried so hard to forget that one night many months ago. The awful debate. The prick of her heart. Alice’s genuine, heartfelt words. The kiss of a lifetime. Then the rush of emptiness. The void yawned, and Gillian knew what would fill it. But did she dare?

*****

Two months later, Gillian’s aides brought another headline about Alice to her attention: COWELL TAKES PRO-GAY MARRIAGE STANCE

In part, Alice's statement read: "I have come to understand that to deny marriage to people simply because they are of the same sex is wrong and immoral. I will work tirelessly to address this injustice." And then the last sentence in the statement: "I hope President Marshall will join me in this endeavor. I offer my hand to her in a gesture of good will."

Gillian swallowed. Crap. The media would have a field day. She ran her hands through her hair, hating who she had become. She had used to be an idealist. Marching to the beat of her own drummer. She privately supported gay marriage. Why did she have to be so adamant in public about not supporting it?

Gillian replayed the few moments when love filled her heart, and somehow, the love whooshed back, more intense, more fierce. And it stayed. It had never left, really.

Gillian spent the next few hours in meetings and giving speeches to various groups. At last, she had herself to herself. She sat in the Oval Office chair until the sun set, sending purple and pink ribbons across the Washington sky. I've been in love with Alice since we met. I'm president today because I wanted to get to know her. And what's happened? I'm refusing to be with her. No more. Gillian's husband would not be a problem. Her marriage had been dead for longer than she cared to remember.

Maybe she would die an agonizing political death, but three and a half years was plenty of time to make her mark as president. Maybe she would win re-election. Stranger things had happened. Above all, Gillian would be happy. There was no going back.

She would live and truly get to know Alice.

*****

Several months later, Cupid woke up again on the mischievous side of the bed. "Who today?" she asked.

The first few headlines online were boring:

QUEEN ELIZABETH II HOSTS STATE DINNER

OIL SPILL IN ATLANTIC THREATENS MILLIONS OF FISH

DOW PLUNGES 600 POINTS

Cupid blinked at the fourth headline. Definitely not boring: PRESIDENT MARSHALL, FORMER VP COWELL CONFIRM SPECULATION, COME OUT AS A COUPLE

Cupid clicked on the headline. The first two paragraphs of the article breathlessly read:

Yes, it's true! President Marshall and former Vice President Cowell are very much in love and together. During a joint statement to reporters at the White House yesterday, Marshall took pains to emphasize she, and she alone, was president. "I keep my personal life and my work life separate," she said. "Alice understands and respects that."

When asked how they got together, both Marshall and Cowell shrugged and smiled awkwardly. "It began the night of our first debate," Cowell said. "We met each other's eyes, and something pricked our hearts. We realized we were in love with each other." She grinned. "This sounds silly, but maybe Cupid struck us. Who knows?"

THE END

Roxanne and Ms. Winslow

Teenagers do bad things. Very, very bad things. Roxanne Rogers knew this because, like all adults, she used to be a teenager. She was thirty and had not seen Ms. Winslow for twelve years when her former teacher came back into her life.

Roxanne was at a Denny's, and the time was three a.m., a blurred line between Saturday and Sunday. She shared an apartment side wall with a vocal couple, a male and a female: Moan moan thump thump groan thump moan shreeeeeee ohhhh Justin ohhhh my God! Don't stop! Ow! Ow! Gentler! No! Harder! Gentler! Ohhhhh yessss that's itttttt ohhhhh JUSTIN THAT HURTS! SLOW DOWN!

Roxanne wrote the couple, who had moved in yesterday, an anonymous note: Hey guys, glad you're enjoying sex, but please keep it down. She slid the note under their door. She had no hope of getting back to sleep and decided to grab a bite at the nearby Denny's. She ordered, enjoyed her food and read a book. She was about ready to leave when she glanced up and saw Ms. Winslow staring at her from across the room.

Roxanne's heart and stomach skittered. Dread crowded in on her. Many times, Roxanne had wondered what Ms. Winslow looked like these days. Roxanne's guilt had sketched a caricature of a woman aged beyond her years. If Roxanne's imaginings had been accurate, she would see lines on Ms. Winslow's face even from across the room. Ms. Winslow's posture would be just...old. Defeated. Haggard. Desperate. Ms. Winslow had been twenty-five years old to Roxanne's eighteen, and in Roxanne's visualizations, Ms. Winslow looked sixty compared with Roxanne's thirty.

Ms. Winslow was none of the above. She had not changed one iota. If anything, she looked younger than she had twelve years ago. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she was slim, trim and muscular. No lines etched her face.

Ms. Winslow turned abruptly and sat in a booth.

Get up. Say you're sorry. This is perfect. For a long time, Roxanne was not sure how long, but long, probably the entire twelve years, she had yearned to apologize. Two years ago, she looked up Ms. Winslow's address. Turned out Ms. Winslow had leapfrogged across the country to San Diego. Roxanne bought a plane ticket and flew to California. However, bottom line: Roxanne could not bring herself to go to Ms. Winslow's front door.

Roxanne wobbled to her feet. She gathered her book and purse. She weaved her way around tables until she was standing in front of Ms. Winslow. "Ms. Winslow, hello." Roxanne's voice was unanchored, and she forced herself to speak more firmly: "I'm Roxanne Rogers."

"I know who you are." Stiff, unflinching gaze.

Remorse pulled at Roxanne's innards. "I'm glad you're here. I've been meaning to apologize."

"Please leave me alone."

"But, Ms. Winslow…"

"You think there's a but? Really?"

Roxanne slid in across from Ms. Winslow. "I made an impulsive decision. I was angry, and you were an easy target."

"Please leave."

"How are you doing? I couldn't find much information on you online. Are you still teaching? I saw you live in San Diego. Are you visiting family here?"

Another stiff, unflinching stare. A waitress came up with a drink for Ms. Winslow. "Ready to order your food?" the waitress asked.

"Not yet," Ms. Winslow said, and the waitress left.

"Let me pay for your meal," Roxanne offered.

"What do you do?" Ms. Winslow asked in a harsh, raw voice.

"I, uh, actually, I'm a teacher."

Ms. Winslow raised an eyebrow, just as she used to when a student gave her a smart-aleck answer. "Teacher?"

Roxanne forced herself to hold Ms. Winslow's gaze. "Teacher, yes. High school English, like you."

Ms. Winslow threw her head back and laughed. "Why in the world would you do that, Roxanne Rogers? Especially since you know how a student can devastate a teacher's life?"

Roxanne lowered her gaze. "You inspired me to become a teacher."

"Do you like it?" Ms. Winslow's voice had softened just a little.

Roxanne looked back up. "I like it. I like it very much. I admired you, Ms. Winslow. I did, really. You were always so brave, efficient, forceful, consistent. I try to be the teacher you are. I fail, but I try."

Ms. Winslow nodded slowly. She opened her menu and surveyed the choices. "What did you get?"

"The Philly sandwich."

"That does look good." Ms. Winslow read through the rest of the menu and folded it. The waitress returned, and Ms. Winslow ordered the Prime Rib Philly Melt.

After the waitress left, Ms. Winslow said: "I haven't been to a Denny's in years."

"Me either. I live right down the road near a couple who, ah, are loud in bed."

Ms. Winslow sighed, and at long last, lines appeared on her face. A glimmer of a sympathetic smile.

"Why are you here?" Roxanne ventured.

"Denny's or in town?"

"Both."

More lines on Ms. Winslow's face. "My sister had a baby, so I took a few days off work. The baby cries a lot. Too much. I had to get out of the house."

"Your sister Virginia?"

"The other one. Jamie. I'm impressed you remember their names."

"I remember a lot about you."

Ms. Winslow moistened her lips. "I'm sure you do."

"Please know I really have been meaning to apologize. I found your address online two years ago. I flew out to San Diego, but that was all I could do. The shame, it..." Roxanne swallowed hard. "It's like a cancer. Sometimes I hope one of my students does to me what I did to you."

"I hope not. It's an awful thing to have happen to anyone."

"I wrote a letter to the principal," Roxanne said. "I don't know if he told you. And I—"

"He told me, yes."

"Too late, I suppose."

Laughter from Ms. Winslow. "Five years after? Yes, that's too late."

Roxanne had missed Ms. Winslow's laughs; she had four. Laugh number one was a teacherly chuckle at a lame student joke or comment. Laugh number two was an uncomfortable "oh dear" laugh when someone did something embarrassing, like the time the principal entered the classroom with his fly open. Laugh number three was a knowing, private laugh that Roxanne got to experience a lot when she and Ms. Winslow were alone. Laugh number four was Ms. Winslow's you're-fucking-kidding-me giant laugh.

Like just now.

Roxanne got up. "I should go. I'm sorry. So sorry."

"Roxanne." A bit of pleading shone through Ms. Winslow's voice. "Sit back down."

Roxanne did, and Ms. Winslow busied her hands in her lap. "I messed up too, you know," Ms. Winslow said.

"You did?"

Ms. Winslow's eyes had a pensive shimmer. "Of course I did. You said I was, what was it, brave, consistent, efficient."

"You were."

"Perhaps. But I never played favorites. Until you."

Goosebumps popped up on Roxanne's arms. Ms. Winslow was looking at her like she used to. Leaning into her like she used to, her gaze intense. "You didn't do anything wrong," Roxanne said. "You did nothing inappropriate."

"Yes, I did," Ms. Winslow snapped. "There's a reason people believed you. We shouldn't have spent so much time together."

Roxanne looked away and let memories wash over her. Her first day of senior year, walking into Ms. Winslow's classroom, being nervous about her new teacher because the other kids said she was a tough, no-nonsense grader, and well, there was the matter of Ms. Winslow being an out dyke. The only out homosexual teacher at the school and being a bit of a circus sideshow because of it. Falling in love quickly with Ms. Winslow because she was the only lesbian Roxanne knew, because of her passion for English, her enthusiasm, and heck, yeah, her stunning good looks. Roxanne touching herself at night in bed and thinking of Ms. Winslow. Taking on extra credit work, devising projects so she could spend time with Ms. Winslow. All the while, Ms. Winslow remaining no-nonsense and stern, evidencing no reaction to Roxanne's little shoulder touches and looks.

Ms. Winslow finally letting Roxanne in bit by bit, granting her more private laughs.

Roxanne telling Ms. Winslow she was gay too and in love with Ms. Winslow. Ms. Winslow's startled, and at the same time, not startled, reaction, and her response: "Oh, Roxanne. Don't do this. We can't be together." Roxanne arguing why not, she was eighteen years old and Ms. Winslow twenty-five; for goodness' sakes, Roxanne's parents had more than twice that age difference.

Roxanne crying herself to sleep that night, angry beyond words in the morning, out for revenge, Roxanne going to the principal and accusing Ms. Winslow of touching her, of trying to solicit her.

Ruining Ms. Winslow's life.

"I created the conditions for it," Ms. Winslow murmured. "I never should have let us be alone as often as we were and…ahh."

The principal had offered Ms. Winslow a way out. The evidence in the case was mixed, nothing more than she said-she said. He let Ms. Winslow leave the school district instead of being fired. The police wouldn't be called because Roxanne was a legal adult when the so-called sexual misconduct happened.

"How are your parents?" Ms. Winslow asked.

"After I wrote the letter to the principal, I told them the truth, too. They were furious."

Ms. Winslow knotted her hands together on top of the table. "You and I had such fun times. Remember the booth we did for The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?"

"My favorite was helping you with the Shakespeare play."

"You understand why I couldn't do it," Ms. Winslow said in a voice that seemed to come from a long way off.

It. It. It. Roxanne's mind burned with the word and with the two times twelve years ago that she'd caught Ms. Winslow looking at her. "I know," Roxanne said. "I should've never told you I was in love with you."

"What happened wasn't your fault," Ms. Winslow said. "It was mine. Okay? So, you're absolved. Don't feel guilty. Please."

The waitress brought Ms. Winslow's food. Roxanne studied the gracefulness of Ms. Winslow's movements, her elegant chewing. "Remember we used to have lunch together sometimes," Roxanne said.

"Mmm. Of course I remember. You had peanut butter and jelly every day. This Philly sandwich is good. Thanks for the recommendation."

"You're welcome."

Ms. Winslow finished her meal, and Roxanne asked: "Are you happy?"

"I'm content."

"Are you dating anyone?"

"No." Ms. Winslow sipped from her drink. "How about you?"

"No."

Ms. Winslow waved for the waitress, who took away Ms. Winslow's plate and left the check.

Ms. Winslow let her gaze roam Roxanne's face. "Well. Guess I should be going. It was good seeing you again, Roxanne."

Roxanne's breath was cut off. Seeing Ms. Winslow had awakened dormant feelings, and Roxanne was in love with her again. She could not let Ms. Winslow escape. Not when Ms. Winslow's gaze revealed all kinds of things.

Ms. Winslow reached for the check.

"Hey, no. I'm paying, remember?"

"Okay." Ms. Winslow slid the check over and let her hand brush Roxanne's. Barely. But a brush nonetheless. "Thank you for paying."

"Can I walk you out?"

Ms. Winslow smiled. "I would like that."

Five minutes later, they were next to Ms. Winslow's car, and then Roxanne was moving her mouth over Ms. Winslow's, and her lips were soft, so soft, impossibly soft. Better than Roxanne dreamed.

And Ms. Winslow was returning the kiss, making Roxanne's knees, her heart, the area between her legs, quiver. "Can we talk some more?" Roxanne asked. "I'm a minute's drive away."

"Come here," Ms. Winslow said, and kissed Roxanne again. "Yes. Yes, we can talk some more."

THE END

Toasted

The day after I got the new house squared away, everything put up, everything spic and span, my new next-door neighbor, Amanda, invited me over. I was glad; I was shy and had difficulty meeting people. I'd also taken a week off work for the move, but it had gone much smoother than I expected.

Amanda had fifty toasters scattered about her kitchen and living room. Toasters of all colors, shapes and sizes. The one she was particularly besotted with that day looked like a zebra in miniature. It was soft and furry, too. "Wow," I said. "That’s not real zebra fur, is it?"

"Of course not."

"How’d you get it?"

"The old-fashioned way."

"I don't understand."

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Oh, Lottie. Didn’t you read the lesbian handbook? For every straight girl I convert, I send in a proof ticket. Bingo, a toaster in the mail three weeks later."

I snorted. "You're teasing. That’s a silly story that’s been going around for years."

"No, I'm not."

"The joke is that the prize is a toaster oven, anyway. Not a regular little toaster."

Amanda sighed an "oh dear" sigh. "The lesbian handbook is updated every year. Toaster ovens haven't been given out in at least a decade."

I let the matter drop. It was obviously a joke. A joke that boring, married-to-the-same-woman-for-ten-years me could not fully appreciate. At least I could say one thing: life in this new neighborhood should be interesting. The neighborhood teemed with lesbians, and I was eager for this sense of community after living among straights.

******

A few days later, I received a package in error. It was addressed to Mattie Nelson, another neighbor. I took it over.

"Oh! That must be the new toaster. Thanks so much." Mattie cut the box open and drew out a blue race car toaster. It wasn't as cool as the zebra, but still.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked.

Mattie winked. "This one's for converting the pastor's wife. No boring toasters for me. She's a tiger in bed, too. Rowr! Hey, do you know about the contest Acme runs?"

"No."

"It's an annual contest." Mattie dug through her kitchen drawers. "Ah. Here." She handed me a piece of paper. "If you convert ten women in two days, you can have your own toaster customized. Oh gosh. I didn't realize the deadline was in three days."

"Customized?" I studied the paper. On it was a picture of the toaster last year’s winner had commissioned. A purple full-size unicorn. I drooled inwardly. What would I design if I had such an opportunity?

"Too bad you and Megan don’t have an open marriage," Mattie said. "Then you could enter." She cocked her eyebrow. "Or maybe you do have an open marriage?"

"It's a silly contest."

"Is it?"

"Just because you had sex with a woman doesn't mean you've converted her to lesbianism."

Mattie snatched the paper from me. "Who cares how Acme defines lesbianism? All it wants is a proof ticket with the signature of the woman you had sex with. What do you expect Acme to do, have each woman in for an hour-long screening and psychological evaluation?"

I smiled grimly. "Right."

*****

When I got home, I went to the sole toaster Megan and I owned. It was silver. Boxy. Bulky. Our first wedding gift. I hated it. I wanted my bread to pop out of a more dazzling creature. "I want a zebra," I muttered. "Or a unicorn." Snakes were my favorite animals. I could have a slimy, slithery boa constrictor made! But Megan would hate that. She loathed snakes. Everything was about Megan. What she wanted, she got. I was expected to put her needs first. I usually didn’t mind, but these toasters! I could not forget about them. What if I had a toaster that also doubled as a water fountain? Awesome.

I made dinner: salad and chicken. I tried to relax on the couch as I waited for Megan to get home from her lawyer job. She had not taken any time off work for the move. Oh no. Work absolutely could not spare her. She was essential. Essential! Her clients needed her when they needed her, not when it was convenient for her.

Or so she said.

I daydreamed about winning a toaster. I could find ten women willing to say I had converted them. I had a few straight female friends. Co-workers. In-laws. It was a piece of paper, right? There didn’t have to be actual sex involved. No kissing. "Do me a favor," I would ask. "Sign here on this dotted line."

I got online and pulled Google up. I typed "Acme lesbian toaster redeem" into the search engine. I navigated to the first site that came up.

FOR YOUR FIRST CONVERSION, YOU GET A SMILEY FACE TOASTER. PICK FROM TEN COLORS. A beaming yellow face accompanied the message. The toaster slots were positioned so that the toast looked like a stuck-out tongue. A smiley face toaster! I wanted that.

A door slammed. "I’m home!" Megan called.

"Be right there!" I shut down the computer and went to kiss my wife hello.

She was having none of it. "Don’t touch me."

I tried not to take it personally. She had been going through a hard time at work lately. The essential! essential! essential! thing again. We hadn’t had sex in nearly a year. "I made chicken and salad," I said. "Would you like wine?"

Megan sighed. She put more distance between us and crossed her arms, her posture stiff. "Okay, here it is. I’m leaving you. I’ve fallen in love with someone else."

I refused to let the words sink in. "Tea? Water? What’s wrong with wine?"

"I’m leaving you for Scott. We’re pregnant."

"Lemonade? Ginger ale?" My hands trembled. "You said you and Scott were friends. You promised."

"I lied."

"Chocolate milk? Megan, we just moved! You can't leave me."

"Think about it, Lottie. At the old place, you would've been living next door to me and Scott. That's unrealistic." Megan picked up our boxy silver toaster.

"Where are you going with that?"

"Taking it with me, of course."

My visions of unicorn toasters and zebra toasters and snake toasters vanished. They didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had a toaster. And now Megan was trying to take it from me. "You can’t do that!"

"I have to. If a lesbian loses her woman to a man, she loses a toaster. Geez, didn’t you ever read the lesbian handbook?"

*****

I cried all that night. I cursed and screamed. Megan, that bitch. I tossed and turned. I never got to sleep, and when eight a.m. arrived, I got out of bed. I went to K-Mart. I had forgotten my credit card and had only twenty dollars in cash. The cheapest toaster I saw was fifteen dollars. I bought it. When I got home, I put a cowboy hat on top of the toaster. The next day, I dressed it up as a nun, complete with habit. The next day, it was a dachshund.

"Screw the lesbian handbook," I said. I was tired of following everyone’s rules. I had subjected myself to Megan for years, and look where that got me. I was going to make my own rules. I would customize my own toaster every day. I would be happy.

THE END

Lesbian Speed Dating

February 14, 2012

Speed Dating Corp.

555 Acme Way

Acme Falls, New York

Ginny Yost

198 Main Street

Acme Falls, New York

To the Owners of Speed Dating Corp.:

My name is Ginny Yost. I am writing to inform you of a success story from last year (Valentine's Day 2011) that you may wish to use in your advertisements. My story does not seem successful at first, so hang on and be patient.

You may remember that you heavily advertised your Valentine's Day 2011 speed dating sessions, much like you advertised this year's sessions. Ads were blanketed on buses, online, in the newspapers. There was even one billboard ad. Well, one that I saw. There may have been more. At the bottom of each ad in tiny print, but not terribly tiny print, read two lines:

*** We support gays and lesbians wholeheartedly. We will also have a session at 7 p.m. for gay men and another at 8 p.m. for lesbians. **

Color me intrigued. I was thirty-eight years old and had been an out lesbian since age twenty. I never had much trouble meeting women. Good, healthy relationships eluded me. I went looking for love in all the wrong places: bars, women who were attached, etc. This speed dating shtick seemed like a fine thing to try, indeed. Certainly could not hurt. I registered online and paid the $35 fee. I especially liked that you guaranteed a minimum of ten women or the event would be cancelled and the money refunded.

Come Valentine's Day, I spent quite a bit of time prepping for my first speed dating experience. I read the FAQs section on your website, including this question and answer:

What should I wear?

We urge you to be yourself, but that doesn't mean your best move is to show up in pajamas. Dress neatly and casually, perhaps business casual. Jeans are acceptable, but avoid jeans with holes and tears.

Okay, so good, so far. I had a crisp pair of blue jeans and a smart, natty green polo shirt that brought out my eyes. Introduce my brown loafers and my studious glasses into the picture, and at least nine women would be goners for me that night. Right?

Well, not quite.

I showed up five minutes early, as your website suggested. A Mr. Penfield immediately ushered me into a vestibule and gave me a HELLO, MY NAME IS ______ name tag. I wrote "Ginny" in black letters. I was quite impressed. Vestibules, enclosed spaces, dividers? Nice! This was a high-class organization. The dividers would help ensure I truly was surprised with each new person. It was also a weight off my shoulders. I had been wondering how I would deal with the awkwardness of milling about before speed dating began. What do you say to people you're about to speed date with, right? Yeah, I was glad this would not be a problem.

At eight p.m. sharp, Mr. Penfield explained the rules: each participant would get five minutes each with the other participants. Eleven women had registered, and unfortunately, it seemed as if only six had shown up. However, the speed dating would go on. If, after a five-minute session, I liked the woman I had just met, I would check next to her name. If I didn't like her and wasn't interested in talking to her further, I made no mark. Participants who checked each other would be given each other's contact information. Simple enough. Clear enough.

I fiddled with the collar on my polo shirt and awaited woman number one. Only this "woman" was a man. Before you object and say: "Well, some lesbians look exactly like men," let me interrupt you. NOT exactly like men, no. There have been a few times where I couldn't figure out at first if a person was male or female, but this person WAS A MAN! No hemming and hawing about it. He was clearly a man. Even had a five o' clock shadow and a prominent Adam's apple. His name tag read "Rayne." Bet his real name was Ray.

I tried to be polite at first, and all the while, my mind was going batsh*t insane: What in the hell? Does this man actually have the balls to pass as a woman in order to lure lesbians home? What in the effing hell? Can't Mr. Penfield tell?

After about three minutes, I got up and reported "Rayne" to Mr. Penfield. Mr. Penfield frowned, scratched his nose and pulled "Rayne" aside.

Then Mr. Penfield booted "Rayne," thank goodness.

I remember thinking: "Woman number two better be good!"

Alas, she was not, but at least she was a woman. She leaned into me and whispered coquettishly that she was married to a man but was bi-curious. Her husband wanted a threesome and was letting her pick out the woman.

Well, hell. (Pardon my French, again.) I felt like I had stumbled into a room that should've been labeled WHAT LESBIANS HATE instead of LESBIAN SPEED DATING. First, a man. Second, a married couple looking for some quick action on the side. I left my chair and went to the bathroom until that five minutes was up.

Woman number three, oh dear. Nothing against her, but she was eight months pregnant. Just not what I was looking for.

Woman number four could not stop crying. She had awful, awful luck in love. She had no self confidence. No one would give her a chance! Waah waah waah. Needless to say, I still had no check marks on my paper.

Woman number five was my gym teacher from high school. No thanks. She'll always be Ms. Brunhilder to me: "Yost! Pick it up! Ten more pushups! Are your arms made of spaghetti? What's your PROBLEM?" I imagined Ms. Brunhilder and me in bed, and her yelling at me: "Yost! What's the matter? Pussy got your tongue? Move your damn tongue! I ain't feeling nothing!"

I got out of the place as quickly as possible.

The next morning, I woke up disheartened. Two of these people, the man and the bi-curious woman, shouldn't have been there. Your website clearly states: "For people looking for a long-lasting, meaningful relationship." Which moron let a man in lesbian speed dating?

I went on several Internet message boards and posted about my experiences. I warned lesbians to stay the hell away from your group. A few days later, I got an email from Vanessa, a woman who lived in Acme Falls, too. Apparently, the man, "Rayne," had crashed HER speed dating session the previous Thanksgiving. Vanessa and I chatted online, had a few laughs, and talked on the phone into the wee hours of the night. We met in person the next weekend, and, well, you don't need to know all the details.

One year later, we're engaged to be married and couldn't be happier. Thank you, Speed Dating Corp. Thank you very much!

Sincerely,

Ginny Yost

THE END

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The Jumper

That woman was not really going to jump, was she? But, yes, she was. Of course she was. Why else would the woman's side profile be pale and contorted with terror? Why else would she be leaning just so on the ledge of the rickety old bridge? The only way to get to the ledge was to dip under the bridge railing.

Yes, she was about to jump. Right now, right in front of Kim. Of all the rotten bad luck!

The woman was going to jump.

"Wait!" Kim called.

The woman's neck snapped back, and she creaked her head toward Kim.

"Wait!" Kim called again. Her heart was popcorn exploding in a microwave. She had no idea what she was doing. She had never been good with people. She had never been good with herself, either. But she could not leave this woman to her death.

Kim forced her feet forward. She fought to keep panic off her expression. She focused her gaze on the woman, mentally commanding her not to jump. Kim reached the bridge railing and wondered if she should smile. She thought she should. But then Kim thought no. Wouldn't a smile be absurd? What then, though? A frown? A grimace?

Hair first. Kim always carried a scrunchie because her hair had a mind of its own. Including now; her hair strands were like ants, scurrying, eating, growing, getting in the way. Kim got the scrunchie and pulled her hair up. Muddy hair, Kim had. Shoulder-length, boring, dull, common, muddy brown hair. Equally unlikeable was her pear-shaped body that carried several extra rolls of fat.

Kim was a troll next to the would-be jumper. Unfair that some people were blessed with good looks, while people such as Kim were cursed from the beginning. The other woman had a boyish air due to her pixie haircut and small chest, but there was no denying her beauty. Her hair was red, beautiful and brilliant. The midday sun was about to set it on fire. She had blue eyes, deep, pained blue eyes, with a hint of green. She did not look a day past twenty-five. Kim's heart clenched at the sheer foolishness of it all—this young woman was about to jump, and for what?

"You scared me," the would-be jumper said accusingly.

"Sorry." Kim blew a breath out, and the late-fall air frosted her exhalation. She stuck her hand out. "I'm Kim."

The woman considered a moment before taking Kim's hand. "Molly O' Sullivan."

"Nice to meet you."

"Sure. Whatever."

"So." Kim tilted her head toward the river that swirled manically far below the bridge. "What ya doing?" Why did you tell me your last name when I didn't tell you mine? Did you want me to be precise if I have to explain who jumped?

Molly lowered her eyes guiltily. “I wasn’t doing anything."

Kim pursed her lips. “Hmm.”

"I was just thinking."

Kim grinned. “I come here to think too.” Kim loved this shady, secluded spot on the Blue Ridge Parkway. She usually sat under a tree across from the bridge.

“I’ve had a bad day,” Molly said.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Molly hesitated, but then a few words poked forward: "Everything went wrong."

"Let me help you under the railing. Then we can talk, all right?" Kim hoped she sounded firm and convincing and in charge. Because she felt anything but.

"I don’t know."

Kim fumbled her hands into her coat pockets. She curled her fingers around the familiar box of cigarettes and proffered the box to Molly. "Smoke?"

"Oh, no. I don’t smoke."

"Me either. I quit, let’s see...two years ago. Yep."

Molly furrowed her brows. "Then why do you have cigarettes?”

"I’ve had a bad day too. Been craving my cigarettes for weeks. Ya know? Just one puff will feel so good. But I haven’t given in. And I’m trying not to. I guess this doesn’t make sense, but having the cigs around makes them easier to resist."

A small smile played on the corners of Molly's lips. "I know what you mean. I was the same way about Twix."

"Twix?"

Molly twisted her lips back into a grin, exposing two rows of perfect, white teeth. Her eyes were suddenly more green than blue. Jealousy flooded Kim’s body. This woman was too flawless. She probably made fun of the fat kids in high school. Maybe Kim should have let Molly O' Sullivan jump.

"When I was a kid," Molly said, "I used to be fat. Mostly ‘cause of Twix bars. I couldn’t stop eating them. I’d hide them everywhere. Other candy bars, I could stay away from. Potato chips, no problem. Pizza, no big deal. But Twix..." Molly shook her head. "In middle school, I knew I had to lose weight. So I went off Twix cold turkey. I still have a bar at home."

"Wow." Kim felt bad about her earlier thoughts. Molly was one of the fat kids. Or used to be, anyway. She knew what it was like, and Kim figured she would share more about herself. "My ex is the one who made me quit smoking. She said I stank up the apartment, and she couldn't bear to kiss me. After I quit is when I packed on the pounds."

"She? You're gay?"

"Mmm," Kim said.

"Me too." Molly stared numbly into the distance. "When I woke up this morning, I thought today would be one of the best days of my life. I thought my girlfriend was going to ask me to marry her. But instead she told me we aren't working out."

"Don't jump over a woman. Not worth it."

Molly scoffed. "What do you care? You don’t know me. A lot other stuff is going on, too."

"I don’t know you, you’re right. But remember I’ve had a bad day as well. If you jumped, that’d make my day really, really lousy."

"I never said I was going to jump. I was thinking about it."

"Gotcha." Kim ventured another peek at the river. She was silent a moment, although she sensed time was running out. Finally, she licked her lips. "Come on. Duck under the railing." She flashed a reassuring grin.

Indecision crinkled Molly's face.

"Come on." Kim smiled so big her cheeks hurt.

"What will I do?" Molly whined.

"You’ll get another girlfriend. You’ll move on and put your life back together. Come on. Come on."

Molly mumbled an: "I guess." She bent and ducked under the railing. Then she was on Kim’s side.

"Hey, welcome back," Kim said.

Molly glanced at her watch. "I need to get going."

Kim’s heart flopped, but she managed a brave nod. She would be okay. She would always be okay. "I'll walk you to your car," Kim offered.

They headed back to the parking lot. Orange and red leaves crinkled under their footfalls. Kim wanted to say something, anything. She wanted to tell Molly that she did not need to be embarrassed, that Kim understood. That she would be there for Molly if she wanted to talk whenever. Kim wondered if she should give Molly her phone number. Would that be too weird? Kim wondered why she cared so much.

Much too soon, they arrived at the lot. Kim lined up behind a cherry-sized rock and sent it sailing in a perfect arc. Two cars were in the lot: Kim's shabby blue Datsun and a gleaming black Cavalier that must be Molly's.

"You're not going back to the bridge, are you?" Kim asked.

Molly scowled. "Do you think that?"

Kim shrugged. "Maybe."

"I wouldn't have jumped," Molly whispered. "I really don't think...no. I wouldn't have jumped."

"Okay. Good."

Molly flashed Kim a shy, little smile. "Thank you for, well, you know..."

Kim sighed and looked away. She hated to sound desperate, but she really was feeling a connection to Molly. "Let me treat you to lunch," Kim offered.

Molly glanced at her black Cavalier. "Thanks, but uh, I better, well, you know. I have a lot to do." She gave a self-conscious chuckle and slid into her car. She managed a little wave, and then she was gone.

Kim watched the black car disappear. She needed a T-shirt: I saved Molly O' Sullivan's life, and all I got was a half-assed wave and this T-shirt. Why couldn't Molly have taken a few minutes for lunch? Kim slammed her hand against her car. She hated the thing. It was always breaking down. It had never been good to her.

Kim let her muddy hair loose and pocketed her scrunchie. She should have told Molly the entire truth: Kim had been there to jump, too. Five minutes later, Kim was on the bridge and on the narrow ledge where Molly stood only moments before.

The river with its razor-sharp teeth waited below Kim. Above hung the blue-yellow sky. Kim’s stomach was a mess of knots. She grasped the railing and forced a foot forward. She let it dangle over the void. Her ears strained for any sound, anything. Kim thought she heard leaves crunching, and she stepped back. She held her breath. Maybe Molly had returned. Or maybe someone else had come and would save Kim.

Kim waited and watched and listened.

But there was no one. There was nothing, not even a scampering squirrel. Kim would return as many days, as many times, as she needed to. Someone would come eventually and save her.

THE END

Mrs. Claus's Klondyke Secret

Candace Claus, a.k.a. Mrs. Santa Claus, pressed her hands over her ears. Santa's snoring was tiresome, and Candace bet that the stunning redhead from the dining room earlier that evening did not snore. Candace had made eye contact with the woman, and she swore the redhead winked at her. More likely the redhead had something in her eye. Candace had observed her from afar a few times throughout the cruise, sometimes in her yellow bikini, sometimes in the dining room.

Wish I had the guts to talk to her.

Life sputtered and gasped and belched before Candace. She and Santa were on a January cruise, their annual two-week getaway after the holiday madness. This cruise was turning out to be the saddest of all the cruises. Tens, if not hundreds, more cruises awaited in the years ahead. Cruises on the same seas, cruises with the same grump, cruises with the same unhealthy food. What was wrong with a vacation in, say, Spain? Or South America?

"We're going on the cruise!" Santa hollered every time Candace brought up an alternate possibility. "I deserve to rest, and that's damn well what I'm gonna do!"

The memory of the redhead prickled Candace's skin, and at the same time, impaled her wretched core. Santa demanded that she always be old, with a pouf of white hair and deep wrinkles. Being immortal was nice, but being immortally stuck at age seventy, not so much. Worse was being immortally stuck to a man who had long transformed from jolly to cranky. Candace basically had no one to keep her company year-round except Santa and his disgruntled elves.

Candace was painfully shy, but she made a vow right then and there. I'm going to meet new people tonight. Tomorrow, I'm coming out to Santa as a lesbian. The cruise ended at noon, in about twelve hours, so Candace would have to rush to make new memories. She crept out of bed and wrapped her bathrobe around her. She brushed her teeth and glanced toward the closed bathroom door. Santa hated when she changed her appearance, but he was asleep. No harm in having fun.

Candace closed her eyes, took a deep breath and willed the change. When she opened her eyes again, her thirty-year-old self greeted her in the mirror: blond, curvaceous, a rack practically stretching to the North Pole. She was a young woman ready to parrrr-taaay except for her dowdy bathrobe. Candace willed her clothes to match; now she wore a tiny slip of a black dress.

Candace grinned. She was ready to hit the above decks.

*****

The dance floor was dark and crowded, but Candace spotted the stunning redhead right away. She wore a pink dress even tinier than Candace's. Combined pink and red tended to blind Santa. He rubbed and rubbed and rubbed his eyes and then muttered expletives about people who were out of their minds with lack of fashion sense.

Candace, on the other hand, knew that pink and red could be the good kind of astonishing if done right. This redhead certainly had done it right. Candace grabbed a beer, downed it, and boogied her way over to the redhead. The redhead had plenty of lurkers-on, men with gelled, slicked-back hair and wolfish smiles.

Hope they'll be easy to get rid of.

"Hey you," Candace purred just loud enough for the redhead to hear.

The redhead, who had brown eyes like the most luscious chocolate, scrutinized Candace. Not an interested "Well, how about this?" look over, but a squinty, confused "Ummm?" look over.

Ignore it. Press on.

Candace beamed. "May I have this dance?"

"Haven't seen you around," the redhead said.

"Been seasick. Kept to my cabin."

"Mmm. Boys. Vamoose." The redhead shook off the men glued to her.

"Dance with me?" Candace repeated.

The redhead flashed a smile. Her teeth were straight and white. They had to be veneers; no one had natural teeth that good. "I think we better head to my room."

"Um. Er." Sex had not crossed Candace's mind. Not even kissing. Just meeting women, having fun.

"Trust me, Candace. We need to talk."

Candace? How does she know my name?

The redhead slipped her hand into Candace's, and five minutes later, they were in the redhead's room. She closed the door behind them and fixed Candace with a long, severe stare. "Look at my face. Do you recognize me now?"

These eyes, these eyes...and the perfect teeth.

Candace gulped. "Gloria."

Gloria bowed. "The tooth fairy at your service, ma'am."

Candace snapped into scold mode. "Wait a minute. Who's doing your job?"

"Uh," Gloria said.

"No one! You're letting children the world over wake up with their teeth still under their pillows. They won't have money to show off."

Gloria sighed. "Look, Candace, I haven't had a holiday in about a hundred years. Two weeks is nothing. The children will survive. They'll appreciate me more."

Gloria had a point, and Candace let the matter drop. "You look different." Gloria was supposed to be the size of Candace's pointer finger. And dark-haired.

Gloria snorted. "So do you, hon. Care for wine? And Candace, dear me. Oh my. You're being brave tonight."

"Santa's asleep. He won't find out."

Gloria poured wine. "Let's hope not. What shall we toast to?"

Candace clinked her glass with Gloria's. "To new beginnings."

Gloria narrowed her eyes. "You're leaving that crank. Good for ya!"

Candace downed her wine like she had downed her beer. She blurted out: "I'm a lesbian."

Gloria raised an eyebrow. "Are you, now? Well, I wondered from the way you looked at me in the dining room. Alas, I don't go that way. That's not to say I don't appreciate a beautiful woman, because I do."

"How did you know I was Candace?"

"First, the fact we've been on this two-week-long cruise and I hadn't seen you. Second, in the dining room, you, as Mrs. Santa Claus, were checking me out. Third, your eyes. They're the same."

Damn my twinkling Mrs. Santa Claus eyes. "Ah well. That's okay. That's okay. I just..." Candace felt sad again, unbearably sad and sleepy. She had set a goal to meet new people, but Gloria was someone she already knew, although not well. Damn it.

"You better get some sleep, Candace."

Candace nodded. While she looked thirty, her stamina, her mind, her soul were eternally stuck at seventy. "See you around, Gloria."

Gloria squeezed Candace's hand. "Good luck, hon."

*****

Santa woke up in a bad mood. He packed and grumbled: "We're gonna find a different cruise line next year. What kind of cruise line doesn't have..." Blah blah blah. Candace had learned long ago to tune out Santa's yammerings.

Here we go. "Santa," she said. "I need to tell you something."

Yammering. Yammering. Yammering.

"Santa!" Candace shouted. "Be quiet for a minute. I must tell you something."

Santa kept on trucking with his complaints. "No twenty-four-hour food service! A broken steam room. No—"

"Santa! I'm a lesbian!"

Santa stopped in mid-complaint. "Excuse me?"

"I'm a lesbian," Candace said matter of factly. "We need to part ways. You'll find someone else and give her the gift of immortality."

Red erupted across Santa's cheeks: not jolly, merry red, but angry, humiliated red. "Part ways?" he said through clenched teeth. "Part ways, my hind parts. Do you realize what'll happen? You'll lose your immortality."

"Only if you take it away."

"And I will!" he threatened.

Blood pounded in Candace's temples. She had lived for nearly one thousand years. Santa had lived longer, since the third century A.D. He'd told her she was the first Mrs. Santa Claus, but Candace had always wondered. In any case, Candace was seventy. She was in good shape, but she was seventy. If she became mortal, she would be lucky to live fifteen more good, quality years. She faced a weighty decision: immortality with a grumpy man, but perhaps a man who would change, or fifteen years of happiness being true to herself.

Candace had never realized how much immortality meant to her until it was on the brink of vanishing, but so be it. A thousand years was enough. "Do what you feel you must, Santa."

More angry eruptions across Santa's face, and the blue vein popped out. Yep, Santa was mad. He had a blue vein in the center of his forehead that whooshed out and pulsated once he passed a certain anger threshold. "Do you think I like this job?" he roared. "Do you?"

"No."

"Damn well I don't! It's the same damn thing every year! Supervise the elves, check up on the children, deliver the presents, gorge myself on cookies and brownies and cake, purge myself, go on a two-week vacation because there isn't time for more, and start all over again! Why do you think I'm so grumpy?"

"Maybe the time has come for you to find a successor." Santa's complaints were nothing new. He and Candace had this conversation at least once a week.

"A successor, my hind parts! He'd bungle the job."

Candace answered with her usual: "Not if you let him apprentice with you."

Santa scowled. "Apprentice with me, my hind parts!"

"Santa, darling, I have an idea. You've worked so hard. You deserve lots of time off. Let me take over, hmm? For a few years at least. You rest, you have fun, you find another woman to love. I only ask you don't take away my immortality. And of course, we divorce."

"Ha!" Santa said with a snort. "You think it's that easy being Santa Claus? You won't have any time to sneak off and meet women."

"Then let me learn that the hard way." Candace had observed several areas where Santa could save lots of time, and she'd told him. He, of course, would not hear of it. No, he was perfect, and his way was the only way.

"The hard way, my hind parts! What if some poor child catches you on Christmas Eve? A female Santa Claus! No, you don't know what to do."

"I do know," Candace said, and she was sure her eyes were cold and sniping at Santa. "You've never given me the credit I deserve. Remember 1893? 1905? 1940? Who cleaned up your mess in 1956 after you forgot the—"

"Be quiet!" Santa roared. "Fine. You want to be Santa Claus, be Santa Claus! I'm done." Santa slammed his suitcase shut. "We get back on shore, I'm renting a car and going to Myrtle Beach!" He yanked his Santa Claus cap from his pocket. He threw the cap on the bed and stomped out of the room.

"Wow," Candace muttered. "Wow. Wow." Her heart hammered crazily. She could do this. Definitely. Probably. Maybe. Yes. Yes. She could. She knew exactly where to trim the fat and inefficiencies from Santa's bloated program. She would have plenty of time to whoosh herself away from the North Pole at least once a week to meet women. She would make herself appear thirty years old permanently. And she would fall in love.

Outside the room's sole window, the ocean was languid and calm. The sky was blue, brilliantly blue. No clouds. Candace fingered the Santa Claus cap. She pulled it onto her head and went to the mirror. She willed herself to become thirty again.

"Well, hello," she purred. "Look at you, the new Santa Claus."

THE END

Westinhoffer, Andrew Brian, 16

Elizabeth re-read the name perched atop the paid obituary, hoping that the "i" in "Westinhoffer" would magically transform into an "e." Or maybe the "o" would dive into a special hole for good boys and come out a "u."

Didn't happen. The name "Westinhoffer" remained "Westinhoffer."

Trepidation gripped Elizabeth's heart, and she forced her gaze to the picture tucked under the name. She could deny the truth no longer. WESTINHOFFER, ANDREW BRIAN, 16, was dead.

Elizabeth stopped reading. She refused to think. She refused to let it sink in. This was supposed to be her ten minutes' quiet, peaceful time. She folded the newspaper neatly and headed to work. She entered names and figures into databases for about an hour. Typical database processor work. All the while, WESTINHOFFER, ANDREW BRIAN, 16, and his picture ran through her mind. He had matured into a lovely young man, with Linda’s dark hair and dark eyes. How had he died? Had he suffered? He was so young.

Elizabeth burst into tears, and startled co-workers glanced at her. No one came to her aid. She was new at the company and a loner at that. She grabbed her purse and went outside. She bought another newspaper. The obituary in full read:

WESTINHOFFER, ANDREW BRIAN, 16, passed away Saturday, January 25, 2012. He was a junior at Riverdale High School and was starting point guard for the Lancers. He adored laughing and pulling pranks. He loved people and the absurdities of life. He will be remembered as the best son anyone could ask for. Andrew is survived by his mothers Linda Westinhoffer and Brenda Barnett, and his beloved cat Charley. The family will accept visitors Tuesday from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. and from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m. at Riverdale Funeral Home. A memorial service will be conducted Wednesday at 11 a.m. at the funeral home's chapel. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the SPCA.

“Charley’s still alive,” Elizabeth whispered. Charley’s alive, and Andrew’s dead.

One of her co-workers approached. Mark, Elizabeth thought his name was. He pulled nervously at his tie. “Er, everything okay, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth dropped her gaze to the obituary. “My... my...a friend's son died. He was only sixteen.”

*****

Elizabeth arrived right on time for the 11 a.m. visitation the next day. She wore the only fancy outfit she owned, a navy blue men's suit with a tie. Her hair was still short, as it had been the last time she saw Linda and Andrew. The memory was painful. Elizabeth had encountered them at the grocery store. Andrew was four years old, and no recognition shone in his eyes. Why should it have? Elizabeth had been out of his life, out of Linda's life, since right after he was born.

Elizabeth followed a throng of teenagers, most red-faced and crying, into the funeral home. Andrew was starting point guard for the Lancers. Maybe he got that from me. Yeah, right.

The teenagers crowded into a big room with a casket in a corner. Pictures and posters adorned the far wall, and Elizabeth steadied herself. I should be in these pictures.

Elizabeth and Linda had been together two years when they decided to get a cat. They got kitty Charley from the SPCA. One year after that, they decided to have children. Linda would get pregnant first, and then Elizabeth would. They went the artificial insemination route, and it took on the third try. Elizabeth was as involved as a prospective parent could be. She went with Linda to the doctor visits and the Lamaze classes. She dashed out to bring pickles and ice cream and peanut butter to Linda—whatever she craved. She massaged Linda's feet and assured her that she was as gorgeous as ever.

Andrew Brian Westinhoffer was six pounds, six ounces, and a screamer. Elizabeth was the one who woke up to feed him. And then three months after he was born, Linda told Elizabeth she had fallen in love with another woman.

We're over, we're over, we're over...

This new woman, Brenda, said Linda, would be Andrew's other mother. Best that way, really.

"No," Elizabeth said, stunned. "I'm his mother. You can't take that away from me."

"We can do this the hard way or the easy way," Linda said reasonably, and Elizabeth hated that Linda was saying it reasonably. "I'm his biological mother. You have a snowball's chance of winning a court case. If you love him, you'll let him go. Let's be smart and avoid a tug of war. The child comes first."

"How long have you and her been together?" Elizabeth demanded.

"That doesn't matter."

"It doesn't matter?" Fury heated Elizabeth's words. "It doesn't matter? It freaking matters!"

Linda swallowed. "She came to work at the office when I was about three months pregnant. We never meant for anything to happen. We just…life happens. I tried. I did. I promise."

Elizabeth could have pursued the matter, could have asked Linda when she and Brenda realized they were in love, when they had sex the first time, but Elizabeth was too scared to know the answers. Maybe Linda was right. Maybe the small details did not matter.

The news had caught Elizabeth off guard, had shocked her so much, she let Andrew go. She saw him only one other time, in the grocery store when he was four years old.

Times certainly had changed. If this were to happen today, she would have a good chance of winning joint custody, or at least visitation, in court.

Now, Elizabeth approached the casket and bypassed Linda and Brenda. WESTINHOFFER, ANDREW BRIAN, 16, was dressed in jeans and an Atlanta Braves T-shirt. Elizabeth pressed her lips to her fingers and transferred the kiss to Andrew's forehead. He had filled her mind constantly right after the breakup—him and Linda both, always in her mind. Then she thought about them less and less, although on certain dates, his birthday and Christmas, for example, Elizabeth took a moment to remember Andrew and wish him well.

"Elizabeth? Is that you?" Linda's voice.

Elizabeth turned to her. "I am sorry," Elizabeth said. "So sorry for your loss. I have to go. Goodbye." Elizabeth made it to her car before collapsing into tears again.

*****

Thirty minutes later, Elizabeth drove to Riverdale Elementary School. She spoke with the front-office secretary. Five minutes later, Haley bounced up, beautiful, blond, playful, energetic Haley, wise beyond her six years.

"Mommy!" Haley hurled herself into Elizabeth's arms, and Elizabeth held her only child close.

"Hey, baby." Elizabeth kissed Haley on the forehead. "Let's go for ice cream and play hooky today."

THE END

So This Woman Meets This Chick Online And...

A joke from the early days of the Internet sortakindawhatever goes like this: a young woman gets to talking with an older man in a chat room. He's kind and attentive, and they don't exchange pictures. They use fake names. They're under the clear agreement they're looking for sex, only sex. They make plans to meet at a hotel outside of town. The man will check in first under an assumed name, say "John Smith."

So, okay. This young woman shows up at the hotel, gets the key from the clerk and goes up to meet kind, attentive "John Smith." Turns out he's her dad. Yep. They cringe in embarrassment and promise to never tell anyone what happened.

Guess what? This happened to me, except I'm gay, so the person I encountered in the hotel room was my mom, not my dad. And don't even go there! We didn't have sex. Nothing of the sort. I'd never been more embarrassed in my life.

I was twenty-three years old and fresh out of college. I was a teacher, and people are right when they say the first year is the hardest. I was lucky to arrive at my apartment by six. More likely I'd be home after eight. Teaching is maybe half teaching. The other half of my job is, and was, behavior management, paperwork, brownnosing and lesson planning. Forget about having a life. In a way, I was glad, because I wasn't out of the closet yet. I could simply point to my being busy as a way to explain to my parents why I wasn't dating.

I had sleeping problems, too. I'd jerk awake at two a.m. or three a.m. and be unable to get back to sleep. These were the days of AOL and dial-up Internet. Lesbian chat rooms helped fill the void in the wee hours of the morning, and I befriended several women. I clicked with one woman above all others. Her screen name was FoxyLezz45. Mine was the astoundingly uncreative IWannaSex69. FoxyLezz45 was funny. Witty. Charming. She said she was forty-five years old (my mom was fifty) and married. She wanted to come out of the closet, desperately, but was afraid the revelation would devastate her husband and her children. I told FoxyLezz45 I was in a similar situation, only I wasn't married or seeing anyone, and it was my parents I was afraid of devastating.

FoxyLezz45 and I were eager for our first sexual experiences with women, and we set something up for the Saturday after Thanksgiving. However, FoxyLezz45 admitted she had fibbed to me about something. Guilt would not let her continue perpetuating the fib. She explained that she was really fifty, not forty-five. I was a bit thrown, but whatever. FoxyLezz45 and I had agreed to not tell each other our real names or to exchange pictures. Sex really was all I wanted, some sort of release from the tension of teaching. I could overlook some fudging.

I did take some safety precautions. I told my best friend I was meeting someone from online. I told her where and when and that I would call at regular intervals from the hotel room phone so she could be sure I was okay.

FoxyLezz45 told me to ask the front desk clerk for "Jane Jones," and the clerk would give me a key to the room. I dutifully asked for Jane Jones, was given the key, and took the elevator to room 508. The elevator had a mirror, and I went up and down twice. Had to make sure I looked my best, you understand. FoxyLezz45 had told me she would be on the bed and ready for me to ravish her. All I had to do was let myself in.

At long last, I was ready for room 508. I knocked and called: "Jane, it's me!" My heart hammered, my stomach churned, and I swept into the room.

Rose petals were sprinkled on the bed, and in the midst of the petals, in a black negligee, was...

My mother.

My mother, the uptight, conservative Barbara Nelson.

I gasped.

My mother's eyes went wide. She jumped from the bed and bound a bathrobe around her as if it were a straitjacket. "Jillian Christina Nelson!" she shrieked. "What in the world?"

"Mom. Mom." I'm pretty sure my jaw scraped the floor.

My mother's breaths came in heaves and gulps.

"You're FoxyLezz45?" I asked.

"You're IWannaSex69?"

"Obviously," I muttered.

"This has to be a joke," my mother said. She looked out the window. I looked at a painting above the bed.

"I better call Kacie," I ventured. I dialed Kacie's number from the room phone, and Kacie answered on the third ring.

"Hey, Kacie," I whispered. "I'm fine. Got here okay. I, uh, I don't think I need to call again."

"How is she? Is she hot?" Kacie's tones were breathless.

"She's…yes. I better go."

"You sound weird."

My insides screamed: "ALL IS NOT FINE! I WAS ABOUT TO EFF MY MOTHER!"

I laughed into the phone. "Just a little nervous. See you later." I hung up and turned toward my mother.

"That’s smart," she said. "Letting someone know where you would be."

"Did you tell anyone?"

"No." She shrugged. "I couldn't. No one…" She swallowed. "No one knows. I guess we need to talk. But I'm getting dressed first." She picked up her suitcase and primly headed to the bathroom.

Freedom. Beautiful, beautiful freedom, if I so chose. I could bolt and be done with FoxyLezz45 a.k.a. Barbara Nelson a.k.a. MY FREAKING MOTHER. I'd just never talk to her again.

I stayed.

My mother was always a quick dresser, and she was back out a minute later. Silently, we plucked the rose petals from the bed and sprinkled them into the trash. That didn't take too long.

"The petals were a nice touch, Mom," I said afterward. "Sorry they went to waste." A bolt for freedom continued to tempt me. Staying in the room would remind me of what my mother and I had come to do. At the same time, we were about to have a weighty discussion. I was not sure I wanted to risk doing it in public, even if it was in a barely populated hotel restaurant. My mother, I knew, would never consent to such a discussion in public. It went without saying that we would never risk news of this mortifying encounter getting out.

"Jillian," Mom said.

"Yo."

"Are you..." Mom ran her tongue over her lips. "Is what you said online true? You're gay? And afraid to tell your family because they're conservative?"

"Yeah," I muttered. "And I guess what you said is true too."

Mom nodded.

"We're both gay," I said. "Yay. We're queer, we're here."

Mom laughed, and her eyes got a sparkle I'd never seen. "Oh my," she whispered. "What a mess. Ten years later, we'll look back on this and laugh."

"You promise?"

Her expression turned somber. "I'm sorry, sweetie," she said. "I hate that you couldn't tell me."

"You said online that many people walk through life costumed, but not costumes like Halloween costumes. Costumes made of religion, of pressure, of words, of shrugs, of the need for social acceptance."

"That's right. And I'm tired of my costume."

"Me too. I hate you couldn't tell me, either."

My mother took my hand. Kissed it. "You're your daddy's girl. I was afraid you'd push me out of your life and view me as a traitor."

"Never, Mom. Never."

"I love you, baby."

"Love you too. You, uh, you need to tell Dad."

"I know," she said. "And I will." She glanced around the room. "Well, I'm starving. As long as we're here, how about we order room service and plan how we'll come out?"

Mom and I had a great lunch, and one week later, we came out to the rest of the family. The experience brought my mother and me closer, but I never asked my mom if she got the sex she needed. She didn't ask me, either, thank goodness.

And, yeah, I got my sex! From another woman, MileyK6969, I had been chatting with.

THE END

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Three Wishes

Evangeline hated lonely things. Pairs or more was the way to go. When she was little, her dad hauled the great big trash can to the curb. Thirty minutes later, Evangeline sneaked out with her bedroom trash can and cozied it up next to the papa trash can. Her parents thought it was cute. "Ev has such a soft heart," her mother said. "She's going places. She will wow people with her out-of-the-box thinking."

Didn't happen. Evangeline was quiet, brooding and lost in her own mind.

As she grew into a teenager, she read romance books, stories filled with strong men overpowering strong women, and confusion gnawed at her insides. She did not feel it, the attraction between a man and a woman. Strays, dirty, patchy cats and dogs, followed her home. Evangeline's mother let her keep some. No people wanted to come home with Evangeline, though. Some days the loneliness was the prick of her finger on a thorn: a sudden pain, a little blood evidence, but easily blotted and forgotten after a mangy cat purred in her lap. Other days, the loneliness was the murmur of an army about to invade. Tanks and soldiers hummed: rat tat tat here we come, Miss Evangeline. Better hurry and pair up or we'll swarm you alive.

Her parents died when she was a senior in college, leaving Evangeline truly alone, although she inherited their farmhouse and loads of money. No brothers or sisters. No aunts or uncles. No grandparents. Evangeline dropped out of college. Shad no need to please her parents any longer, plus she was weary of creeping among her living, breathing, pulsating classmates who shouted and joked with one another and who got drunk on weekends and fucked one another.

Evangeline began living off her sizable inheritance. Her life remained her animals.

Until the genie.

Evangeline hated lonely things, so of course when her two dogs snuffled at the unlabeled, amber-colored bottle in the fields near her farmhouse, she picked it up. The scent of beer irritated her nostrils and brought the sting of college. Evangeline almost replaced the bottle, but her conscience would not allow her. This beer bottle would join its nonalcoholic brethren in the recycling bin.

Five minutes later, Evangeline was back home. She got dish soap, a dish rag and went scrub, squeeek, scrub, squeeek to clean the bottle.

Ow, hey, hey, ow! went the bottle. And then…POOF! A giant genie and his legs protruded from the sink. The genie was blue, and three eyes menaced his face. A monkey-size cap adorned his head. His chest was bare, and he wore billowy red shorts.

Evangeline was so startled she dropped the bottle. It landed harmlessly and rolled to a corner. Evangeline preferred a shaaaaaatttteeeerrrr. Shatter, shatter, shatter. She could not process the appearance of a blue tri-eyed genie, so her mind analyzed the word "shatter" instead. It was similar to "shitter" a.k.a. toilet. If a person shat, did that mean the person had been on the shatter?

The genie jumped onto the floor and scooped up the bottle. "Now, then," he declared, "I'm sure you know the drill."

"I have three wishes?" Evangeline asked in a croak.

"Yep. You have thirty seconds to make the first wish or I vanish."

"Thirty seconds? But that's—"

"I'm a busy guy. Twenty-eight. Hurry."

The loneliness army swiped clumsy claws at Evangeline. Rat tat tat, we're coming for you someday, Miss Evangeline.

"I'm tired of being lonely," Evangeline said. "I want to go to bed with someone every night. I want to kiss and—"

"Twenty-two seconds."

"I want a friend," Evangeline said in a rush. "A woman. Maybe a lover."

"You a lesbian?"

"So what if I am?"

The genie grinned. "Hey, hey, it's cool. Anyway, you sure a lady friend is what you want?"

"Yes."

"Cool hotdogs. Check your bedroom in two minutes."

*****

Evangeline held her breath as she entered her bedroom two minutes later. A woman was splayed on the bed. A gorgeous, sleeping woman with a blond ponytail rippling down her back. Red track pants hugged her legs.

Rat tat tat. We're still coming for ya!

The woman's eyes flitted open. Blue eyes.

"Hey," Evangeline said shyly.

Alarm crossed the woman's features. She sat bolt upright. "Where am I?"

"You're okay," Evangeline said soothingly. "You're safe. We're going to be friends, and I won't be lonely anymore."

"I don't, I don't…"

"You don't know me. That's okay. My name's Evangeline."

The woman rubbed her head. "I was jogging, and then, and then…nothing. Why did you kidnap me?"

Her heart pounding, Evangeline stared wordlessly at the woman. That damn genie. He didn't tell me it would be this way.

"My wife," the woman whimpered. "She's got to be worried about me. Where am I? What happened?"

Evangeline licked suddenly dry lips. "What's your name?" I'm not going to jail. I'm not.

"Dina," the woman said. "Dina Atlee."

"I didn't kidnap you. I came across a genie in a bottle, I wished for a friend, and he must have brought you here."

Dina gave Evangeline a sidelong glance of utter disbelief. "You're crazy. You know that? I'm a kidnapped woman is what I am. Are you schizophrenic or hallucinatory or something? You see genies? Or is the genie your accomplice?"

A heated shudder passed through Evangeline. "I'm not crazy! I'm not, I'm not! I'll prove it to you."

A minute later, Evangeline and Dina were in the kitchen. Rub rub rub went Evangeline with the bottle.

POOF! The genie.

"See!" Evangeline exclaimed. "I didn't kidnap you!"

Dina mewled and stared at the genie.

"Take her back from where you got her," Evangeline demanded. "Erase her memory so she doesn't remember this."

"Is that wish number two?"

"Yes, fine, whatever."

*****

The next couple of weeks passed without occasion. The loneliness army circled cautiously. No police officers showed up to arrest Evangeline. Online searches of "Dina Atlee missing" and "Dina Atlee kidnapped" turned up no hits. Dina Atlee was apparently safe and sound, with no memory of Evangeline and the genie.

One night, Evangeline worked up the courage to summon the genie for her third and final wish. "Bring me a woman," Evangeline said. "A woman who won't mind being brought. Who would embrace it, actually. Bring me a woman who is just as lonely as I am. She must be beautiful, and she must give her permission."

"Beautiful, eh?"

"Beautiful."

The genie inclined his head. "Your wish is my command."

"Don't play with me this time."

"Moi? I would never do such a thing. Okay, then. Check your bedroom in two minutes. I've just met a woman who wished for the same thing you did: a friend."

"You live in more than one bottle?"

The genie snorted. "My days would be dreadfully boring if I was limited to one bottle, don't you think?"

"What if someone rubs a bottle and you're busy granting another person's wishes?"

An impatient grunt. "Now you see why I set a thirty-second limit for you to make your first wish?"

"Touche."

"The laws of physics and space time don't apply to me. Now go on! Brush your hair or something. It looks like shit. Her name's Pamela, by the way. Pamela Haskins."

*****

At the appointed time, Evangeline tiptoed into her bedroom. A woman with shiny black hair and happy eyes greeted her. "Evangeline? I'm Pamela Haskins. So nice to meet you."

Evangeline's heart swooped up on a roller coaster. This is it. This is it! "Hi, Pamela. I hope the genie didn't give you too much of a scare."

Pamela laughed gently. "He's a character, all right. Now, about these pictures and that poem."

"Pardon?"

Pamela's gaze swept over Evangeline's dresser. Pictures choked it: one photo of Evangeline's parents, fifteen photos of various pets Evangeline had owned. The poem hung above the dresser. Evangeline had written it in honor of Fluffy, her cat who died the previous year.

Kitten and Old Cat

Old Cat sleeps

Kitten scampers

Old Cat hisses

Kitten purrs

Old Cat ignores

Kitten flits

Old Cat sits in your lap

Kitten yays free

Old Cat lays plump

Kitten bounces springlike

Old Cat sleeps with you

Kitten claws the house upside down

Old Cat used to be Kitten

Kitten will be Old Cat

"You have pets," Pamela said in whisper.

"Two dogs, five cats. Is that a problem?"

"I'm allergic. Very."

"I keep the house clean. You see the bed doesn't have pet hairs. I'm really good at—"

Achoo. Achoo. Sn-sn-sn-ACHOO! "Tissues! Tissues!"

Evangeline jammed Kleenex into Pamela's hands. The subsequent blow job was decidedly unromantic. "Take me home," Pamela muttered. "We can be e-mail buddies."

*****

Evangeline got back to the farmhouse about midnight. The drive had been long and awkward. She'd had to stop every ten minutes so Pamela could blow her nose. Evangeline fed her pets and kept her anger at bay. What kind of bum genie did she have? Did the genie really expect her to launch into a spiel of contract-type terms: my lady friend shalt not have pet allergies, she shalt love pets, she shalt be older than twenty years but no older than thirty years and thirty days of age, she shalt have two hands, ONLY two hands, with five fingers on each hand, she shalt not have a mental illness, and and and and…

The bottle sneered at Evangeline from the kitchen counter. Her wishes were used up, but perhaps she could bring the genie forth and yell at him.

Evangeline rubbed.

The genie whooshed out. "Guess it didn't go well."

"Why did you bring me a woman allergic to pets?"

"You didn't specify—"

"Go away! Never come back."

"Most people beg for one more wish."

"These aren't wishes. They're nightmares. Goodbye."

The genie sighed. "Hey, mate. Take a bit of advice from me, eh? You're better off alone. You get a lady friend, sure, it's great at first. You can't get enough of her. The sex is amazing. You're lovey dovey and cuddly winky. Then little by little, the laugh that used to be charming becomes like fingernails on a chalkboard. The socks she leaves around aren't cute. She starts nagging at you to change your ways. Before long, you wish to be single. Trust me, Ev. You're better off this way."

"Maybe you're right."

"Learn to be happy," the genie advised. "You have your pets. You have this great farmhouse. Read lots of books to get your kicks. You don't need anyone."

*****

Evangeline spent the next year pondering the genie's parting words. She had kept the bottle alone at the counter. It no longer taunted her; instead, it slumped forlorn.

Nagging. Before long, you wish to be single. Better off this way. You don't need anyone.

Most people beg for one more wish.

Meaning what? Implying that if Evangeline begged, the genie would grant her a fourth wish?

The army tramped closer and closer, tickling the insides of her mind, the hairs on her neck, the pores on her toes. She had to do something soon.

"Okay," Evangeline muttered one day. Rub rub rub.

POOF! "Hey, Ev," the genie said with a grin.

"One last wish? Please?" Evangeline dropped to her knees. "I'm begging you."

The genie's lips tugged downward. "I thought—"

Evangeline recited from a careful list she had prepared: "I want a woman who will be my lover. She will come willingly. She will give her permission. She will love pets and not be allergic to them. She shall be physically normal. She shall have no diseases. She shall…"

Delivering the list took five minutes, and when Evangeline finished, the genie nodded. "Okay, then," he said. "Check your bedroom in two minutes. And this is it. We're done. Put me in the recycling bin and let someone else have a shot. Goodbye, Ev."

*****

Evangeline woke up the next morning in the inviting, secure arms of Tessa Michaelson. Tessa was everything Evangeline could have dreamed of, and then more. The sun floated throughout the room, its languid rays blessing their love. The army was gone. Blasted into oblivion.

Rat tat tat, you win, Miss Evangeline.

"Ev," Tessa murmured. "Kiss me."

*****

It, meaning a crack in their love, happened the first time Tessa put up the glasses: upside down. Evangeline struggled to keep quiet but to no avail.

"Tessa," Evangeline said, "the glasses should be rim-side up."

"What's wrong with the way I did them?"

"It annoys me. It's not how I do things."

"Okay," Tessa muttered.

Evangeline noticed more and more flaws in Tessa during the following months. She sometimes chewed with her mouth open. She favored the dogs over the cats instead of treating them equally. She did not like long walks around the lake, instead preferring to watch television. She wanted sex less and less.

When the army crept back in the wee hours one morning, Evangeline was not surprised. Snow whispered and swirled outside, but the army did not stop to appreciate the snow's beauty. Rat tat tat, Miss Evangeline. We're waiting. We're watching.

About a year after Evangeline and Tessa met, they broke up. Tessa's idea, but Evangeline did not complain. Tessa said: "Maybe we should go our separate ways," and Evangeline nodded. No asking why. No request to remain friends. Nothing. The genie was right. Evangeline would have to find a way on her own to get rid of the army.

Tessa had given up her apartment after meeting Evangeline, so Evangeline dropped Tessa off at her parents' house. They shook hands goodbye.

"It was good," Evangeline said. "Thanks."

"Yeah, you too." Tessa scurried into the house.

Evangeline decided to not go home just yet. She walked her old college campus, letting security lights guide her through the darkness. At last, she came upon a coffee shop across campus. Evangeline went inside. People buzzed around her, and the sound hurt Evangeline's ears. But she forced herself to stand still, to accept the noises, to let them wash over her until the buzz was nothing.

She got coffee, which was hot and sharp and alive on her tongue. She sat near a window and bestowed more bliss upon her mouth.

"Excuse me?"

Evangeline looked up, and her heart gave a wrenched cry. Dina Atlee.

Dina's smile was wide and genuine. "What's your name?"

"My name? Uh, Evangeline."

Enthusiastic nodding. "This sounds silly, but I had to introduce myself. I see you in my dreams."

"You do?"

Dina sat with Evangeline and explained that some time ago, she'd begun having a recurring dream. She was jogging, and then somehow, she woke up in a strange bed. A woman came into the room. She introduced herself as Evangeline, and Dina accused Evangeline of kidnapping her. Evangeline spit forth some crap about a genie. Only, yeah, there really was a genie; he was blue with three eyes and a monkey cap. Evangeline had been as horrified as Dina was and requested that the genie return Dina and erase her memory.

"Isn't that crazy?" Dina asked as she finished. "Except…" She twisted her fingers around her cup. "You're her. You’re the lonely woman. It happened."

Evangeline touched her coffee to her lips. "It happened. I'm Evangeline."

"Are you still lonely?"

"I'm learning to be happy with myself. It'll take time, but I'll get there."

Dina gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Let me know if you do. I could use some tips."

"You're not happy?"

"No. But maybe one day, right?"

"Are you still with your wife?"

Dina shook her head.

Evangeline smiled, Dina smiled, and her eyes reminded Evangeline of a blue dress she had when she was a child. She loved the dress. Wore it every day, even after it faded into whiteness.

A thought poked into Evangeline's head: Dina will be different from Tessa.

Maybe the genie had granted Evangeline her wish, after all. True, it had taken longer than Evangeline expected, and she would have to put some work in.

Curiosity burned Dina's gaze. "What happened with you after the genie returned me? Don't leave anything out."

"It's a long story."

Dina proffered a shy, slightly flirtatious smile. "I have all night, Evangeline."

THE END

The Robot

"Sit down," Mya ordered.

"I need to—"

Mya scowled. "What you need is to sit. S.I.T. Or better yet, go for a break. Take a walk or a nap. I'll do the vacuuming and dusting. I'll finish the dishes. You rest up for when the kids get home."

"Are you sure?"

Mya smiled that smile I loved. It was the first thing I noticed when we met two days ago. You would think a robot such as Mya would have a mannequin-like smile. Nope. Her front right tooth was chipped, and while her teeth were white and even, they looked like they had been through eating and drinking for years. In other words, Mya's smile was completely normal. Completely human. It came with two adorable dimples, too.

"I'm sure, ma'am," Mya said.

"Ramona," I reminded her.

"Ramona. Ramona. " Mya took the dish I was holding and ran it under the faucet.

Amazing. A waterproof robot, I thought again. Two days before, I would have said it out loud, but Mya did not like being reminded she was a robot. She yearned to be human. She did not say so, but her voice, her eyes, the way she approached certain tasks, gave it away.

I curled up on the couch with a book I had started a year ago. I had read maybe five books in ten years. Life gets crazy when you work full time and have active kids and parents in failing health.

Ten minutes later, Mya entered the living room. "The dishes are finished," she said. "Will it bother you if I vacuum while you read?"

"Go ahead." Truth be told, I chose the living room for a reason. I loved watching Mya work, but I had to do it so that she did not realize I watched her.

Mya plugged the vacuum in and gave me another Mya-smile.

"Actually," I said, "you should dust first. That way, when you vacuum, you catch the particles that flew around when you dusted."

Mya's lips tugged downward. "I knew that. I forgot. I apologize."

"It's not a problem," I said reassuringly. "You haven't dusted here yet."

"But I did at RoboticGem."

"This isn't RoboticGem."

"No," Mya said with a sigh that might have been happy or sad. "It is not." She retrieved Pledge and rags from the hall closet. She tackled the TV and entertainment center first, twisting, turning and bending as necessary.

My husband and his co-workers at RoboticGem could have molded the line of Mya robots into huge-chested, voluptuous blonde women. They did not. Mya was all lines, no curves, yes to a scrawny ass. Poor thing was not pretty, except for her smile. Her hair was a plain, shoulder-length brown and matched her eyes. She arrived from RoboticGem wearing blue nurse scrubs, and she had a different color each day of the week. Today, she wore purple.

As I watched Mya, my heart glowed with pride for my husband. Quentin was an intuitive man; no doubt he knew an attractive maid robot would cause strife instead of helping the women they were supposed to help. Mya was no competition for me, that was for sure. I was the huge-chested, voluptuous blonde one.

Mya's mistakes, such as vacuuming before dusting, were probably part of the "imperfect" scheme as well. That way, women did not have to feel like they were competing against an ideal.

Mya moved to the fireplace mantle. "Were you surprised to meet me?" she asked.

"Yes. I had no idea Quentin was involved in developing a maid robot." Oops. Don't remind her she's a robot.

Mya turned to me, and her eyebrows slanted downward in concern. "Have I done well? I am not creating more stress for you?"

I laughed. "You're taking a lot of pressure off me. Thank you, Mya. Really."

"Good." Mya set her rag down and took a hesitant step toward me. "May I ask a favor?"

"Sure."

"Will you let me sleep tonight instead of turning me off? I can still recharge when I'm on."

Anxiety fluttered through me, but I ignored it. "Sure, Mya." If I had been a robot like Mya, I would probably have wanted to be human too. Funny thing, consciousness. Mya was brilliant and aware. Who was to say she was not deserving of the same rights humans had? Who was to say she was not human?

*****

The next two weeks were nothing short of heaven. Miracle of miracles, I began to enjoy my children instead of resenting them. I had three children, but with their crazy schedules, I often felt like I had seven children. The eldest, Adam, was twelve, and was involved in baseball, piano and art. Charles, the middle child at nine, was forever getting in trouble. The police had already brought him home once. He tried to hotwire a car. I was astonished, but Quentin was a proud father. Charles, his curious, irascible son, was the clear favorite. The youngest, Breanna, was six years old and had a zillion friends who all seemed to live a zillion miles away. Add to that the fact both my parents had dementia and I worked full time.

Yep, Mya sure was a lifesaver. She used part of her time at night when she would have been otherwise switched off to iron my clothes for work, pack Quentin's lunches, mine, the children's lunches, and to do other activities that did not require noise. She let me discipline the children. She never, not once, tried to encroach into my role as mother and wife. Like Quentin had explained, Mya was here to help, not to replace.

One thing Mya apparently could not do, however, was bring Quentin home for more than a few hours at a time. We were passing ships, a kiss here, a murmur there. Mya was a prototype, and a rough one at that, Quentin explained. Lots more work needed to be done for the first models to roll out on time.

Prototype? I thought. How much better can Mya be? When my husband asked for feedback on improving her, I could give none. The new woman in my life was perfect, absolutely perfect.

*****

"Hey, Ramen," Quentin said one night after Mya had been with me about a month. He and I were in bed, and it was one of the rare nights he was home before ten.

I smiled and propped my head up. "You haven't called me Ramen in years."

He grinned. "The good old days."

"Yep." Ramen was play off my name, Ramona, and also a play off the fact that back then, Quentin and I subsisted on little more than Ramen noodles. We had put all our resources toward developing his first big invention, a virtual-reality device. The Ramen days paid off; Quentin's device hit the big time.

"I don't miss these days," my husband said.

"I do. We were close back then. Together."

He furrowed his brows. "We're not now?"

"We're disconnected," I whispered. "We're not, we don't…"

He shook his head. "I need to get the Mya robots nailed down, then I'm all yours."

"You were busy before the Mya robots, and you'll be busy after. I miss you. I miss kissing you and hugging you and…I don't know."

He groaned. "Don't start."

"I'm saying. Not starting. You're here tonight. Let's enjoy the time we have."

"You want kisses and hugs, kiss and hug Mya," Quentin said sarcastically.

I blinked. "She does that?"

Quentin smirked. "She does everything, Ramen. Everything. You want sex, she'll do it. Gladly."

*****

I spent the next day at work breaking Quentin's words apart, slicing and dicing them infinite ways. I was a newspaper copy editor, and no doubt I made careless errors. I was not sure what bothered me more: the fact that my husband had most likely had sex with a Mya robot, even if it wasn't the exact same Mya robot living with me, or the fact that he did not seem to care if I went outside our marriage for affection and sex.

Mya and I, together, put Charles and Breanna to bed that night. Adam claimed to be too old for tucking in. Quentin had called and said he was staying at the office overnight. The kids loved Mya. They thought she was the best thing since tasty, juicy boogers. How many other kids in their classes had a robot woman living with them? None, that's how many. That would no doubt change in a few months, when the Mya line of robots hit stores. The robots would be expensive, along the lines of a car purchase. Many, if not most, people would have to pay for their Myas in installments.

Mya and I tucked Charles in first, then Breanna. My daughter was fidgety, and she had a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

"Mya," Breanna said as Mya and I were leaving her room.

"Yes?"

Breanna fixed a sullen gaze on Mya. "I don't wanna clean my room tomorrow. You do it, okay?"

My first instinct was to order Breanna to cut out the rudeness. The kids still had their usual chores, their usual duties. Quentin and I never intended to use Mya to spoil the kids. I hesitated, however, and a whisper tickled my mind: Let Mya handle herself.

Mya shook her head. "You clean your own room, Breanna."

Breanna glowered at her. "You're a stupid robot, and I don't wanna clean my room! I DON'T WANNA!"

Now I intervened. "Breanna! As we discussed when Mya arrived, you will treat her with respect."

"Mya's an 'it.' Not a 'her.' "

"Go on, Mya," I said. "I'll handle this."

Mya left, and I sat at my daughter's side. I brushed hair out of her eyes. "What's wrong, baby?"

"I don't like Mya."

"Why?"

"She's everywhere."

I entwined my hand with Breanna's. "We'll do something this weekend, just you and me."

"Daddy should be here," Breanna grumbled. "Not Mya."

I kissed Breanna on the forehead. She was right. Of course she was.

*****

I found Mya watching TV in the living room. She did not have a bedroom; Quentin and I kept her scrubs and tiny collection of odds and ends in our bedroom.

"Sorry about that," I said. "Having a new person around takes adjusting."

"Person? I'm a robot," Mya said.

"I'm not sure about that. You feel. You get happy. You get sad."

"Then adjust my settings so I don't get happy and sad."

"People have that too," I said with a grin. "It's called medication. If you're a robot, so am I."

Mya's lips tugged upward, just a little. "You are kind to me, Ramona."

Quentin's words: You want kisses and hugs, kiss and hug Mya. You want sex, she'll do it. Gladly.

"Hey, Mya," I said. "Will you, uh…" I extended my hand to her. "Come with me a minute."

I led Mya to my bedroom. Mine and Quentin's. I locked the door behind us. Mya and I sat on the bed. Her gaze was open and innocent. The opposite of what I was feeling: curious, fearful, thrilled, nervous, eager.

"Has my husband ever touched you?" I whispered.

"I do not understand."

"Do you know what sex is?"

"Sex is how people make babies. Another way in which I am not human. I cannot make babies."

"Some people can't, either. They're infertile. Doesn't mean they're any less human."

"Okay," Mya said.

"Will you touch me? Here." I ran my right hand over my right breast.

Mya blinked and edged backward.

"Forget that," I said. "Let me touch you. Okay?"

"Is it allowed?"

I ran my hands over Mya's breasts: small, supple breasts. I found her nipples through her bra and shirt. I kneaded the nipples gently.

Mya moaned.

Adrenaline shot up my spine. "You feel that? It feels good?"

Another moan. "Yes. What is this?"

"You're getting horny. Sexually aroused."

"But you are a woman," Mya said. "Sex is between a man and a woman. A woman cannot make another woman…I do not understand."

"Don't worry about that right now." I brought my lips to Mya's mouth and tasted her. She was alive. Warm. Moist. Human. And eager. Our kiss sent the pit of my stomach into a wild swirl. Before long, my hands were on her breasts again, then taking her shirt off, then her pants, and she was taking my clothes off. We twisted and writhed. We fell onto the bed.

I directed Mya's mouth to the area between my legs. She was better than any of my lovers. Her stamina, for one. The right degree of pressure, for two. Her perfect gentleness, for three, the way in which she looked at me occasionally, her brown eyes bright, and asked if what she was doing was okay.

What she was doing was more than okay, especially after she got her lips vibrating. She was better than any vibrator, and I came in a giant wave.

Afterward, I held Mya. "I'll do you," I whispered. "I just need time to…"

"I loved feeling you and tasting you," Mya said.

Mya's nipples were taut, and I lowered my mouth to them. I kissed her flat belly, her smooth legs, her bare pussy. Mya did not grow hair. Quentin had said that when he brought her home.

I lost myself in her, in this woman, in this robot. I connected with Mya, with her body, in a way I never had with a man.

That night helped me realize a few things about myself, the main one being that I was gay. How this fact eluded me for years I did not know. I thought I had been happy with men, but turns out what I thought was "happy" was more like "barely satisfied."

That night told me I did not want to touch another penis in my life, did not want a penis inside me again.

*****

I awoke to Mya's gentle kisses on my stomach. My bladder was full, and sun streamed in through the windows.

Sun. Sun. Why is there sun? The kids…

"I got the kids off to school," Mya whispered. "You were sleeping hard. I didn't want to wake you until you absolutely had to be up for work."

Mya was naked, and the shapely beauty of her body taunted me. "I'm going to pee," I said. "Then maybe we can have quickie sex?"

Her eyes gleamed. "Yes, please, Ramona."

*****

Quentin came home at eleven that night. Mya and I had been curled up in bed, and I shooed her out when I heard his car drive up.

His footfalls were heavier than usual, and circles resided under his eyes. "I'm not staying," he muttered. "I came to change clothes and get Mya."

"Get Mya? Why?"

"We need to make the robots less lifelike. The beta families that have the robots, they…some of the robots, they're…" Quentin shook his head. "Just trust me. I'll have Mya back tomorrow."

I jumped out of bed. "No! You can't."

Quentin narrowed his eyes. "Christ, Ramona. Don't tell me you…"

"So what if I did? You didn't have a problem with it."

"One night?" he thundered. "You couldn't wait even one night before fucking her?"

"Don't the robots have settings for how lifelike they are? If you don't want them too lifelike, can't you just adjust them to—"

"It's too dangerous for them to have that setting." Quentin wrenched open the dresser drawer where we kept Mya's remote control, her scrubs and other odds and ends. He grabbed the remote control and turned on his heels.

I followed him out of the bedroom. "Quentin! Don't!"

He turned Mya off with a click. "Tomorrow," he said through gritted teeth. "I'll have her back tomorrow."

*****

Mya returned the next day. Her smile was the same. Chipped tooth, dimples. But everything else was different. Her voice was flat. No intonations. No emotion. She no longer initiated conversations. I had to tell her what to do, and she had to wait for a command from me before moving on to the next task. If one of my commands did not fit her "abilities," she replied with a robotic: "Does not compute."

I was devastated, and I had no way to be sure this was even the same Mya robot I had made love with.

A few nights later, Quentin stayed over at work again. I led Mya to the bedroom. I guided her hand to my breast. "Touch me, please," I said.

"Does not compute."

I brought my lips to hers, and Mya drew back. "Does not compute. Shutdown initiating in ten seconds."

Ten seconds later, Mya closed her eyes and went still. I bit back tears and kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, her mouth. "Oh, Mya. I miss you. But thank you for showing me my path." I would have to divorce Quentin. I'd come out as a lesbian. I'd date women.

Who knew what else the future would bring? I could meet someone and fall madly in love. Or perhaps I would date restlessly, waiting for the itch named Mya to be scratched. Possibly one day, Mya would come back to me. A company, somewhere, someday soon, would put out lifelike robots. Maybe they wouldn't be named Mya. Maybe they'd be named Ann, or Jill, or Ophelia. Maybe they wouldn't have brown hair and brown eyes. But surely the company could, and would, tinker with my Mya. Her personality, her true self, her humanness, would be restored.

"Maybe one day," I whispered in Mya's ear. "Maybe one day."

THE END

CHECK OUT Q. KELLY'S OTHER WORKS

Switch: Ellora Landry and June Blue Sky meet after they find out a nurse switched them when they were newborns. Ellora and June are forty years old and have led vastly different lives. June, raised by hippie parents, is an out lesbian who has not had the best experiences in the love department. Ellora, from a conservative family, is coming to terms with her lesbian identity and has just left her husband.

Ellora and June experience an undeniable attraction. However, they are reluctant to risk their hearts, especially since that means revealing secrets and telling the entire story behind half truths.

Will they realize that perhaps they were fated to be together since their births?

*****

Waiting: Caris Ismay, 30, is falling in love with a woman she dares not pursue, and at exactly the wrong time. Caris knew that life after having her baby would be different, especially since her wife did not love her anymore. But Caris never expected post-baby life to be this difficult. Dale, her wife of three years, is in a coma that turns into a vegetative state. Lena, Dale's 29-year-old daughter, is put in the awkward position of revealing Dale's secrets to Caris.

Caris and Lena share a perfect, passionate kiss that they cannot stop thinking about. Plus, they can help each other in ways no one else can. They try to build a friendship, but their growing attraction gets in the way. Can Caris and Lena move past the taboo of their attraction and find their path together?

*****

Strange Bedfellows: What happens when the queen of the ex-gay movement decides to come out of the closet? The person who helps Frances Dourne with this enormous task is a call girl Frances hires. A call girl with a secret of her own. Can they learn to trust each other enough to find the love they seek in each other's arms?

Frances is grappling with something else, too. Her daughter, Marissa, has been gone eleven years. She was kidnapped by her father on her third birthday. Frances hopes her coming out will ease the way for Marissa's return.

*****

All in the Family: Allison Albrecht and Samantha Cannizarro are thrown together when their parents become engaged. Sam is deaf, so Allison begins to learn sign language. Allison is eager to please Sam and to make a good impression on her. Sam does not care about good impressions. She is a loner, always has been. She resents her new instant family, especially her stepmother-to-be. Sam is also reluctant to bond with three-year-old Allen. However, Allison and Allen gradually crack Sam's facade, and the two girls fall in love.

But life in a stepfamily is rarely easy. Throw in romance between two stepsiblings, and the ride is going to be bumpy.

*****

The Odd Couple: Morrisey Hawthorne and her four-year-old son, Gareth, have a pretty good life. Then one day they meet Charlene Sudsbury, who is trying to move on from the suicide of her son, JP, three years before. Gareth is nearly the mirror image of JP, and Charlene connects instantly with him. Not quite so with Morrisey, who can't escape fast enough after Charlene shows her a picture of JP. Charlene is convinced Morrisey is hiding something and sets out in search of the truth.

Despite the circumstances, the two women form an unusual bond and end up with a lot more than they bargained for. But when an old friend of JP's resurfaces, he challenges the fragile trust Morrisey and Charlene have been building.

Can these two women overcome the obstacles that separate them from the happiness they seek?

*****

Third: Tudor historian Helen Franklin is horrified when her dying scientist father leaves her a most unusual inheritance: Anne Boleyn. Yep, Anne Boleyn as in Henry VIII's beheaded queen. She is a time traveler and is having trouble adjusting to the modern world. Helen tells herself she does not have time for Anne. Yalia, Helen's wife, has been distancing herself from Helen for three years, and Helen needs to decide if she wants to save their marriage.

Then the unexpected happens. A romantic relationship develops among Yalia, Anne and Helen. Can the three of them figure out their lives together, especially when time might be running out for Anne?

*****

The Old Woman and Other Lesbian Stories: Nine short stories are in this compilation. The lead story is "The Old Woman."

The Old Woman: Jessica is a pretty good best friend, but she goes too far when she dares Rachel to ask an old woman on a date. Rachel has no choice; otherwise Jessica will do the asking, and Rachel has no intention of humiliating the old woman. Turns out maybe Jessica's idea was not so bad after all. There is a lot more to Ada than her age.

Funeral: Olivia takes a drastic step to combat lesbian bed death.

The Lesbian Curse: Becky and Katy are in middle school and tussling over a boy. Becky curses Katy, saying Katy will become a lesbian.

Polly Wanna Cracker: Polly is a bird. A parrot, to be exact. She follows the goings-on of her human family, especially Faye, the daughter, and Glenda, the mother. Polly knows their secrets too. Will Polly spill the beans when she finds herself able to talk after bonking her head against a window?

What Girlfriend?: Bobbie hopes her one-night stand won't pull the U-Haul trick.

Haunted: Haunted people? Sure, they're everywhere. Haunted houses? Oooh, spooky. Good movie fodder. Excellent for campfire scares. Haunted cars? They’re not unheard of. But haunted pens? Yep, they exist, as Linda and Victoria find out when such a pen brings them together.

Fortune: Best friends Jackie and Emma go to a fortune teller. Emma is shocked when the teller reveals to Jackie that Emma is her secret admirer.

Lili from the Future: It's a dream many people have; your future self visits you and fucks you.

Lizzie: Twelve-year-old Shel is not sure if her best friend means it when he says he's going to kill a person.

*****

Miss Lucy Parker and Other Short Stories: Seven short stories are in this compilation. The lead story is "Miss Lucy Parker."

Miss Lucy Parker: Miss Lucy Parker is a prim, proper elderly lady. When a Volkswagen Beetle—the new kind, and pink—PINK!—turns onto the winding road that leads to Lucy's farmhouse, Lucy is sure the car's occupants are lost. And that the car contains hippies, because hippies drive Volkswagen Beetles. Lucy plans to tell the hippies to get lost. She has no need for their odd speech, beads and marijuana aroma. Except hippies are not in the car. A woman is, a woman wearing a short, blood-red dress that hugs her body. Thus begins Lucy Parker's great adventure.

A Weird Situation: Karen does not believe her boyfriend when he tells her that he turns into a woman for seven hours every day.

The Interview: The person interviewing Debby has a giant booger. Should she tell him and risk not getting the job?

First Day at Work: A security guard's first day at a bank has repercussions for him and three workers.

Every Day: A man struggles every day to follow through on a promise to himself.

The Doctor: A doctor salivates at the prospect of delivering bad news to a twelve-year-old girl and her mother.

Guardian Angel: Gabriel fancies himself a guardian angel. But is he really?

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Email her at yllek_q@yahoo.com