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Anna lives just 15 minutes from my house, in an antique abode with pegged-pine floors and soaring ceilings, her bedroom filled with the fragrance of jasmine from an actual jasmine plant, which is, the first time I see it, in extravagant bloom.
"As long as you're not with a man," he said, "it's fine with me." Wounding words that sent me straight back to my love, to my Ahhhna. For starters, I like that with a woman you don't have intercourse.A gay female friend once took me to a lesbian bar, where I saw dykes with spiked hair and chains, and also wispy women who looked like you could push them over with one finger.The butch women fascinated me—the ones with Navy tattoos mapping their beefy arms, their leather vests soaked in neat's-foot oil, as soft as they were hard.The cheese is wrapped in red wax, its flesh a creamy white; there are rounds of French bread scattered on a tray. With intellectual proclivities both, we wonder exactly what a neurotransmitter is. I untangle my hand from hers and, one by one, bend each finger at its perfect waist.We talk about Moonshine, her horse, and Napollo, mine. I study her nails, which gleam like the interior of an oyster shell.