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things—until after she was gone. All I wanted was her in my arms all night, but the clanking of dishes, the smell of stale coffee, and the absolute hetero-vibe of Westchester kept me so aware of how unattainable that was. Where could our type of love grow anyway?
    After dinner, we made out in the parking lot, in the backseat of her mom’s Corolla. Kissing was its own goodbye. Her lips found my lips. Our love was safe if we kept it on our tongues and in between our teeth. When we came up for air, Lainie said, “Let’s make feminist power lesbians mix tapes and fall in love all over again.”
    â€œThere’s absolutely nothing else worth doing, babe,” I replied, holding her hand over my heart. She smelled like all the reasons I didn’t want to say goodbye, not even for a summer.
    Portland, Lainie, Mom, Harlowe. Harlowe, Portland, Lainie, Mom. I was sitting at the airport, waiting for my flight, and those four elements of my life banged around in my head, fighting for space. Mom didn’t hug me goodbye. Lainie still hadn’t called me back. Flying off into the unknown, alone and feeling so raw, pushed my anxiety into overdrive. My chest tightened up. I took deep breaths and heard a familiar wheeze in my lungs. Airlines should assign buddies to everyone flying solo for the first time. Fumbling in my bag for my inhaler, my cell phone buzzed.
    â€œNow boarding Flight 333, New York to Portland, Oregon,” called the Southwest gate attendant, her voice snapping me back to earth. My phone vibrated again, right next to my inhaler. I answered while taking a puff, “Hello?” Huge exhale.
    â€œJuliet,” Lainie said, also out of breath, “I only have two minutes. Have a safe flight. Know that Portland needs you just as much as the Democratic Party needs me. Call me when you’re settled. I love your whole everything, babe.”
    â€œYes, and yes. Go change the world through politics and fuck the patriarchy forever,” I replied, feisty, and taking another hit off my inhaler.
    We didn’t even have to say goodbye. We were going to be Thelma and Louise, minus the part where we drive off a cliff. Like Thelma and Louise if they were renegade feminist lesbians totally active in their political and LGBT communities. Lainie and I were going to do the damn thing.
    The takeoff terrified me. I prayed to La Virgen. It wasn’t something I did all the time; showing reverence was one thing but reaching out to her was something way more sacred. I was fucking scared. I needed some all-powerful woman to tell me everything was going to be okay. I closed my eyes and whispered the prayer that I learned as a kid, the one I’d hoped she’d written for us: Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee, Blessed art thou among women. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary Mother of God pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.
    With or without hugs, I was off into the world, off to see this Portland, this Harlowe. I slept on the shoulder of Mary: a deep, warm, sleep. No dreams and no wheezing lungs.
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Part Two:
    You have now arrived in Portland, Oregon
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3. The Pussy Lady
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    Harlowe. Harlowe. Harlowe. The excitement of finally meeting her had built up so deep inside of me. I sat in the PDX baggage claim, waiting for her, itching to see her face. I stared at my Swatch watch and counted seconds. I walked around the conveyor belt. Scenarios of what Harlowe would be like flashed through my mind.
    In one version, Harlowe would arrive with a pack of Amazonian dykes, covered in war paint and body glitter, chanting lines from Raging Flower . She’d march towards me and lift me to the heavens, presenting me to the goddesses. In another, I imagined Harlowe seeing me from across the crowded airport and leaving me there. I’d beg the airline to let me fly home, back to where I really belonged. With each scenario, I attempted to