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assuage the building anxiety in my chest that Harlowe might have forgotten to pick me up. It was already 30 minutes past our designated meeting time. Each minute that passed made me doubt my decision to come here. Why did I decide to travel across the country over a few emails and love for a book?
    What did I really know about Harlowe Brisbane? She was the woman DYKE Magazine referred to as “The Pussy Lady” and she was the woman who invited me into her home and shouldn’t I have asked a million other questions before coming? What if she was one of those people that was capable of inducing a riot or commanding the attention of a flock of feminists at a rally but couldn’t handle the normal shit, like picking up their dry-cleaning or a scared Puerto Rican baby-dyke from the airport?
    Thirty minutes. In 30 minutes, I’d lost myself to anxiety and daydreams and nearly sprung out of my flesh when Harlowe appeared five inches from my face and asked, “Hey are you, Juliet?”
    My mouth opened but the words I was going to say evaporated. Every clever, and adorable, awkward thing I’d prepared vanished.
    â€œHarlowe?” I asked, mouth dry, heartbeats eclipsing all other brain functions.
    She nodded fast, smiling big. Harlowe wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into her chest. The scent of patchouli and tobacco enveloped my nostrils.
    â€œOh Juliet, you’re here,” Harlowe said, still holding me. She kissed my cheek, and hugged me tight enough to lift me off the ground. “Sweet girl, your aura smells so fresh,” she said, pausing to take a look at me.
    Harlowe kept her palms on my shoulders. We admired each other for a moment. Her hair was cut short and was bright, flashing red. Her eyes were solid blue. Taking her all in quelled my anxiety and gave me a moment to take a deep fucking breath.
    â€œI’ve told the whole world about you,” she said, “And thank goddess for your sweet smelling aura because otherwise this entire experience might be way more difficult, you know?”
    Never in my life had I been excited about having an aura that smelled good. Who knew they even had a smell?
    She led us out of the airport. We walked into the parking lot under an inky black sky littered with stars. The way she held my arm reminded me of the way my mom had walked me to my dorm room on college move-in day. She led me with a gentle directness, with the purpose of taking me to something new. This moment with Harlowe felt like that; I ached for my mom.
    Harlowe’s pick up truck was Pepto Bismol pink and covered with hand-painted daisies. I stared at it feeling the magnitude of the distance between the Bronx and me. Vehicles like this didn’t exist in my neighborhood. I kept thinking of things to say to Harlowe; thinking not speaking. Absorbing the moment was more important: this sky, this car, all the things that felt so different. I wanted to always remember what it felt like to be next to her.
    â€œDid you know that there’s no moon tonight,” Harlowe asked. She started up the truck. Inside there were stacks of envelopes addressed to Harlowe, bits of letters, crumpled up pieces of paper.
    â€œI was wondering where it went,” I said, peering up at the sky from the passenger side. I didn’t see any moon in the Bronx either. I wondered if my family could see the same sky.
    â€œYes, no moon, which means that you’ve brought in a new lunar phase,” Harlowe said, navigating the twisted lanes of airport road. She drove stick shift while smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. “Like, at this very moment, the sun is shining so bright that it keeps us from seeing the moon. You must be the sun, Juliet.”
    Harlowe slapped my knee in excitement, and I started to cry. How was I the sun when I couldn’t even be the daughter? An empty highway stretched out before us. I gripped the yellow inhaler in the pocket of my faded blue jeans. I