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to call her.   It made her rush home from work to sit next to the phone, refusing even to go out for a newspaper.   Phone machines were an announcement to the world that a person wanted more calls than they were getting.
     
    They thought there was actually more attention out there trying to get through.   Who wanted to confirm the nothing behind the fantasy?   She's not really calling you.   Besides, those machines changed the way people communicated.   It's so much less personal than a direct call.   There was something provocative and challenging about another person's voice entering, uninvited, into your home at any moment.
     
    Then again, maybe Kate's machine was a personal message to her estranged lover, an open door saying "I want to know what you have to say."   Besides, some people gave up if they couldn't get in touch.
     
    Molly hung up the receiver without saying a word.   She couldn't take the chance.   A minute later, regretting that decision, she dialed again.   But, having forgotten to practice a message, hung up one more time.   That was one of the dangers of those machines.   Once left, the message was out of your control and could never be taken back.
     
    This was how it always unfolded.   Molly looked for reasons to capitulate because she loved Kate and wanted to be with her.
     
    But she hated having to accommodate Peter.   He was a straight man.
     
    Molly was a gay woman.   Why should she have to take care of him?   So, Molly just waited for the day when Kate would find it unacceptable to say "I'm going to the store" when she was going to her.   Maybe she could learn to act like Peter and exert silent control.   Don't ask for anything.   Just expect it.   For Peter this process came so naturally he could never be accused of malicious intent.   That was his strategic advantage over her.   It was called normal.
     
    Molly knew what her own apartment must look like from the outside; empty, yellow, stark.   Alone inside the box her morality was slipping.
     
    There was a hot breeze, but it was still a breeze, coming in through the window, and she was planning how to behave.   She was so hurt.   The only salve was an extended imagining of what she could have if she ever became a full person in the world.
     
    I would choose her presence, Molly thought.   Followed by a quiet spontaneity.
     
    What did Molly imagine sitting there that way?   She saw the ghost of this woman reclining demurely on the couch with outstretched feet.   So, Molly stretched hers out as well and ran her hand over the light red hairs on those spider legs.   The woman was saying something from a perspective Molly would never have considered on her own but could now predict from repeated exposures.
     
    Then she noticed again how truly beautiful Kate was.   Her arms carried carefully defined muscles that she used for texture as she moved.   At their first meeting she had been tall and proper, a feminine tomboy like Nancy Drew's best girlfriend, George.   She discussed things with her forefinger sitting in the cleft of her chin.   Her eyes looked her age.
     
    The second time Molly saw her she was naked in the locker room of a neighborhood pool.   Her eyes came up to Kate's breasts, which were small with no weight.   Kate's nipples and her lips were the same color, a pale peach, like tiger lilies-.   Almost every part of her body reminded Molly of flowers, vibrant colors found only in nature.   She could see how carefully Kate's body was constructed, how much she stood out physically being so tall, with hair so short it left her ears and neck available to anyone.
     
    Molly wanted to keep her talking and give her something to remember so she launched into a story about a writer named Jane, and her Moroccan lover who cast spells against her until she was so confused she could no longer form coherent speech.
     
    "But how do you know?"   Kate said, effusive, meeting Molly's enthusiasm, engaging it.