Read Queermance Anthology, Volume 1 for Free Online Page B

think of something
to say, but my mind trips over itself and every time I think of something, I know it's not clever
enough to impress her.
    'I don't know your surname,' I say. It doesn't bother me at all; I've fucked plenty of girls
without knowing their first names let alone their last.
    'Lin.'
    I used to try and tell myself that I couldn't be that shallow, but I really am. I like pretty
girls. Emily isn't necessarily pretty, though, there's something different that makes me want to
reach out and touch her, make sure she's real. The way she rests her elbow on the very edge of the
table, or the way one of her eyebrows is almost permanently half-raised, maybe.
    I try not to cringe as I struggle to remember how conversation works. Emily's still looking at me
with that smile of hers and goddamnit, I'm going to ask her to leave because I've had enough of
girls.
    'Do you want a shower or something?' I say instead.
    So she's in the shower when I decide I can't be in the house anymore. Why did I let her in the
bathroom? Fucking Christ. I make sure I've got everything - wallet, keys, phone - and knock
on the door.
    'I have to go, sorry!' I yell at her through the door and there's a reply, but I can't hear her
over the shower.
    I run out of the house, feeling ridiculous and sixteen years old. By the time I get home, she's
gone. It'd be weird if she was still here, but I kinda wish she was. Then I frown and Simon comes
in, sees me and grins.
    'I am so not talking to you,' I tell him.
    'Fair enough,' he pouts. 'Though, I would've killed you .'
    'I haven't decided not to, yet. You're on thin ice, boyo.' I shrug off my jacket, ignore the
dishes in the sink, make myself a coffee and settle into bed to watch a movie on my laptop.
    I shouldn't have left, I tell myself as I swill the dregs of the coffee around. It was probably a
shitty thing to do.
    When I finally shut my laptop, the only light in my room comes from the streetlamp outside. I
hear a tram rattle off and I get under the sheets, sigh into the pillow and run my hands up the
mattress. My fingers close on a piece of paper under the pillow and I pull out a note. I turn my
lamp on to read it: there's a name and number in small, loopy writing.
    By the third date, I've decided I could very well be in love with this girl some
day. She's smart and her tongue is quicker than anything. She's an English major, no idea what she's
going to do and she doesn't give a fuck. And you'd think she'd be loud, but she's quiet, subtle.
She's gotten under my skin and she's hooked me; I know she has because I haven't run away yet even
though I want to.
    'Here you are, girls,' the waiter says as he brings over our coffees. I see her face crunch but
she doesn't say anything until after he leaves.
    'Fucking Christ,' she spits out quietly, stirring a sugar packet into her latte. 'Girls. Do we
look twelve?'
    I nod, want her to keep talking. She's gearing up for a rant, I hope.
    'And I'm not even a girl, asshole.' When she looks at me, there's an openness there. Her breath
comes quick and her hands flutter as she speaks.
    'I'm genderqueer,' she tells me. The words spill out onto the table. 'Do you know what that
means?' Her muscles have stopped, she's only a pair of lungs, accelerating.
    I remember my Google searches when I first saw the term on the internet: 'Not subscribing to the
gender binary'. I nod and smile, because she looks nervous. 'Yeah.'
    'I don't mind what pronouns,' she says. 'I mostly use female, anyway.'
    And then she starts to relax when I don't bother her with questions. We skip to opinions on TV
shows and she's loose again, laughing.
    'You have a third nipple,' Emily says as we're sitting on the couch. She's got her
hand up my shirt, her fingers tracing around something.
    'That's a freckle,' I tell her.
    She shakes her head and lifts up my top, pointing to it. 'That's a third nipple.'
    'Whaaaat.'
    It's brown, like the other freckles on my torso. This one's a little raised, and it's kind