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kind. Ruby would never believe it. I only just believe it myself.
    I have a good look at BJ.
    She is at least four inches shorter than my five foot eight, but her attitude is twice her height. I like her gunslinger walk, her sticky-liquorice, spiked hair and her leather jacket—black leather like the couch. BJ wears no make-up. She could be a pretty boy. Next to her, I’m un-exotic. A tall woman, in tall clothes, with tall, stupid things on her mind.

    ‘HEY FUCKHEAD! GET SERIOUS!’ Biro-blue capital letters on the back of BJ’s hand. Anyone could read it and assume she’s having a bad day. But does she ever have a bad day?
    Left through the roundabout, past the palm trees standing skinny in the wind, and onto St Georges Road, hard traffic. BJ pushes her way in. Gives the driver behind her a wave.
    ‘Why have you got that on your hand?’
    ‘It’s a reminder. I want better exam results this time round.’
    ‘People might see it and think there’s something wrong with you.’
    ‘I don’t care what people think.’
    I want to be someone who doesn’t care what people think.
    BJ’s keys clink and swing in the ignition. I should be listening to my own keys. Her eyelashes are impossible. Dark and long, they curve to a finish you can’t see.
    She’s perfect.
    She can’t be.
    At the intersection of St Georges Road and Holden Street. BJ turns a rapid left on the last of the green light. I close my eyes and prepare for impact. Around the corner, still gripping my knees: ‘Did you make love to me? Did I make love to you? Above the waist, I mean.’
    Clintonesque.
    ‘You think too much.’
    ‘I’m tired of people telling me that.’ I cross my arms.
    ‘Then don’t say every little thing you think.’
    ‘An orgasm doesn’t constitute sex, you know.’
    BJ looks over her right shoulder, then her left, as if she’s about to pull over. Is this going to be our first fight? Would it be the one to end it? End what? I almost hope so. I’ll retreat to the safety of Mark.
    ‘Plenty of women don’t orgasm during sex,’ I keep on.
    Turning the steering wheel with a brashness that matches her response: ‘No woman I’ve been with.’ Parked, she switches the ignition off, turns to me. ‘Look, you’re being stupid.’
    ‘I don’t know how to be a lesbian.’
    ‘You’re not a lesbian. You’re an idiot.’
    BJ opens her door into the traffic and, when a tram has passed, slips through the gap, smiles. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
    So we’re not fighting. Or if we are, it’s going better than my fights with Mark. Mark and I race each other for the keys, the winner backing out of the driveway.
    She walks away. That strut. Her jeans hugging her boyish hips.

    In five minutes BJ is back and, for the second time that morning, knocking on my window.
    ‘Let’s grab a coffee,’ she tosses the book onto the backseat. I pick it up. Tragic Ways of Killing a Woman by Nicole Loraux.
    I raise my eyebrows. ‘You sure I’ll be safe?’
    ‘Snappy title, huh? Ancient Greece is all about dead chicks.’ BJ grabs my hand. ‘Come on.’
    At a small square table, a coffee each.
    ‘BJ, I’m having a heart attack.’
    ‘Relax,’ she says. ‘It’ll be okay. I’ve been where you are, or somewhere like it.’ She stirs in four sugars. ‘Okay, I didn’t have a husband and a big job. But I did have the confusion.’
    ‘So what did you do?’ I lean forward.
    ‘I did what you’re doing. By the way, that’s a great top.’
    I know. Mark comments every time, suggests we should take things to the bedroom. I stay on topic.
    ‘You had sex on some stranger’s couch?’
    I smile at my first recognition it was sex.
    ‘No, you dickhead. I asked questions, tried a few things out, drove my mother mad. I called Homoline.’
    ‘Homoline?’
    ‘That’s what I call it. It’s like Lifeline for queers.’
    BJ’s hilarious, clever.
    She smirks. ‘I used to ring them up and try to get themto do my homework. You could do what I