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"Oh," she whispers, "but she's here with a boy!" Her words, especially the painted blue one, stick to her palm covering her lips and mouth, I lace my fingers through yours and this happens simultaneously on opposite sides of the room, we look at each other and smile, the suppressed laughter in our mouths a balloon blown so full it's about to pop,
You're not all boy.
We laugh because she saw you from far away, she saw you and your hair that basically spells out either, 'lesbian,' or, 'boy,' across your forehead.
I look at your eyes. I tell you: Jesus, she thinks you're a boy and she thinks I'm straight we've neeever been in this situation before.
And, oh, that waitress that one time said, "thank you sir," when you handed her your credit card, her words overflowing with poisonous flirtation, spilling out of her mouth along with a biohazardous receipt, Her fingertips brushed yours as she handed it to you,
She didn't know. Painful ignorance.
After she left, you asked, "So is she a lesbian? Or..."
I didn't have the heart to tell you that she thought you were all boy.
I also didn't have the heart to believe the waitress didn't know she was feeding us poison.
you acted like it was nothing, but I, like, internally growled or something because the only two people who are this protective over someone else are moms and girlfriends.
She whispers, "Oh, but she's here with a boy!" and the blue word caresses our cheeks like your thumb and mine, currently participating in some sort of passive aggressive thumb makeout session because that's a nervous habit we have when we hold hands.
And we have the words "boy" and "lesbian" written across our foreheads, so it's a good thing I focus on your eyes.
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