Epilogue

"We go to birthdays and dinners and nights out together; testing out the fabric of each other’s lives; seeing how we fit in."



Pixabay

 

“Passport?”

“Check.”

“Charger?”

“Check.”

“Currency?”

“Check.”

 

“Well you’re good to go,” I say, scooping Blue Eyes into a final cuddle and furiously blinking away tears. 

 

“I’m going to miss you so much,” she says, snuffling gently in my neck. 

 

“Me too darling, but it’s only a couple of weeks and then I’ll be out there with you.” 

 

Blue Eyes and I have been together for just over five months now and life has settled into its little rhythms and routines: our sleepy morning coffees in bed; plodding down to the DIY shop on a Saturday; the odd, cheeky takeaway after a long day at the office.  

 

We go to birthdays and dinners and nights out together; testing out the fabric of each other’s lives; seeing how we fit in. As the weeks tick by I find new items squirrelled away in my room: moisturiser; deodorant; pyjamas; a pair of jeans. One day a pair of keys appears whilst Blue Eyes smiles shyly.  

 

I come out at work; to close friends at first and then, slowly, to everyone. I was tired, in Ellen Page’s words of “lying by omission”; saying I was meeting up with a friend for dinner or drinks. I have nothing to hide – yes, I love a woman and yes, I’m pretty pleased with that decision. Somewhat predictably, no one cared. I’ve never been happier to be so deeply, terminally uninteresting.   

 

I finally pluck up the courage to come out to my mum, scrunching my hands and jiggling my legs like mad. She was wonderful - no tears or confusion or drama - just the quiet acceptance of a gentle, tolerant and loving woman who wants me to be happy. She’s the last person to know whose opinion actually matters; from here on in I need never be afraid again of what someone thinks of my sexuality or, more accurately, loveality.  

 

And so… to Thailand. I’ve blagged my way onto Blue Eye’s holiday so I pack a bag and head into the sun. Whilst away – unchaperoned and on the loose – she’s bought a selfie stick on impulse. I have a weird quirk about selfie sticks; I find them a bit, well, cringey. 

 

“Let’s have a photo!” she says, retrieving the offending article from her bag. 

 

“Okay, but do it quickly,” I reply, nervously scanning the beach for passers-by. 

 

Fifty years ago, or maybe even 20, this could have been two women about to steal a kiss. Today, it’s two women about to take a photo with a selfie stick. 

 

I smile.

 

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