I'd been seeing Carlie, not very seriously, for a couple of months.
We'd met in my feminist poetry class. I was still in college, at age
twenty-five, on the . . . what was it then, eight-year-plan? I work most
afternoons and evenings at Sister Sarah's, which is, of course, the local
Anyway, Carlie dropped in on me at the store one afternoon, and mentioned that her mom wanted to meet me. The queasy, sinking “thunk” in the pit of my stomach was instantaneous.
“Why?” Visions of an outraged heterosexual mother with a shotgun
flashed across my brain.