This time to a window bright
with sunlight and some foreign
movement disturbing my sheets.
Monica. Yes. Everything comes
tumbling back in one moment
of clear consciousness. “Morning.”
Still prone on the floor, Syrah
peeks up through heavy lashes.
Oh, man. My mouth tastes like
rotten potatoes. And I need coffee.
Monica sits up beside me. Coffee?
Si, lo quiero también. And I’m starving.
Wish we had leftover tamales instead
of pigging out on them last night.
“You guys actually drink coffee?
Like, to wake up in the morning?
The only way I can choke it down is
cut with cream and enough sugar
to trigger a diabetic coma.”
I vow to attempt the Mr. Coffee anyway,
and we pad to the kitchen in our pj’s.
My pj’s, actually, as neither Monica nor
Syrah brought theirs to the impromptu
slumber party. Both fight the extra
leg length, especially Syrah, who says,
Jeez, Ariel. How tall are you, anyway?
“Five ten plus. Hopefully I’m done
growing now. As my dad always says,
it’s hard for tall girls to find dates.”
Maybe dates with boys, corrects
Monica. Personally, I kind of like
my women built like Amazons.
Shut up! exclaims Syrah. Listen,
I am a total ally. But here’s the deal.
I really don’t want to hear details.
That’s ’cause you’re dumb, says
Monica. The details are the best
part. She’s claimed the Mr. Coffee,
located the Folgers, and poured water
into the reservoir. You got filters?
It takes a couple of cupboard
explorations to find them, and
while I’m looking it occurs to me
that I wouldn’t trade my Freak
Club friends for membership
in the Popular Pack, even without
a required BJ initiation. Monica’s
queer, Syrah swears she’s not, but
she doesn’t judge or question or get
all fake about liking Monica anyway.
And neither has insisted I declare
myself gay, straight, or just confused.