The bar was dark as pockets.
Flashes of lightning outside stole Gayle’s night vision and she had to feel her way from the door to the bar. Tank Girl was semi-crowded, but most of the women there were huddled together in conversational envelopes, voices hushed, faces only marginally lit by tea candles. The music was loud, but deliberately so, forcing people to lean in. Gayle didn’t recognize the singer or the song. A woman singing about standing on the ledge of a building, wondering if she can fly. Hoping she could because she was taking that step.
Gayle’s paranoia meter was banging it at a solid ten and she was sure every eye was on her, judging her, criticizing her clothes, her weight, her right to even be there.
She slid onto a seat at the far end of the bar, with her back to a corner of a wall around which were the bathrooms. Tucked in there, with a sight-line to the exit.
“What can I get for you?”
Gayle turned, yipping a bit in surprise because the bartender had apparently materialized out of nowhere. A thin, tall, broad-shouldered Latina with a drop-fade crew cut and amused eyes.
“Um … I…”
The woman smiled, and the amusement turned to warmth. “You’re new here.”
“Yes,” said Gayle, taking the question as multilayered and answering the same way.
The bartended nodded, her eyes shrewd but kind. “Don’t worry, sister. This crew’s pretty well behaved. Mostly guppies, a few sharks. No one gets out of hand.”
Gayle laughed self-consciously. “Does it really show that bad?”
The bartender laughed, too. “Yeah. It’s cool, though. If anyone messes with you, I’ll set them straight. I’m Juana. Now … what can I get for you? Thinking of starting slow? A draft or some white wine? Or are you looking to kick it some?”
“What’s in the middle?”
“How about a gin and tonic with lime?”
“Gin can sneak up on you.”
“I know.”
Juana nodded and mixed it. Gayle noticed that the pour was modest. Juana was not trying to work her or set her up. That was a comfort.
Gayle sipped her drink and listened to the music and—as her eyes adjusted—looked at the women. There were no men at all, not even straight or gay BFFs with their female friends. Only women. Gayle tried to decide who was a lesbian and who was bi, or bi-curious, but she had no real idea. Only a few of the women would have registered with her as obviously or possibly gay before she walked in. She was pretty sure there was a big blinking neon sign above her own head, though.
When an hour passed and no one seemed to even glance her way, Gayle checked herself in the mirror behind the bar. Her long hair was straight and glossy, the natural mahogany highlights showing through the black. She’d applied her makeup with subtlety. She wore a dark-brown Italian silk–merino wool V-neck sweater with a ruffle from the top right shoulder down across the body almost to her left hip. The sweater was nicely fitted to accentuate her curves and show some cleavage, but with long sleeves because it was cold out. And she wore the tight black skinny jeans. A russet-colored scarf was draped around her, which Gayle kept pulling down to reveal her curves and then jerked back into place to hide them.
“You’re going to pull a muscle doing that,” said a voice and Gayle once more jumped half out of her skin. Were all lesbians freaking ninjas? She turned and then her mouth went totally dry.
It was her.
The black woman from the clothing store. Owning the space she stood in. Dark hair and dark eyes and very red lips. A wicked little knowing smile. Lots of silver jewelry and energetic stones. Black knit top with lots of subtle patterning. Black tights.
“I…” began Gayle and failed utterly to find a way to complete the sentence.
“You bought those jeans,” said the woman. “Nice. They fit you so well. Is that seat taken? Good. My name’s Dianna.”
And that fast Dianna was seated next to Gayle, who was absolutely unable to utter a coherent sentence.