“Isn’t that exactly what happens?” I think about my mother falling in and out of love a dozen times throughout my childhood, about all the heartbroken days when she lay in bed crying. I think about my one serious relationship, in undergrad, with a girl named Rachel Greenblatt. Even if there were some good moments with Rachel, they’re overshadowed now by the knowledge that I fucked things up between us, that I let things fall apart, that I failed.

“Is that the only reason you like art, then? Because you’re good at it?” Jack startles me with another abrupt turn in the conversation.

“What? No! I love art because—” The anxiety control-alt-deletes everything I love about art from my brain, so I’m just sitting across the table, floundering. I fell in love with art because… because it was something my teachers praised me for. Because nothing I did at home ever got me noticed by my parents, but drawing—being good at something—got me noticed at school. So I kept doing it, kept getting better, kept getting attention.

“Okay.” Jack straightens in her chair, unable to wait for my response. Her smile is suddenly mischievous. “Honesty game: What is your favorite Taylor Swift album, and why is it evermore?”

I’m ill-equipped to handle her dialogic whiplash, and I sputter, “What makes you think I love evermore?”

She waves a hand in my direction. “I’m getting definite evermore vibes.”

“Okay, for one, it’s the single greatest Christmas album ever written—”

“It’s not even remotely a Christmas album.”

“Agree to disagree.” I take another sip of my coffee.

“Not that you asked, but my favorite album is Lover.”

I slam down my mug. “Lover cannot be your favorite album. That’s offensive to her overall body of work.”

“It’s just nonstop bops, and I’m here for it.”

I eye her across the table. “You don’t really look like a Swiftie….”

“What does a Swiftie look like?”

“I don’t know…. You’re just sort of… cool looking?” Her eyebrows shoot up in her face. “And, you know, more… butch.”

She leans forward across the table until our faces are close together and attempts to lower her voice. “Butch isn’t a dirty word.” She’s still at almost-shouting volume. “You don’t have to whisper it.”

“You just don’t strike me as someone who enjoys pop music.”

She doesn’t move away from me, so I can smell the praline syrup on her breath when she opens her mouth. And beneath that, coming from somewhere on her skin, freshly baked bread. “Tell me: What kind of music is someone like me allowed to enjoy?”

I cringe at myself, closing my eyes tight. “I’m so sorry. Of course, you can listen to whatever music… I didn’t mean—”

“Honesty game: Have you ever met a queer person before?”