Prompt: Write about an unusual friendship.
Oh, and watch this clip first.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
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2009
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January
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- Nerd in High School, January 31, 2009
- A Headline Prompt, January 30, 2009
- Verbs, glorious verbs, January 29, 2009
- How They Flow, January 28, 2009
- Mirror, January 27, 2009
- A Dog's Life, January 26, 2009
- What's Inside? January 25, 2009
- That Day, January 24, 2009
- The Power of Hands, January 23, 2009
- Write A What? January 22, 2009
- Lost Consolation, January 21, 2009
- A Big Day, January 20, 2009
- Everyone is . . . January 19, 2009
- Mothers and Daughters and, January 18, 2009
- In the Bleak Mid-Winter, January 17, 2009
- Not Quite, January 16, 2009
- An unusual friendship, January 15, 2009
- First lines of novels and stories, January 14, 2009
- The Company You Keep, January 13, 2009
- A Question, January 12, 2009
- Too Early, January 11, 2009
- To Waiting, January 10, 2009
- Point of View Exercise, January 9, 2009
- Pretending to Be, January 8, 2009
- Going Back to Sleep, January 7, 2009
- A Simple, Homely Occurrence, January 6, 2009
- Familiar Trees, January 5, 2009
- Returning Home, January 4, 2009
- Forward and back, January 3, 2009
- Prompt: January 2, 2009
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1 comment:
What the Mirror Sees
Blonde, pixie, and fierce. Strong language, legs from lacrosse, she looks like a tougher younger Anne Heche. And she talks like a punk rocker, with wild self-assurance, on stage and off. Loretta is unlike anyone I have ever met, and certainly unlike the typical Emory student. She doesn’t belong, but then again neither do I.
“So how long have you been out?” she asks after Crew practice. We’re both vegetarians, dining on the only vegetarian item in Cox cafeteria: peanut butter and jelly.
“Out of what?”
“The closet. How long have you been out of the closet?”
“Closet?” I still don’t understand. I’m from North Carolina. The only gay people I’ve known were gay are Ellen Degeneres, my Mother’s roommate and, I think…maybe, my Mother? But I’m not sure about the last one.
“Oh, I’m not gay,” I say, embarrassed by the fact, wishing I could have a ready-made explanation for why I don’t fit.
“You’re not?” Loretta says, as if I just told her I’m actually not Caucasian. She takes a bite of her pb&j and with her mouth full, comes out to me. I don’t know what to say. I take a sip of my lowfat milk and nearly choke. I’m not uncomfortable, I’m ashamed. That I can’t be gay too, like my new best friend. Now we really don’t have anything in common, except that we’re both on Emory’s Crew team; but then again, Loretta’s the coxswain and I row bow. Maybe that’s why it works – we’re mirror reflections of each other, rather than carbon copies. I am left to right what Loretta is right to left. And so we match.
Loretta drinks, almost every evening at the dark-lit bar My Mother’s Room, known to local lesbians as My Mother’s Womb. I go to bed early, get a good eight hours in before morning workout. Loretta is loud, the life of the party, center of attention, and I’m not. She talks even more when nervous; I turn quieter than my standard shy.
So what brings us close? Loretta puts it this way: “We’re f***ed up about all the same things, but in totally different ways.” She’s probably right. Loretta finishes her beer, and I sip my ice water. Then we leave our favorite restaurant, Tortilla’s, Loretta for the strip club, and me for my dorm. We’ll meet up again at 5am tomorrow, for Crew practice.
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