I know what the other girls say about her, about Christie. Behind her back they say it. Stuff that just isn’t who she is. Bitching about her because in truth they want to be her, to be like her. Only, they haven’t the courage she has. And I reckon as it is courage that defines her, or a sort of fearlessness at least.
‘You got to be yourself,’ she said to me once. ‘You got to be you and not be what other people want you to be.’ We were by ourselves and she was smoking a cigarette and looking like it was natural and normal. And there was music playing and she’d kicked off her shoes and she was dancing in her bare feet. ‘It’s the easiest thing in all the world and the hardest, too.’
And Christie saw me watching her, and she smiled and she pulled me up out of my chair and she gestured for me to dance, too. I was a little self-conscious at first and she put her cigarette to my lips. I inhaled. I tasted her lipstick on the end of the cigarette. And I felt a little light-headed and it was suddenly like the music was in me.
Christie was laughing and spinning in wild giddy circles and I was laughing, too. And the whole room was moving about us and the music was something of our making and I did not ever want the bliss or the moment to end.
Then the music stopped and it was suddenly still and quiet as heartbeats and Christie leaned in and kissed me, and she did not break away from that kiss. And she touched where my breasts are, so gentle I might have only dreamed it or wished it. And like that I was breathless in love.
The next record in the stack dropped to the turntable and the arm of the record player shifted and put the needle to the grooved surface. The music started again and Christie was dancing away from me and not looking at me and I was a little bereft.
I didn’t tell anyone about that kiss or about Christie touching me like that. It’s our secret – or mine, at least. And when I am alone and laying in my bed with the dark pressing all around me, then I dare to live that time again, playing it over and over in my head, touching my lips with the tips of my fingers, holding my breath, and my other hand at my own breast, never so light as her’s. And the song that is playing eludes me for I am too wrapped up in that remembered bliss.
But all that I do only ever in the dark where no one can see and where I don’t even see myself.
And that’s the difference, between me and her. Christie is out there and unashamed and beautiful. And everything she does is breathless and honest and real. And me, I’m only ever true to who I am in the dark, and I am a little ashamed of that kiss and that touching of my breasts. And all those other girls saying those things behind Christie’s back, things that don’t have a word of truth in them, and those girls calling on me to say the same things, and I do, betraying the love I feel for her and betraying who I really am.
June 17, 2015: She had a way.
Patricia Ann McNair 
I know what the other girls say about her, about Christie. Behind her back they say it. Stuff that just isn’t who she is. Bitching about her because in truth they want to be her, to be like her. Only, they haven’t the courage she has. And I reckon as it is courage that defines her, or a sort of fearlessness at least.
‘You got to be yourself,’ she said to me once. ‘You got to be you and not be what other people want you to be.’ We were by ourselves and she was smoking a cigarette and looking like it was natural and normal. And there was music playing and she’d kicked off her shoes and she was dancing in her bare feet. ‘It’s the easiest thing in all the world and the hardest, too.’
And Christie saw me watching her, and she smiled and she pulled me up out of my chair and she gestured for me to dance, too. I was a little self-conscious at first and she put her cigarette to my lips. I inhaled. I tasted her lipstick on the end of the cigarette. And I felt a little light-headed and it was suddenly like the music was in me.
Christie was laughing and spinning in wild giddy circles and I was laughing, too. And the whole room was moving about us and the music was something of our making and I did not ever want the bliss or the moment to end.
Then the music stopped and it was suddenly still and quiet as heartbeats and Christie leaned in and kissed me, and she did not break away from that kiss. And she touched where my breasts are, so gentle I might have only dreamed it or wished it. And like that I was breathless in love.
The next record in the stack dropped to the turntable and the arm of the record player shifted and put the needle to the grooved surface. The music started again and Christie was dancing away from me and not looking at me and I was a little bereft.
I didn’t tell anyone about that kiss or about Christie touching me like that. It’s our secret – or mine, at least. And when I am alone and laying in my bed with the dark pressing all around me, then I dare to live that time again, playing it over and over in my head, touching my lips with the tips of my fingers, holding my breath, and my other hand at my own breast, never so light as her’s. And the song that is playing eludes me for I am too wrapped up in that remembered bliss.
But all that I do only ever in the dark where no one can see and where I don’t even see myself.
And that’s the difference, between me and her. Christie is out there and unashamed and beautiful. And everything she does is breathless and honest and real. And me, I’m only ever true to who I am in the dark, and I am a little ashamed of that kiss and that touching of my breasts. And all those other girls saying those things behind Christie’s back, things that don’t have a word of truth in them, and those girls calling on me to say the same things, and I do, betraying the love I feel for her and betraying who I really am.