Friends, or maybe more?
ELEANOR MARGOLIS HAS HAD ENOUGH OF AWKWARD LESBIAN DATES
“I love your hair,” she says. “I’m tempted to go short, but I don’t think I could pull it off.” I lean into the table.
“Oh, I bet you could,” I say, considering an arm touch but ultimately unready to go… nuclear.
“Really? Thanks!” she says, taking it upon herself to initiate the arm touching. Holy Jodie Foster in a cat shelter. She’s touching me. This is a date.
I smile dumbly, cough, then take a sip of red wine (which I ordered purely because it gets me the drunkest the fastest, which is essential for dates you don’t know are dates).