Definitely Maybe by Frank Staniforth

“We’re not going in there, right?” 

“It'll be fun,” Sarah assured me, gazing excitedly out of the taxi window. 

“For you, perhaps, you skanky dyke.” 

Our taxi had pulled up outside the Queen's Arms, a notorious hook-up spot for queer people in the Canterbury area. Even worse, it was Thursday, Ladies Nite, so the main bar would be heaving with randy, drunken gay and bi women hell-bent on depravity. The pub's windows flashed dazzling rainbow lights and a dull, thudding heartbeat of dance music seeped through the grey stone walls. 

She grinned at me. “You might enjoy yourself, babe.” 

I sighed. “Look, I've told you, I'm not gay, I like boys.” 

Sarah shrugged. “The lips don't lie, Josie.” 

“That was a friendly kiss at your thirtieth birthday party, darling.” 

“For ten minutes, in my bathroom?” 

“I was drunk. I lost track of time – and everything else, apparently.” We laughed. “Oh, sod it, go on, then, if it'll make you happy.” 

“Sick!” 

I watched her give the driver a twenty note, then clamber out of the passenger door. Tonight, Sarah wore a tight red sateen mini-dress and four-inch black heels, her long auburn hair tied in a ponytail with a gold scrunchy. I gulped, my stomach knotted in...something. 

Inside the warm, humid pub, Katy Perry's I Kissed a Girl was thundering out of the DJ's sound system. Sarah and I pushed through the crowd surrounding a makeshift dance floor toward the bar. She ordered us a couple of cranberry vodkas on ice. 

A pretty blonde woman approached us. “I'm hoping you two beautiful ladies aren't a couple.” 

“No, but the night is yet young, love,” I replied. We laughed. I took hold of Sarah's hand and smiled coyly at her. She grinned. 


Published in Issue #18


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