Idlewild

by James Frankie Thomas

every girl on earth was Schrödinger’s lesbian.

There was something comforting in the idea that my real sexuality existed elsewhere, somewhere so remote and well protected that it was inaccessible even to me.

“There’s bohemian, and then there’s feral.”

I wanted them to know—I wanted the whole city of New York to know—that I was a girl unlike other girls, a girl in possession of decidedly ungirlish knowledge.

“Profound sorrow,” my father said gravely, “sometimes manifests as inappropriate laughter.”