sWitch

by Kat Blackthorne

“What’s up with the boring-ass outfit? You look like the black and white portion of the beginning of The Wizard of Oz.” She cut me a glance. “What’s up with your boring-ass suit? You look like John Trovolta in Grease when he dresses like a football player to impress Olivia Newton-John.”

“Mom’s a retired broadway actress and thinks a continuous wine buzz coaxes out her creative prowess.”

Rich people loved having the most boring, basic shit spelled out for them. Imagine paying someone to tell you that your ass goes into a chair.

Mary Jane’s perfume hitting me in the face like a wall of Bagarat Rouge and platinum credit card plastic.

Remy blew a puff of smoke. “Yes, the cavalry is surely on its way. Hark! The drawbridge is lowered over the moat!”

You shine, Fauna. You deserve sparkles and pink and whatever the hell else you want in this life—and I want to make sure you have it.”

“Let me worry about that, princess. Let me worry about everything. In fact, I demand you give me each and every one of your fears and anxieties. They’re mine, just like you’re mine. Got it?”

I know what you’re thinking: a one year later epilogue? They’re making major life decisions after only one year together? Let me remind you, I’m a lesbian, so one year for us sapphics equals fifty years in straight-people time. I know what I want, so why wait?