Set the Record Straight

by Hannah Bonam-Young

My lock screen is now my cat, Bagel. (He’s bread-coloured beige with black and grey spots like poppy seeds, and I was really hungry when I went to the shelter—you cannot blame me.)

Bagel likes to sandwich himself (ironically) between the wall and the back of my fridge. He gets stuck and then screams until I come home. My neighbours even called the cops once because they thought I was hurting him.

Women at bars will tell me I look just like that girl from New Girl, and I tell them that her name is Zooey Deschanel and that she gave her daughter the middle name Otter. Otter! Who does that?

💀

Clara was special. Is special. She’s a mosaic of a person. So many differing, unique elements that create one perfect thing. A little chaotic and a whole lot of mess involved—but beautiful all the same.

I’ve apparently missed the trends change since leaving Toronto for five months, and now the look is rich, gothic vampire.

demure

Get this word AWAY FROM ME. GODDAMN TIKTOK

“Or?” I ask. “Be gay?” “So it’s a choice? Wow, the congregation back home will be delighted to hear you’ve changed your stance,” I quip.

It’s been two weeks since Clara and I made our plan that she’s dubbed Operation Merry and Gay. It was either that or Ho-Ho-Homo. I think I chose the lesser of two evils. Though both made me smile.

get off using my own imagination by myself—or I’m not as straight as I thought I was this morning. Hell, an hour ago. I might have a crush on my fake girlfriend.

She’s dressed like a sexy librarian meets American Girl doll.

“I’m not sure what’s going on with me,” she whispers. “But I think I like it.” “Kissing girls?” “Kissing you,”

If I had to pinpoint it—if I was asked at this exact moment—I’d say my sexuality is the corner of Evan’s lips. It’s the gasps she makes that act as a windstorm in my chest. It’s the space between her fingers where I fit better than anywhere else. It’s all instinct here. Intuition. And I’ve been waiting my whole life for this rush. So I’m not questioning it anymore.

“Clara,” she interrupts firmly, “orgasms are supposed to be relaxing. So either go back to sleep or let me give you another one.”

I actually have a really good feeling that this could have been the first day of waking up next to the love of my life.

And after last night, I can’t say I wouldn’t rather be home right now, hibernating under blankets with Clara. Or using her legs as a scarf.

CLARA: Are we renting a U-Haul? I feel like as the newer queer in this relationship, I’m not allowed to make a joke first.

CLARA: Will Bagel have to start calling me mother right away, or do we start with Ms. Spencer? Less formal? Ms. Clara?

“That I’d spent my life as a half, and now I’m whole. Like I’ve been sleeping so long under a haze—an illusion of comfort—then you came in. Sunshine and golden rays of light. And you made everything brighter.”

“I actually thought there were only two kinds of love before. That it was just love like your family or romantic love. But I think there may be hundreds of kinds. Love like a new lease on life. Love like a place to exist freely. Love like being understood. Love like the contented quiet. Love like freshly baked cookies. Love like a thin veil between wishing it’d started earlier and loving the way it began.”

“Fuck me in this closet, Ev. Make me come. I’ll be so quiet, I promise. I’ll be so good for you.”

“You mean the sleigh pulled by the old tractor?” Clara gasps, clutching her chest with one hand that is still holding a limp mitten. “How dare you! His name is John-Rein-Deere!”

“It’s an LG-BLT flag, I’m told.” Daryl nods, beaming with pride. “Oh my god,” Clara mutters under her breath.

“Two quirks in a pod.” He elbows my side, smiling affectionately. “The term is queer, Daryl.” My mother rolls her eyes.