My roommate, also a lesbian, went on a date in December. In preparation for the glorious union, we enacted every hypothetical scenario that could happen on the date. A dramatic streetlight kiss, the light brushing of hands, the sensual walk up the apartment stairs in Allston as she followed her new lover to her apartment.
I thought it was a clean break—as clean as the sudden loss of a close friend can be. But before I knew it, Sara had created a new image for me, one I wasn’t comfortable with: the liar. She became Ruth’s advocate, her defender. She said all the right things: that I was a narcissist, a psycho, a sociopath, and a crazy bitch.
I have a terrible condition: I can’t watch or read anything that doesn’t have a happy ending. If the media has even a hint of a tragic resolution, I run in the other direction.
My most embarrassing secret as a Writing, Literature & Publishing major with a literary concentration? I’m a romance reader. Well, maybe reader isn’t the most accurate term–I’m a romance devourer.