It is 2017.
The girl woman goes to work, then the gym, then ends up having a glass of wine and chatting with one of her housemates, another girl woman she’s known for years but has never fully connected with. She has another glass of wine. They chat about past relationships and travel and share youth hostel stories. They open another bottle and talk for two hours.
It is 2018.
The girl woman thought she’d be going out that night with someone from an app, but the dude has all of a sudden stopped responding. She texts the housemate to say she no longer has a date. The housemate responds, “False. I’m taking you out on a date.” They go out for drinks, walking to a neighborhood watering hole and sipping cocktails out of mason jars on the patio. The other girl woman tells her stories and they talk and talk, and their laughter rips through the summer night air.
It is 2019.
They are somewhere - anywhere - gabbing. There is so much to say. There is always so much to say. Drama has occurred between people they know, maybe one of them has been wronged, perhaps (most likely) a man has behaved like an idiot, and it must be discussed, processed, vented about. They are no longer housemates by now, but they are co-conspirators, confidantes, and soul mates. The girl woman wonders at this friendship, that it can feel so deep and fulfilling and be so fun at the same time. Picking up hot trash on the side of a highway would be a joy with the other girl woman there as her companion. They buy each other flowers. They write effusive cards enumerating the other’s good qualities and why their friendship isn’t like other friendships. It is untainted by sexual desire, though they are both, objectively, smoke shows, and they frequently lament their lack of attraction to the other. But then, maybe it’s better this way.
It is every year since.
They are now separated by a national border and a time zone or two, but this does very little. They test the limits of how long a voice note can be. The triumph of one girl woman is the triumph of the other. When they are together in person, they dance and eat shrimp and sing at the top of their lungs with the radio turned up and the car windows down. They always bring their books to the river and never end up reading because they are too busy discussing life. They hug goodbye at the airport, but it never feels like they’re very far away. They are so proud to belong to each other. So much more could be written. It won’t be, for now.
First mate. No notes.