The Feminine Glare
Gertrude lured me to the trash compactor with a threat: “It’s time,” she told me earlier, eyes insistent, “to discuss the feminine gaze.”
Pink shifted uncomfortably inside my chest. Ever since swallowing him he had been fairly sedate, but sessions with my confrontation therapist always made him squirm. She knows, he said. Some-freakin’-how she knows about us.
Straighten up. Let me deal with this.
My own eyes had narrowed in that moment. My impatience had scorched my gullet with too-hot coffee, the blinds failed to prevent the sun juggernauting through the cafe’s glass face, and I felt Gertrude was potentially slandering what may or may not have been my sexuality. “We’ve only known each other for a little while. You might wanna slow down before you get into casting a
