Id always kind of feared that *one day*, when she would leave me for a woman. I saw the way she’d admired the waitresses at the country club, the way she stared longingly at the young life guards- their glistening female bodies- shed bite her bottom lip lustfully as she undressed them with her eyes.

In college she had kissed her roommate, a young brunette named Margaret, on a drunken dare. She’d scooped Margaret’s hair into her hand and placed her hand softly on her cheek before planting a kiss on her lips- brushing her ruby red lipstick acrossed hers like the stroke of paintbrush, painting a picture she would carry for the rest of her life.

They both knew. I knew.

As I said, I’d feared the day she would leave me for a woman- but how was I to know that woman would be *me*?