“My Husband is Gay!”
When the phone rang, somehow I knew it wasn’t good news
My phone rang last Saturday night around 9:45. It was Melanie, my young neighbor who lives down the street. She is a community club member, and I had just seen her at our quarterly meeting that morning.
I knew something was up with her then. She seemed out-of-sorts, sitting alone in the back row and tiptoeing out as we adjourned. It was very unlike her. Usually, she stays until the end of our meetings and then some, chatting with neighbors long afterward.
I answer the phone, my curiosity mixed with a little dread. What could Melanie possibly want at 9:45 pm?
“Miss Edwina, my car is out of commission, and I was wondering if you could give me a lift to the convenience store down the street. I want to get a bottle of wine. I need a drink tonight.”
I’ve had two glasses of wine myself, but clearly, Melanie needs to talk to someone. I can’t tell her no.
When she climbs into my car, wearing a leopard print caftan and footies (no shoes), the scent of men’s cologne is overwhelming. She puts on her seat belt and lets out a loud groan.
“This fucker — !” She stops, not knowing how I might take such language, and apologizes. “I’m sorry, Miss Edwina. I don’t mean to offend — ”
