The One That Got Away by Carol Rosenfeld Page B

are you going to be here?”
    â€œI’m in New York for another week, then I’m going to San Francisco.”
    â€œThe women’s dance won’t be until the end of the month,” I said. The subway doors opened and I quickly checked the station sign. “Two more stops, then I have to get off,” I said.
    â€œMy stop is the next one. Could we have coffee or something?”
    â€œSure. Do you have a sweet tooth?” I asked hopefully, thinking of the pastries at Café aux Camélias.
    â€œNot really.”
    So I took Jean to the brightly lit Broadway Blue Plate. It was practically empty but held the promise of the white-haired men and blue-rinsed women who rise with the sun and come in search of the breakfast specials. As Jean and I shrugged off our coats and slid into opposite sides of a padded mustard-colored booth, the waiter wiped the gold-veined Formica tabletop between us with a damp cloth.
    â€œThe lemonade is actually very good here,” I said to Jean. “They make it with fresh lemons.”
    â€œI think I’ll have tea,” Jean said. “I always have a cup of tea before bed.”
    Jean’s long-sleeved Carhartt henley shirt hinted at a slender, sinewy body, and it was clear to me that although her clothing had been chosen for comfort, she was aware that certain people might find it provocative.
    We talked about our jobs. Jean told me she worked for a government agency. I explained that I was a bridal consultant.
    â€œWorking with brides-to-be seems like an odd sort of job for a dyke,” Jean said.
    â€œI agree. It’s a little bit like being a resistance fighter inside enemy headquarters. It really helps that my boss has a drag queen alter ego.”
    â€œDo you ever get the feeling that a client might be making a mistake?”
    â€œIn terms of the man she’s marrying? Or because my gaydar is picking up something?”
    â€œBoth,” Jean said.
    â€œSometimes my instinct tells me there’s something about the groom. But I’ve never sensed a latent lesbian among the brides-to-be.”
    â€œHow do you feel about one-night stands, B.D.?” Jean asked.
    After my experience with Sylvia, I was aware of the potential for either success or disaster in Jean’s question. I thought for a moment, then decided to opt for an honest reply, even if it killed my chances.
    â€œIn theory, I’m in favor of one-night stands,” I said. “But I’m afraid in practice I’m not very good at them. I have to say, though, that the few one-night stands I have had have been with men.”
    â€œHave you just come out, then?” Jean asked.
    â€œPretty much.”
    â€œYou’re not dating anyone?”
    â€œNot really. There is someone I’m attracted to, but we’re just friends, and besides, she’s in a relationship.”
    â€œThat’s a hard one,” Jean said.
    â€œWhat about you?”
    Jean smiled. “Oh, I’m a very old dyke,” she said. “I’ve been out for a long time; I’ve had to fight for my life. I just broke up with the woman I’ve been with for the last five years. So I’m back in the dating scene. With one-night stands, it can be difficult to know what you’re getting into. Women who expect me to be really butch are disappointed.”
    I tried to figure out what that meant, and whether it was meant for me.
    â€œMaybe we could have a drink later on in the week,”Jean said. “I’d like to see the Stonewall Inn; I understand it’s still there.”
    â€œOK,” I said, writing my name and phone number on Jean’s subway map.

    Jean called me from a club the following night. “Hello, B.D. I’m at the She-Wolf’s Lair, but not much is happening here.”
    â€œIt may be too early,” I told her. “From what I’ve heard, the She-Wolf’s Lair doesn’t start filling up until after