“at a point close to nine thirty, when her booze intake hits escape velocity and finally allows her to look at Kelsey, she’ll know—really know—that Kelsey is imagining having sex with her; fantasizing about her papery skin, about a game in which she plays the lepidopterist and Dagmar the moth”

Managing Editor Zoa Coudret on this week’s bonus short-short: With a frenetic pace and sharp details, this piece captures some of the unique uncertainties and anxieties of dating as a queer person. The prose wanders so freely and vividly, it’s easy to forget most of it describes a hypothetical scenario. I’m here for the journey the whole way.

Talk to the Animals

Dagmar is fifty-one but compliments Kelsey like a fourth grader who’s just discovered a thesaurus: you’re so intelligent, you’re so smart, you’re so thoughtful and knowledgeable and perceptive and bright. They’ve been meeting at this Turkish café in Magdalenenstraße for months now, always huddling knee to knee at the same patio table under the same gas heater, under the same fleece blankets, chattering and sipping until both of their nail beds fade to silver, colorless as Dagmar’s hair. Between every sip of tea, Kelsey plans to out herself—maybe even in German, she’s learned enough by now, ja ich bin lesbisch—while tearing the last pistachio from the last piece of lokum on the tiny dessert plate. What does this woman want from her? Why else would Dagmar keep inviting her out, keep talking, keep on paying, keep telling her that people in their twenties are animals but you are like a dolphin who can talk? She has to know. How could she not? It’s the first thing everyone knows about Kelsey—for God’s sake, she’s got a chin stud. And Dagmar is, too, right? She’s being polite. Or shy. Or German, or from a different time, whatever, it doesn’t matter; all Kelsey has to do is say it, then Dagmar will know and she’ll affirm her, she’ll say ach so, verstanden, I also, and Kelsey will melt at Dagmar’s rare grammatical misstep and go pee and Dagmar will pay, Dagmar always pays, she’ll ask if Kelsey has dinner plans and they’ll walk to the kneipe around the corner like they always do, the one where Dagmar knows the old guy bartender who brings her a side salad and three glasses of red wine before Kelsey’s schnitzel order even hits the kitchen, only now it will be different, this time they will be looser and freer and more themselves, and Dagmar will be so grateful for Kelsey’s bravery that, at a point close to nine thirty, when her booze intake hits escape velocity and finally allows her to look at Kelsey, she’ll know—really know—that Kelsey is imagining having sex with her; fantasizing about her papery skin, about a game in which she plays the lepidopterist and Dagmar the moth, spanning her hollow wings, preserving her against a headboard as if in flight—and this time it will be okay because this is a date, they were all dates, and Dagmar won’t look away, ruining everything with some embarrassing comment about Kelsey’s youth, no, she’ll relax into the soft, plastic booth and enjoy watching Kelsey weigh whether she’ll taste more like dried apricots or a crawl space or possibly her own mother, she’ll watch Kelsey like television, like Tatort, like a brand new show called Take me back to yours and ruin my life—and Dagmar will. Kelsey won’t look away either, this time she’ll stare and wait until Dagmar overdoes it on however much wine she needs, until she switches into German and throws Kelsey her little softballs, wie geht es deine Mutter, pretends to marvel at Kelsey’s three months of crash-course vocabulary, circles back once more to Kelsey’s youth, her intelligence, every part of Kelsey’s body except her tits, and it’ll be sloppy like always, and Kelsey will be flush-faced and warm for no reason, she’ll go pee again, and Dagmar will pick up yet another check and hang on Kelsey’s shoulder as they walk out, and this time when she trips, Kelsey will catch her and they won’t separate on the sidewalk to unlock their separate bicycles, they’ll face each other in the night, and no one will straddle her banana seat and ride home alone, Kelsey will lean over and give what Dagmar will take, because that is what is happening, that is all that has been happening, there is no other explanation and Kelsey is not wrong—

All she has to do is open her mouth.

Marne Litfin writes and draws as an MFA student in fiction at the University of Michigan. Their stories and comics are published and forthcoming in Electric Lit, The Rumpus, Gulf Coast, on The Moth Radio Hour podcast and elsewhere. Say hi on Twitter @JetpackMarne.

If you would like to show your appreciation for the writer’s work, you can send them a tip through Venmo: @hellomarne