Last night I was thinking about fame. About how I am technically one degree of separation (in the Kevin Bacon sense) from Tegan and Sara, because I once slept on a couch in Wilmington, North Carolina, with Tegan’s ex-girlfriend. (Platonically. It was a huge couch.)
Because some days it feels like there are approximately seven queer women in the world, the odds are likely that we all know each other in some capacity. That’s not destiny, that’s just math.
You weren’t famous but still I loved you in a way that I would—on generous days—describe as desperate. I was 20 years old and I was going to love you and perish. There was no other way it could go. For a long time, I believed that was romance.
(I no longer believe that.)
Wendy Xu says, “Romance is a grotto of eager stones / anticipating light.”