Free The Brutal Language of Love by Alicia Erian

and Andie had been hot together. “They’re the real thing, man,” he said, grabbing his crotch. “You can feel it right here!” He and Brigitte had loaded the last of the school’s camera equipment into the bed of his truck and were headed home now, exhausted. Mercifully the temperature had dropped out of the nineties and they were enjoying the breeze, as opposed to Raoul’s air conditioner.
    â€œYeah, but some of that’s directing,” Brigitte protested, dangling an arm outside her open window.
    â€œBut of course it is! You did a great job, man. I’m just complimenting you on the casting, too.”
    Brigitte was dissatisfied. “What I’m saying is,” she said, turning to face him as he drove, “how could I possibly have made a good lesbian film if I wasn’t a lesbian?”
    Raoul laughed and kept his eyes on the road. “Oh honey,” he said, which he only called her when he was about to deliver bad news, “because you’re talented.”

    Shirley mayer gave Brigitte an A+ on the film. In her comments she called it sexy, funny, sad, and true to life. Her favorite part was a close shot of the sales associate’s index finger passing over a raised mole on the young woman’s back. “Great texture,” Shirley Mayer wrote. At the bottom of the paper she added, “Please see me.”
    Brigitte arrived at Shirley Mayer’s office thinking Shirley Mayer was going to pronounce her a lesbian, or at least ask her if she was one, then maybe try to help her come out. Instead she seemed irritated, as if she hadn’t remembered it was she who had asked Brigitte to come in the first place. For a few moments neither of them spoke beyond initial pleasantries, which reminded Brigitte of therapy and how she could never think of an appropriate opening remark. Often she just burst out crying, or else said something garish like, “I’ve been tightening up during intercourse.” Today with Shirley Mayer, she suddenly found herself saying, “If you saw my film and didn’t know me, would you think I was gay?”
    Shirley Mayer pounced on this. “What’s the matter? You afraid of being pigeonholed?”
    â€œOf course not,” Brigitte began, but Shirley Mayer cut her off.
    â€œYou live with that French guy, don’t you? Just make sure you say that in all your interviews, right up front: ‘I live with a man!’ You should be fine then.”
    â€œBut I wouldn’t mind being pigeonholed,” Brigitte said.
    Shirley Mayer picked up a paper clip from her desk blotter and threw it at a bookcase across the room. “Oh hell,” she said. “I know you wouldn’t.”
    Brigitte paused for a moment before asking, “Is something wrong?”
    Shirley Mayer sighed. “It was a plot. All those gay scripts. Jojo Mankowski devised a plot whereby everyone would write a gay script and say I made them do it.”
    â€œNo, he didn’t,” Brigitte said, only because she considered herself to be somewhat inside the loop and had heard no such thing.
    â€œIn fact he did,” Shirley Mayer said.
    Brigitte didn’t say anything.
    â€œI have to assume that neither you nor Paige were in on it.”
    â€œOf course not,” Brigitte said.
    â€œThen why did you write that movie? About the bras? That’s what I’d like to know.”
    â€œIt’s based on a true story,” Brigitte said.
    â€œYes,” Shirley Mayer said. “Most things are. I’m asking, why did you pick that particular story? You want me to know it’s okay with you that I’m gay?”
    â€œNo,” Brigitte said. She shifted in her seat.
    â€œTrying to make me feel at home in a room full of right-wing southerners?”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œOh hell,” Shirley Mayer said again, and she threw another paper clip across the room. “I know why you wrote it.”
    Why?