Free The Brutal Language of Love by Alicia Erian Page B

phase must be the shorter period of the two. You’ve only been gay for three months, so this must be the phase.”
    The two brunettes got up and left. “Shit, man,” Raoul grumbled.
    â€œSorry,” Brigitte said.
    He leaned on the bar then and lowered his eyelids in a way he knew she found sexy. “Want to make it up to me?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œShit, man,” he said again, opening his eyes back up and straightening out his spine. “Why don’t you go bowl or something? You’re too good-looking. You scare away my piece of ass!”
    He left to make drinks for a middle-aged couple who had taken the brunettes’ stools and were still outfitted in bowling shoes. Brigitte finished her beer and rented a pair of shoes herself. She got a lane and bowled three games alone, each time increasing her score by roughly twenty points. She had just started bowling a fourth when one of the brunettes approached her, an amber beer bottle in her left hand. “Hi,” the woman said.
    Brigitte had been standing over the ball return, trying to decide between an elegantly marbled green ball and a plain black one that was easier to carry. “Hi,” she said now, thinking she had an idea of what was about to come. It had happened before—women interested in Raoul wanting to know first if Brigitte was his girlfriend and, if not, would she mind introducing them?
    Instead the brunette asked, “How’re the bras?”
    â€œThe bras?” Brigitte said.
    â€œI sold you some bras a few months ago. At Dillard’s.”
    Brigitte stopped and took a closer look at the woman. She would have to take her word for it, she decided, for it suddenly occurred to Brigitte that she had spent most of that afternoon in the dressing room with her eyes closed. As much as she had enjoyed their sensual experience, the sight of the two of them in the mirror had made her somewhat uncomfortable. “Oh right,” she said after a moment. “Right.”
    â€œIs it Brigitte?” the woman asked.
    â€œYes,” Brigitte said, trying desperately to conjure up a name other than Tammy, the one she had given the sales associate character in 36C.
    â€œI’m Hazel,” the brunette said, helping out.
    â€œSorry,” Brigitte said. “I knew there was a z in it.”
    Hazel smiled. “Anyway, I thought that was you at the bar.”
    â€œThat was me,” Brigitte said. “I was talking to my roommate,” she added quickly.
    Hazel nodded and took a seat at the electronic scoring table facing the lanes. Meanwhile, Brigitte picked up the green bowling ball and tried to act as if it were very light. After a few seconds she put it back down again, then proceeded to dry her hands over the air blower.
    â€œSo how are those bras working out for you?” Hazel asked.
    â€œGreat,” Brigitte said. “They’re great.”
    Hazel smiled again. “I’m glad.” The lane next to Brigitte’s was unoccupied and so Hazel stood up and walked over to the other side of the ball return, facing Brigitte now. She took a swig of beer and covered her mouth to veil a small burp. Brigitte thought she must have been about twenty-five, and noticed that her pelvic bones protruded slightly from her snug, faded jeans.
    â€œMaybe you’d better get off the bowling floor,” Brigitte said, noticing Hazel’s clogs. “They’re kind of strict about shoes here.”
    Hazel followed Brigitte’s eyes down to her feet and said, “Oops.” She stepped down from the wooden platform and returned to the scoring bench.
    â€œYou could rent some shoes,” Brigitte said. “I mean, I didn’t mean to kick you out or anything.” No matter how long she dried them, her hands seemed to keep sweating.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Hazel said. “I’m really just here for my friend. She likes your roommate.”
    Brigitte