Free Unlike Others by Valerie Taylor

her back to Betsy's ex-husband. She thought about him every once in a while, with a sort of exasperated sympathy. He would be about twenty-five, charming and intelligent like the gay boys she knew, a man with a lot of charm, probably handsome, not too swishy. Hindered at every turn, of course, by the dread of discovery. In large offices—most of all in the kind of company that gave placement tests and personality evaluations—the mere suspicion could lead to a discharge. No proof was required. "He's a nice person and a good worker, but." She wondered if Betsy's husband, his hope for marriage and a normal life shattered, had lost his job when the divorce proceedings became known. She hoped not. The poor guy had three strikes against him without that.
    Sometimes, she told herself, wiping the suds off her kitchen floor with clear water and watching the tile pattern of the linoleum come up clear and bright, sometimes I feel so sorry for the whole damn human race. Betsy and the poor kid she married, and Stan tied to that horrible old woman, and Rich so sweet and kind, always chasing some young punk he knows is going to take him for all he's got and then move out. Yeah, and some days I'm tempted to feel sorry for myself, too. She laughed at that, and scoured briskly at a spot of spilled grease, seeing with real pleasure the immaculate sweep of floor emerge from under her sponge. You poor kid, you lead a very sad life.
    Just the same, it was a relief to go back to work on Monday morning. Putting together a list of babies born to Plastix workers in the last month, with special mention for the twin grandsons of the shipping-room foreman, she didn't have time to think about personal matters. No wonder older women who lived alone were always so glad when Monday morning came; their weekends were a walking death.
    There was this feeling that shot through her every time she looked at Betsy. It was a small nagging pain like an intermittent toothache, dormant for a while and then hurting to remind her of its existence. She wanted a girl in her arms, a girl whose body would respond to the love she longed to give, who would accept her ministrations and give back the pleasure that made her whole body blossom into excitement. But even more than any physical relationship she wanted somebody who would come first in her life. A girl who would be more important to her than anything else in the world, a love that was emotional and spiritual as well as physical.
    She told Richard, mentioning Linda briefly but skipping the details because she didn't want to dwell on what she might never have again. He nodded. "Sure, you're looking for the love of a lifetime. We all are."
    "You don't think anyone ever finds it?"
    "So far I never knew it to happen." He thought about it, and shook his head. "It's the same with straight people, if that makes you feel any better."
    It didn't. She said, "Skip it. How's Michael?"
    "Interested in an Air Force man. He hasn't said anything about it yet, but I know the symptoms. I know the guy, too. I introduced them." Richard looked older, and tired. "I've been through it often enough. He's probably making out with the guy in the afternoon, while I'm out trying to sell houses."
    "I'm sorry."
    "It's all right."
    She decided not to bother him with her personal affairs again. He had enough to cope with. Sometimes she envied the gay men she knew, because they seemed to take things so lightly. Then something like this with Michael came along and it was evident that the pangs of insecurity weren't restricted to women.
    We've got all the handicaps of straight people, she thought bitterly, living in a crazy mixed-up world. And a few extra ones of our own.
    She walked slowly back to the office, reluctant to go in and settle down to the afternoon's work. Gayle will be painting her nails or fixing her face, she thought, or talking to one of her girl friends on the telephone. I wonder what she looks like with the makeup off? It could be