Shoulder Confessions

Taken from a chapter in my own life (and slightly altered). A friend reveals their true sexual orientation.

Big-rimmed glasses define egg head scientists.

As I sit here next to Sora Reed, the television blares the nerd I just mentioned. His Indian accent is thick with the high grade jargon people rely on for comfort. He could dumb down the vocabulary but that would only devalue the explanation for the endless rain.

Sora sighed in boredom.

Her eyes -black- remain locked on the TV; mine, locked on hers. I notice the fine details only an admirer notices: eyes lighting up during a thin-lipped, lip-glossed smile which tries desperately to hide irregular canine teeth. I also see the glorified details only an admirer imagines: glances stolen when one turns away to hide the blushing of a pale skinned face. I see my admiration as a constant reminder of the sadness I hold. Sadness laced with a secret. Trying to unravel my sadness will painfully yank this secret out of me.
"Between you and I, Sora, boys never 'appealed' to me. I always had the perception that we go with our opposites because we're told to."
She didn't flinch, "You're gay?"
"I think the term is lesbian."
"Splitting hairs, dear."
I look away to hide my smile.

She grabs my chin, turning me back to her, "Sugar," she says in her southern belle tone, "I won't insult you by trying to walk in your shoes. This must be something awful difficult for you to say."
"You don't think I'm gross? An abomination?" I ask tentatively.
"Patricia, I love you no matter what," she says firmly.
"Me, too." I whisper: "More than you think."
"I see your smile, Patty, and I can only assume you're thrilled to see me accept you. Why did you try to hide it?"
It's possible she didn't hear me the first time, "Because I didn't want you to go. I love you, Sora."
"Did you expect me to be repulsed? I'm here, Patty. You can trust me with anything."
She moves in to hug me; I misread her intention and kiss her.
I immediately back away and head for the door, apologizing for what I did.
She surprises me with her kindness, "It's alright, hun. Come, sit down."
"I should leave."
"No, it's pouring outside," she walks to me, peels my hand off the doorknob, and sits me down, "I'm sorry I can't be more than a friend. But know this: you're the person I feel closest to. When I'm around you I'm happy. This doesn't change anything, Patricia."
I look away again.
"Now don't hide that smile," she turns me back to her; this time, I'm crying, "Why do you cry, dear?"
"You're such a nice person." I rest my face on her shoulder, muffling the sobs. Sora's familiar with this setup: me crying on her shoulder as she gently runs her fingers through my hair.

Sora begins humming one of her mom's lullabies. Her voice raises goosebumps every time I hear it. It's the voice of kindness, tolerance, understanding, and unwavering loyalty. The TV continues its blabber; shut up, can't you see we're having a moment?

Author's Note

Let me hear what you think, and I'll try not to get pissed. Thanks!