It all started on a rainy Friday night. I was at a friend's housewarming party, sipping on a lukewarm soda and pretending to care about a conversation on cryptocurrency when she walked in. Foxx.

She wasn’t just any woman. She was a force. A storm with legs. Her dark hair, wild and untamed, framed her sharp, mischievous face, and her smirk was like the Mona Lisa’s—mysterious but somehow smug. She wore a leather jacket that looked like it had stories to tell, and her combat boots clicked against the hardwood floor with the confidence of someone who didn’t just enter rooms but owned them.

I watched as she greeted everyone with a lopsided grin, tossing back inside jokes like confetti. I wanted to be annoyed at how effortlessly cool she was. But when she locked eyes with me from across the room, everything else melted away. It felt like the universe had pressed pause.

“Hey,” she said, sliding up beside me at the snack table, where I’d been nervously nibbling on chips to avoid small talk. “You’re not really into crypto either, huh?”

I nearly choked on a tortilla chip. “Uh, no. Not really my thing.”

“Same.” She grabbed a handful of chips like it was the most natural thing in the world. “What’s your thing, then?”

My thing? Did people actually ask that in real life? I scrambled for an answer, but my brain was like an empty Word document with a blinking cursor. “Um... writing?” I offered weakly.

Her eyes lit up. “That’s awesome. What do you write?”

She was so genuine, so interested, and for some reason, it felt like I’d just been hit with a bolt of lightning. “Uh, you know, stories. Fiction. Whatever pops into my head.”

“That’s rad,” she said, leaning against the counter like we’d known each other for years. “I love people who create. It’s brave.”

Brave? No one had ever called me brave before. And certainly not in a way that made my stomach flip like this.

Over the next hour, Foxx and I talked about everything and nothing. Movies, music, the weird little quirks of our lives. She made me laugh so hard my sides ached, and every time she leaned closer to emphasize a point, I caught the faintest scent of leather and something sweet, like vanilla. It was intoxicating.

At some point, someone cranked up the music, and Foxx held out her hand to me. “Come on,” she said, that smirk tugging at her lips again. “Dance with me.”

I wasn’t a dancer. I wasn’t even particularly coordinated. But with Foxx looking at me like that, I didn’t care. I let her lead me to the makeshift dance floor, where we swayed and spun and laughed until the world blurred into a haze of twinkling lights and pounding bass. For the first time in forever, I felt completely free.

By the end of the night, when the party was winding down and people were trickling out, Foxx walked me to my car. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets glistening under the lamplights.

“This was fun,” she said, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. “We should do it again sometime.”

I nodded, trying not to look like a lovestruck fool. “Yeah. Definitely.”

And then, before I could chicken out, she leaned in and kissed me. It was soft and electric all at once, and it sent my brain spiraling into fireworks. When she pulled back, she grinned. “See you around, brave writer.”

As she walked away, I sat in my car, heart racing, and thought to myself: Well. That explains a lot.

And that’s how Foxx made me a lesbian.

im leaving a throbbin robin as a hate crime
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I married this person, and I will leave my throbbin robbin as a signpost