Her hand is soft, small, and warm in mine. I'm surprised by it. I like it and grab it quickly again after letting go. I don't think I've ever held her hand. This is a woman I've known for I-don't-know-how-long and I've never held her hand. But I am now. She's across the small table from me. Her face is lit warmly by the dim lights overhead and the candle between us. When she talks her eyes glisten and I think she's on the verge of tears, but then it seems that it's just light dancing upon them. She looks beautiful here. Animated. Sometimes her hands swing out in gestures extending the passion beyond the confines of her body.

She is telling of herself directly to me. I feel the story wrapping around and tying us to each other. I have been wanting for this, wanting to deepen the intimacy so we can let ourselves go and recline back into talk of periods, love, wholeness, inconvenient breasts, feeling beautiful in our bodies, stretched out vaginas. I want to be able to talk about the swelling and bleeding that is fundamental to my experience in this world, and here I can. Finally. Let's talk about sitting on that bike and straining against the fatigue that follows the body's release of all it has hoarded. It feels different. My body feels different and I can't ride the same way. I can't say it, acknowledge it in the company of men because then I will feel weak. And its just like that isn't it? Let's talk about how every cough is sexualized and how every shift in mood is always because of our sexuality and not because we live within a stressful world. Let's talk about the mother figures in our lives and how we can't be straight with them because their interests are grounded in protecting us from our own desires.

Let's acknowledge our shared heritage: Two only girls from the countryside. We are: Hicks. We come from: Dogpatch. We despise those corners of our foundations and have built our whole adult lives upon conquering that part of ourselves. We condemn others who have accepted it as their lot in life or who, at best, seem indifferent to it. Yes, I will be there right beside you getting my hair done before the reunion. And when we enter the place, people will know we have gone places and seen things; that we have erased every trace of our working class roots.

How false is that?

But now we have established that we are kin. And we are unstoppable in the night, laughing about phallus-shaped food, riding in a black car brimming with a woman's sweet voice and our incessant chattering. Together we have finished two desserts. Skirt and long-sleeved denim shirt. Jeans and t-shirt. Short bobbed hair and faux diamond drop-earrings. Ponytail and bare lobes. For a moment we are sisters and I feel so much love that I keep my arm across her shoulders while she continues her story by light of the Sony stereo.

I nod along with her and say, "Yeeahh!"