I just made eye contact in the one coffee shop open on Sunday. He diverted the gaze to a woman at his table and said, “I remember the first time I saw you.”
“You had your big giant Russian shirt on, even though it was still summer.”
God, they know how to do romance in Montana. Tame an eye–lock with demonstrative domestic love. Their third wheel friend grumbles supportive commentary. That’s instance two this month where my identity divertmorphs into another female’s.
After thinning my knuckles on the wood of a screen door, a man answers with one bottom tooth jutting like a mast and scarcely filtering the stale cigarette breath. I take a step back. I ask if he’s leaning toward Governor Steve Bullock in the election. Yes. Denise Juneau for Congress, too? Yes.
But not crooked Hillary. And not that I asked. Not that I am even campaigning for her, since we know we can’t promote the rest of our Democratic candidates with her grouped in. Presidentially, the state will go red. In other positions, there’s lots of blue to be had. Us organizers slurmumble our intros, that we are with the Montana Democrats, but we boom the name of our moderate candidates. Lots of Republicans like them, in fact. They manage to keep their work for abortion protections on the DL.
“She’s going to strip our second amendment rights.” My tactic is to maintain a tone of agreement while disagreeing: “Hm, yeah. Wow. You know, I do like that she wants to keep guns away from terrorists. And severely mentally ill people. Not people like us!” I think my thoughtwave does flicker across his mindfield. Kinda skipping stone like. He’s nodding.
A little white dog I was tuning out keeps yapping. “Quiet down, little girl. Be quiet. And you have a nice day, too!”
How he said goodbye to me.