Madison is the reason that Spencer Carlin suspects she is a lesbian.

Now, don't take that the wrong way, alright… Because while, physically, Madison is what some would call a 'looker' – a body that is ripped right out of some health magazine, yoga tone and dancing abs – the girl's personality leaves a lot to be desired.

And Spencer might be holding the bar too high, but she'd like both in her life – nice looks and nice person.

Madison has much of the former and not as much of the latter.

Plus the glaring fact that Madison is female is one thing that Spencer figured her future lover would not be – the chest would be flat and hopefully defined, a masculine grin as opposed to a girlish smile…

But now, Spencer is having to multi-task at some insane speed - trying to take in all that she did not expect and was not looking for.

Like the increase of heart-rate, her pulse fluttering a little too erratically at her neck and the faint sensation of her palms growing a tad sweaty.

Like the ticking of the timer on this table, signaling that there is only three minutes left of the five that they give you at such events, and she has not been able to get a word out of her mouth.

Like the constant chatter from either side of her as other unknown people try to feel some kind of spark with strangers, hoping for love to fall into their laps before they must move on to the next face.

Like the fact that she is staring, gawking even, at the woman sitting opposite her… and realizing that the woman is speaking in such a low and warm voice (like hot rum I stole from my father that one Christmas) and that the sound of that voice is rendering Spencer motionless.

Madison didn't say it would be a mixed night of speed dating.

Madison didn't say it would be a night of speed dating at all.

I should have known that she was lying. When has Madison ever shown an interest in live poetry readings?

Men are talking to women and men are talking to men and women are talking to women – everyone seems at ease and Spencer has already had some reluctant conversations with all of them.

Michael, 29, sells real estate and has a dog and wants kids.

Shawn, 32, part-time chef and loves Star Trek and is queer as a three-dollar bill.

Lacy, 28, writes for a liberal grassroots newspaper and has a daughter and wouldn't mind going either way if the person shared her political beliefs.

Andrea, 35, temps at some office and... Well, she didn't say much, just kept texting on her cell.

The woman with the nice voice allows a slight sigh to pass her lips, lips that Spencer has studied in detail for a full minute now. They are not too full and nor are they too thin. They are perfectly proportioned to the woman's face and Spencer wonders if the woman has ever been told just how good her lips look.

"Um, so… that's me and there is only a minute left… do I get to know anything about you? Or should we just finish this one out in silence?"

Spencer blinks, the transmission of hearing what the other woman said slowly moving to the back of her brain, ringing out bells and whistles… tongue pushing to the roof of her mouth and then curling out, wrapping around some kind of stifled sentence and attempting to force its way out…

"I'm not gay."

Honestly, that is not what she wanted to say. She isn't sure what she wanted to say, but it wasn't that.

It probably wouldn't have been the comment about the woman's lips, but she was certainly aiming for something more interesting or profound than 'I'm not gay'.

Maybe something about the fact that she is a struggling documentary maker and that she has a cat and that you couldn't pay her enough money to shop at Wal-Mart.

Or that she comes from Ohio.

Or that she has a family and they badger her about holidays and marriage and wearing coats when out in the snow… even though she is an adult and can fend for herself quite well.

But the woman smiles and it lights up her brown eyes and she raises one eyebrow.

And Spencer must be a more gay than she thinks because that fluttering turns into drums, pounding like she is a warrior coming back victorious from the war, and the idea of breathing actually does not occur to her body, leaving her suspended in a world with no air.

"…Is that just your first name? Or the full moniker?"

The timer goes off. Feet are shuffling and chairs are scraping back. The next person is ready to sit opposite Spencer and she watches as the woman seems to move in slow-motion – long fingers press lightly against the table and knees bend and the smile fades to a grin and eyelashes lower just a bit… and the woman turns in her seat and the back straightens and the woman is standing.

All the dormant signals, the ones that have been stuttering and stopping before they start, finally burst to life and demand action and now Spencer cannot control anything about herself.

"Spencer. Spencer Carlin. I live in the city and my car is a piece of shit and I like staying up late and… and five minutes really isn't long enough to get to know anyone, so we should, uh, you know… talk more, after this… if you'd like…"

The guy who is trying to take the chair is looking between the two of them impatiently, mentioning something about his time being cut into.

But the woman is still standing there and that eyebrow is still quirked and those perfect lips are twitching in what Spencer suspects is amusement.

And Spencer feels the uncomfortable push of the table's edge into her torso, which is because she is leaning toward the woman and she didn't even realize it, making her think of flowers and the sun – petals stretching out to the heat and opening up and blooming…

"I'd like that."

And then the woman is at the next table and is making small talk and Spencer isn't focused at all on the guy yammering at her about his summer house in the Hamptons.

She isn't even focused on the woman with the perfect lips and nice brown eyes and warm voice. Well, at least not totally focused on the woman, who is currently laughing at something said that Spencer cannot hear.

Spencer is thinking about how she is going to call Madison - probably around four in the morning – just to be a bitch and lay this sexuality-shift blame squarely on Madison's shoulders.

And then she'll hang up on Madison and not answer messages left on her answering machine, full of Spanglish and 'girl, you better pick up…'

The woman flashes Spencer a quick look and Spencer notices that she has been staring at the woman the whole time anyway and the guy with the house in the Hamptons must really like the sound of his own voice because he has not stopped talking once.

And the timer goes off.

/ / /

"You like coffee?"

"Yes. Do you?"

"Yea… maybe we could get some?"

"Oh, right. Yes. Let's do that."

"There's a nice place a couple of blocks from here. You game?"

"Beanstalk?"

"Ah, you already know it then."

"I go there every morning."

"Really?"

"Really."

"So do I."

"Really?"

"Really."

"I would have noticed you. I mean, I would have recognized you. I mean… you know, you are… I would remember seeing you, I think…"

"Maybe I just wasn't what you were looking for."

Spencer narrowly avoids walking into a trash can, which makes her sort of stumble to the right and she crashes lightly against the woman beside her.

And those long fingers are on Spencer's arm, right around where her elbow rests.

"You okay?"

"Umm… yea, sure… just learning how to walk apparently."

The woman laughs and it sounds better than the one Spencer caught earlier and it makes a chuckle grow in her own chest and it barrels out as a bemused kind of hitch of breath as they continue walking.

"So, Spencer Carlin, who likes to stay up late…"

And their eyes meet briefly and it suddenly dawns on Spencer that she cannot recall the woman's name.

If I hadn't been distracted by her mouth I would have heard her say it… instead of just watching the way it came off her lips…

"…seems like we've got all night to learn about one another. Where do you want to start?"

The woman grins and it is infectious and Spencer ducks her head because she cannot stop smiling back and her face heats up because the first order of business is to the know the name of the woman who is altering the very landscape Spencer has spent years walking upon.

"How about your name?"

"My name?"

"I, uh, didn't quite catch it the first time around."

"That bored from the get-go, eh?"

"…Not exactly."

And their eyes meet and it isn't brief this time and a soft hand is placed in Spencer's own, palm to palm, and they are not walking anymore.

They are standing silently on the sidewalk as traffic goes by and horns honk and other people side-step them. They are hand in hand, watching one another the way that telescopes take in the stars.

"Ashley Davies."

/ / /

END