The Brutal Language of Love by Alicia Erian

nodded.
    Suddenly Hazel looked concerned. “I can tell her to lay off if you want. I mean, if the two of you are more than roommates.”
    â€œOh no,” Brigitte said. “He’s just a friend.”
    Hazel nodded.
    â€œHe’s just French,” Brigitte said.
    Hazel stood up again. She looked at the scoring monitor overhead, which had been indicating it was Brigitte’s turn to bowl for several minutes now. “Do you think my friend has a chance with him?” she asked Brigitte.
    â€œOh sure,” Brigitte said. She hit the reset button next to the hand dryer and the eight pins she had once hoped to convert into a spare got knocked down. She sensed her options in terms of activity on the bowling floor diminishing rapidly, and yet she felt uncertain about stepping off it.
    â€œMaybe we could hang out while my friend talks to your roommate,” Hazel suggested.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œI don’t really want to bowl,” she said.
    â€œThat’s okay.”
    â€œI could watch you bowl.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œI was watching you before so I could just keep watching you.”
    â€œI see,” Brigitte said.
    Hazel laughed a little. “I was spying on you,” she said.
    Brigitte laughed, too. “Well,” she said. “Hmm.”
    Hazel set her beer down on the scoring table. She said, “Your bra strap is showing,” and stepped up onto the bowling floor to fix it. Though Brigitte kept her eyes open this time, she remembered Hazel better from the soft pads of her fingertips, the smell of almonds and cherries that came off her face.

    They all ended up back at Brigitte and Raoul’s place. Almost immediately Raoul and Mary Louise, Hazel’s friend, disappeared inside the tin shed in the backyard. After hearing that this was where Raoul kept his weights, Mary Louise—whose biceps were minute but bulgy—had insisted she be given the opportunity to prove she could bench-press a hundred pounds.
    That left Brigitte and Hazel in the living room, a square space with a wooden floor, a futon, and two red director’s chairs. “Matching chairs,” Hazel commented as she settled herself into the one bearing Brigitte’s name. “How romantic.”
    Brigitte took a seat on the futon. “They’re old,” she said. “We’ve had them for, like, three years.”
    Hazel nodded.
    â€œWe paid for them ourselves. They weren’t gifts to each other or anything.”
    â€œI like the color,” Hazel said.
    â€œIf we ever actually used them on a student shoot people would probably laugh at us.”
    Hazel looked blankly at Brigitte, who was desperately trying to stop talking about the chairs. “Here,” Brigitte said suddenly, hopping up from the futon. She walked over to the TV and popped in a videocassette of 36C. “Here’s something,” she said.
    They watched the movie in silence. Brigitte failed to return to her seat, instead standing next to the TV for the duration of the film, ready to shut it off should Hazel experience any discomfort.
    But she seemed to like it, clapping and saying “Bravo” when it was over.
    â€œReally?” Brigitte asked her. She hit rewind on the VCR.
    Hazel nodded. “I’m flattered.”
    Brigitte ejected the tape and carried it back to the futon with her. “Wow,” she said.
    â€œAssuming that’s me, of course. I mean, us.”
    Brigitte nodded. “Raoul shot it.”
    â€œRaoul seems interesting,” Hazel said, which Brigitte took to mean she didn’t like him, a fairly common occurrence among thinking women.
    â€œHe’s French,” Brigitte said.
    â€œYou mentioned that.”
    â€œI was wondering,” Brigitte said, “do you think I’m gay?”
    Hazel laughed. “I hope so,” she said.
    â€œAre you?” Brigitte asked.
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œWho was that guy who kissed you in the