“We were watching Australia’s next top model the other night and MindReader said he thought I was gay,” I say down the phone to BestFriend.
“Gay?!”
“Yes. A 16 year old girl came on and I said ‘ooh she looks lovely,’ meaning, of course, that I’d like to look like her. MindReader nudged me and asked me if I like them young.”
BestFriend bursts out laughing. “I love him,” she says. “He’s amazing.”
“I know, but he thinks I’m gay!”
She hmms.
“I’m not,” I say. “Women like to critique women. And they form unusually close bonds with other women. Everyone knows this.”
“I didn’t ever think you were gay Billygean,” BestFriend says, sounding amused.
We chatter some more. About inconsequential things, and about death and religion, about whether I have a brain tumour, why BestFriend’s face is sometimes red for no reason, those sorts of things. For two hours.
“I’d better go,” I sigh.
“Yes,” BestFriend says, “I need to sleep. And so should you.”
“I’m in the bath actually, I’ll wash hair then sleep,” I say.
“You’re in the bath?!”
“Yes. I can be very covert about running a bath.”
“Have you been in the bath the whole time?”
“No,” I say, “but it was when we were debating whether I’m gay that I was running it and I could hardly say I was just removing all of my clothes.”
“I see,” she says. “Night then!”
