I remember you—

a coffee, black, in one hand

in the other, a smoke,

manspreading on the ragged, beige loveseat

watching the hockey game

on a small second-hand TV you brought with you when you moved in

to the small, one-bedroom apartment

I rent for 410 dollars a month

on the corner of Nanaimo and Graveley in Vancouver.

I remember me—

on my knees

in front of you

your dick in my mouth

and pausing for a moment,

I look up at you

and joke,

“this must be heaven to you, eh?

a coffee, a smoke, the hockey game, and a blowjob!”

You laugh, absentmindedly, without taking your eyes off the TV

you puff on your cigarette and then cheer

The Montreal Canadiens just scored.

I laugh, too and feel

connected to you, useful,

maybe even wanted,

in an empty kind of way.

And then, one weekend you go away

for three whole days.

I don’t remember where you went—

who cares?

You just weren’t there

And I was home

alone.

No waiting around for you to wake up until noon because you slept in and I didn’t

and then waiting for you to have a couple cups of coffee

because you had to have it or else.

No listening to your music—funk, ska, punk—instead of my music—singer-songwriters, folk, roots.

No cigarette smoke seeping under the bedroom door at night

as I lay in bed trying to sleep.

No Montreal Canadiens hockey on TV

no kneeling in front of you

no obligatory blowjobs.

There was only

space,

solitude,

quiet,

me.

And Go Fish.

That weekend,

I rode my bike down to Commercial Drive, 6 blocks from my apartment

and rented the first film about women loving women I ever watched.

Go Fish was

not the kind of movie

made by straight men for straight men about lesbians.

The women in those movies were not real lesbians—

they were porn-lesbians and they didn’t look like the lesbians

I used to see striding across campus

during my years as an undergraduate student at the University of Guelph—

Lesbians with short, buzzed haircuts, black-rimmed glasses, Doc Martin boots, black t-shirts, tattoos.

Go Fish was not made for guys like you.

No.

Go Fish

was a low-budget B romcom made in 1994

by lesbians

for lesbians

and women like me,

a lesbian-wanna be.

Go Fish

had actual, real

made-in-the-flesh lesbians!

different-shapes-and-sizes lesbians

butch and femme lesbians

racialized lesbians

critical-thinking lesbians

book-reading lesbians

peppermint-tea-drinking

feminist lesbians

affectionate, smart, matter-of-fact, sweet, lesbians.

Lesbians who lived together and who hung out with other lesbians

who talked about lesbian culture, feminism, and stereotypes

who were rejected by their parents and adopted by their lesbian friends

who lived real lives, dated, and joked about trimming their fingernails before having sex

and, lesbians who were in love.

I was riveted.

I laughed.

I felt hopeful.

I felt seen.

I felt longing

all the way to the end

and through the credits as a song played—

“Show me a window,” she sang.

Go Fish was

a world I wanted to be a part of—

a world with choice

a world of possibility

a world where I could fit.

Go Fish was

a spark,

a glimmer,

a window.