Straight Talk - takahē

‘Are you going to this book club thing, or not?’ The husband swats onions around the pan.

‘I’ll probably be the oldest, straightest one there. God, how depressing. Maybe I won’t go.’ But the wife is pulling on boots, looking for her handbag and scoffing a cheese cracker.

‘But you’re not straight,’ he gloats.

‘Well I know that! Mind you, I’m old and married, which is probably worse. Oh shit, did you put Max’s karate stuff in the dryer?’

‘Yuh.’

She glances at the mirror by the door, huffs and pulls off her spangly earrings.

‘I mean, they honestly think they’ve invented it all, and I have this pathetic urge to tell them I did it all way before they did, which makes me ancient. Why do I need to prove myself to these people!? It was all so long ago now anyway, maybe it’s not even who I am anymore.’

‘Well. I’m definitely a lesbian,’ he states, used to the pre-outing theatrics.

‘Oh shut up. You know what I did yesterday? I hid the sex book in the bedside table so the cleaner wouldn’t feel embarrassed. What’s happened to me?’

‘You’re reading a sex book?’

‘It’s not a sex sex book, it’s just the title—Sex, with Animals. I didn’t think Christine would notice the comma. She already thinks I’m a sloven. If I leave that lying around she’ll think I’m hopeless and a deviant. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was religious, actually.’

‘Can I read the sex book?’

‘You’d hate it. It’s full of feelings.’

‘Oh. Well, leave a post-it note. Pointing out the comma, I mean. Then you can be a pedantic sloven. Everyone’s favourite.’

‘Fine. I’ll go to book club.’

‘Bring me home a lesbian!’

‘Jesus.’

Bel Monypenny is a bookseller, writer and editor from Naarm/Melbourne who now calls Ōtautahi/Christchurch home. In 2024, she was the joint-winner of the Hagley Writers’ Institute Margaret Mahy Prize.