2016 – Day 34

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: takes place: on an island

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Mary Ann didn't like to talk about the island. We'd been dating for nearly six months before she mentioned it, and even then she didn't reveal too much. She said one of the reasons she first liked me was that I hadn't recognized her from the news. I told her she could thank my parents for raising their daughter on a commune away from TV and newspapers. She said that she'd spent years without TV or newspapers, too. We made love on my queen mattress.

When Mary Ann first moved in with me, she made me get rid of all of my rattan furniture. She said it reminded her too much of the huts and furniture on the island.

"It was all made of bamboo," she said. "The damn stuff worked for everything but boats."

As our lives grew more intertwined, we did everything together. Laundry, grocery shopping, jogging. At first she was afraid to hold my hand in public when we ran errands, but I slowly introduced her into the world she had missed.

"Times have changed," I said.

I took her to gay bars and introduced her to my friends. They weren't all lesbians, but many were. We had built a solid community together. I used to say that we were an island onto ourselves where we felt safe from judgment among a group of like-minded people.

Over time, Mary Ann grew more comfortable being affectionate in front of our friends, and even in public in general, but she asked me to stop using the island metaphor.

I sometimes grew jealous of the closeness between her and some of the other castaways. Gilligan called weekly and stayed with us whenever he was in town. Professor Hinkley, or "the professor" as she affectionately called him, sent long, thoughtful emails from his book tour. He had written a self-help tome about his struggle with guilt over not being able to free everyone from the island sooner. I Could Make a Coconut Phone, but I Couldn't Bring Them Home: My Years Lost on the Island spent 32 weeks on The New York Times Best Seller list. I secretly read it, hoping to learn more about the life Mary Ann wanted to forget. But the book was filled with descriptions of inventions he had made and of near disasters at the hands of Gilligan. There was little about Mary Ann.

In truth, it was Ginger I always wondered about. Why did she never hear from her? Was there a history between them? I finally broke down and asked her. We were stretched out on the couch, watching a documentary about climate change on a rainy Saturday morning. She looked at me and ran her hand through my hair, shifting my part the way she always liked it.

"There was nothing between me and Ginger," she said. "She was into the boys. That was no act. And we had nothing in common, to tell the truth. Once we left the island for good, we simply drifted apart."

"So you were alone all that time?" I asked, feeling both relief and sadness for her.

"Well, there was someone," she said.

"But you said you've always only liked girls."

"I did."

I pause as the information sinks in.

"Noooo. Mrs. Howell? She was married."

"Eunice was Thurston's beard," she said, her lips hinting at a smile. "She liked money, and he gave her quite the life until we landed on that island."

"But wasn't she old?" I asked.

"She liked to call it experienced," Mary Ann said. "But, once we got back from the island, she wanted to return to the rich life. And we weren't in love. So we ended it."

She looked through the window into the yard, where gusts of autumn wind blew the rain sideways and shook the trees.

"There were always storms," she said, her voice trailing off.

I wondered if she pictured herself in Eunice's arms, bracing against the island winds. Or was she remembering the fear she must have felt as she wondered if she'd survive what should have simply been a three-hour tour?