“Look, you two were on the topic of ages, right?”
“More or less.”
“Well, that’s what I’m saying,” Vanessa replied. “Morgan is a woman, Chloë. Women stress about their age. It’s what we do. I’ve been panicking about my fortieth birthday since the day I turned twenty-eight.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying, you shouldn’t presume that Morgan’s freak-out had anything to do with her believing you and her would still be together on her fortieth birthday. You guys were talking about ages and she freaked out. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
Rolling her eyes, Chloë said, “Still have no idea what cigars have to do with anything, but I guess you make sense.” As thrilling a prospect as it was to believe that Morgan had been imagining still being with her when she turned forty, Chloë knew she shouldn’t get her hopes up too high.
It was time to go. After hugging Vanessa, Chloë suddenly remembered that she had left her sweater behind the counter out front after taking it off earlier. After she found it where she left it, and after saying goodbye to Luli and Amber again, Chloë was abo
ut to leave when she spotted Amy, one of La Vida Mocha’s regulars sitting at her usual table, tapping away on her laptop. Chloë decided she wanted a second opinion.
“Hey!” Chloë said at Amy’s table.
Amy slipped off her Sony headphones.
“Hey, Chloë!” she greeted with a winning smile.
Amy was a very pretty, somewhat bookish young woman with milk-chocolate brown hair. Chloë didn’t know a lot about her, just that she wrote a blog called Lesbeing, about the lesbian experience in Southern California, and had even started hosting a lesbian-focused podcast recently, which Chloë subscribed to and which she thought was actually pretty good.
“Do you have a minute?” Chloë asked.
“Definitely!” Amy indicated the chair opposite her at the table, which Chloë sat down in.
“Okay,” Chloë began, “Imagine you’re dating an older woman.”
Amy nodded.
“Okay.”
“Now, imagine she starts freaking out because she realizes that in a few years, she’ll be a certain age while you won’t be another certain age.”
“Got it,” Amy said. “Like she’s going to be forty but I’m not even going to be thirty.”
“Exactly!” Chloë exclaimed. She might have discovered a younger version of Vanessa. “So, what does that mean? Is she just freaking out because she’s a woman and forty is like a death sentence; or is she freaking out because she’s still imagining being with you in a few years and hates the idea that she’ll be forty while you’re still in your twenties?”
Amy thought for a moment.
“It could be the first one because, well, you know, women and age, right? I plan on making sure there are no sharp objects in my house when I turn thirty soon. But I think it’s most definitely the second one.”
“Really?”
Amy nodded again.
“Totally. I’ve done some reading up on this. When a man gets involved with a younger woman, he doesn’t give a shit if he turns seventy while she’s still twenty-five. All he cares about is that he’s got a hot babe on his arm. But when a woman gets involved with a younger woman, then there’s a lot more angst and face cream involved.”
Amy stopped and stared at Chloë.
“Oh my god, are you in an age-gap relationship?” she asked, her brown eyes wide.
Chloë nodded.
“And she was freaking out at turning…?”
“Forty.”