Femme Noir Read Online Free PDF

here, some attractive femmes, and all ages and colors and class ranges.
    A bunch of good-looking butches too, but they made me uneasy. It was as if butchness was not okay here, so women naturally butch worked hard to soften it. Some wore makeup! Some wore earrings or other feminine jewelry. Some wore women’s clothing. Some had ludicrously long hair. Some carried purses. “Oklahoma butches,” I said to my beer as I drained it. Another appeared immediately.
    Jack, obviously drunk and liking it, leaned his shoulder in to mine and said slushily, “Love your head.”
    I grinned at him and ran my hand over my smooth scalp. “Thank you.”
    “Don’t get much of that here,” Jack continued, “Too conswer, uh, consper, conservative. But me, I love it.”
    Jhoaeneyie, eavesdropping, said, “I used to have real long hair. Down to here.” She indicated her rear. “But I had to cut it off. I simply had to.” She ran her hand through her blond pompadour. “I just adore it now.”
    “You two are practically twins,” Jack muttered to his drink.
    “Yeah, no offense, but that’s real different. Real different.” Jhoaeneyie studied my gleaming head that I had freshly waxed after my shower.
    “Yeah, what’s with all the bad hair?” I picked out poodle perms, old feather dos begging to be retired, mullets, fried, frizzy bleach heads, women who had ponytails on their crowns and the rest of their heads shaved, and incredibly, women proudly sporting a tail or a single long thin braid down their backs with otherwise short hair. I wanted to come through here with electric shears.
    Jack guffawed. “Tell me about it, honey. This,” Jack indicated the bar, “is my worst nightmare.” He shivered and threw back another shot. “Buy you another too, sweetie?” Jack peered into my beer bottle.
    “Sure, but how about some real beer? What the hell is this piss?” I swigged the dregs of my drink.
    “Oh.” Jack giggled. “Welcome to Oklahoma. Weird blue law. Bars can only serve beer with 3.2 percent alcohol. Ain’t that some shit?”
    Jack and I toasted Oklahoma’s senseless restrictions. Darcy, who had been talking to her girlfriend, now turned to me.
    “So, what do you do?” Darcy was aggressive, like a little pug.
    “I’m a college basketball coach for—”
    “That’s nice. I make tapestries. I weave my own cloth. You should come see it. I’m an artist, really. ’Course my day job is at the Ford Glass plant, but I just have that to support my BMW.”
    Astonished, I nodded.
    “Ava-Suzanne, my lover, is a musician. She’s also an incredible artist.”
    I looked at Ava-Suzanne, who smiled a prim, tight smile with hard eyes.
    “What do you play?” I asked politely, not caring at all.
    “I’m a flutist,” Ava-Suzanne said icily.
    I was busting to say, “You’re not pretty enough to be so hateful,” but I didn’t. “Oh, really.” I sipped my beer, staring at the bar. This was a dead end and a boring one. Maybe I could forget this Jessica Fletcher detective work and pick someone up and make that hotel room useful.
    “I’m a therapist,” Jhoaeneyie boomed. “But I play guitar on the weekend. You know, to unwind. My job just shatters me. Isn’t it ironic?”
    Jack and I stared at her.
    “My IQ is one forty-five, but I’m as forgetful and clumsy as a two-year-old. You know what I mean? Isn’t that ironic?”
    “That is ironic. That’s so ironic, it borders on metaphor,” Jack quipped.
    Jhoaeneyie laughed again, causing several couples nearby to move away uneasily. “Touché.”
    “Now look at that.” Jack gestured to a man across the bar. “Men should never wear pinkie rings. That’s just obscene.”
    I looked over at the man in question. “Oh, that’s just the beginning of his problems.”
    Laughter burbled out of Jack and we clicked drinks.
    “Say, Idgie—” I began.
    “Jhoaeneyie.”
    “Jhoaeneyie then,” I said, “Do you know what all this cloak-and-dagger Michelle stuff is