It starts with:
We were sitting there, diner mugs steaming softly, pencils in hand, and I was staring at Lana's canyon décolletage as she leaned across the table and she said, "I like the green lines better, they're less defined even though there's more of them."
"Huh?" Came my reply. "Why?"
"There's more potential." Came her easy response.
I'm not a girl, though . . . editing. The power of narrative. I'm not even what the porn industry would refer to as a "Ladyboy." Penis? Check, check.
So, we're sitting in a diner, it's maybe 8am somewhere in a warm spring rain, and we've both had two coffees and we've shared some eggs and hash browns and didn't notice the disproving stares of the waiter slash cook because we were too busy staring at my phone, drawing the freeze frame of a porn star's face.
("It looks like she's in pain," I said. Lana laughed.)
It's just her face, and the sound was muted while we scrolled around trying to find the shot, but we were still getting disproving stares. But, we didn't care. It's art, I told myself. I couldn't tell you what Lana was thinking.
Was I ever a girl? Nope, always been a guy. Always been straight? No, I'm queer. What's that mean? And I said, "I don't really know." And went back to trying to draw in tones, not lines, which is far harder IRL (In Real Life) than on a computer. But computer pictures don't sell for nearly as much as cardboard and white out.
So there we drew, for hours, green pencils in hand, blacks on the table and white-out ready for highlights on grease stained cardboard.
Are all friendships so easy? No. I know a lot that are far more volatile, or quiet, or less languid, or strife-ier, or