The Whisper After

I have never heard it spoken of me.

Not because the world was kinder,
or because men accepted rejection
with greater grace,
but because I carried my answer
before I ever opened my mouth.

A loose shirt.
Scuffed sneakers.
Hair cut for convenience rather than approval.
The quiet language of a girl
who never quite learned
the choreography expected of her.

Most people assumed.
Others knew.
The question rarely arrived,
and when it did,
the answer surprised no one.

My wife lived a different story.

She wore elegance as naturally
as breathing.
She understood dresses,
the subtle art of color,
the language of earrings,
the confidence of walking into a room
and being noticed.

Men noticed.

In high school she dated some of them,
trying on expectations
the way young people often do,
wondering if belonging
might eventually become believing.

It wasn't until college,
until our paths crossed,
that the scattered pieces
of a truth she had carried quietly
began arranging themselves
into something she could finally name.

Yet the questions continued.

Would you like to go out?
Can I take you to dinner?
Are you seeing anyone?

And when she smiled kindly
and answered no,

there it was.

The whisper.

The explanation offered
not for her benefit,
but for theirs.

"Oh. She must be gay."

As if rejection required a diagnosis.

As if a woman declining interest
could not simply be
a woman declining interest.

The irony, of course,
was that they were right.

But not in the way they believed.

Not because they had seen her clearly.
Not because they understood her.

Only because chance had handed them
the correct answer
for the wrong reason.

What they wanted
was not understanding.

They wanted comfort.

A story that protected them
from the possibility
that attraction is not entitlement,
that kindness is not invitation,
that admiration is not obligation.

It is easier to believe
that a door was permanently locked
than to accept
it simply did not open for you.

And so the whisper survives.

Passed between bruised egos
and wounded assumptions.

A convenient explanation.

But after all these years,
I think the truth is simpler.

Sometimes a woman says no
because she is gay.

Sometimes she says no
because she is not interested.

Sometimes she says no
for reasons no stranger
will ever know.

And every one of those reasons
is enough.

The mystery was never her answer.

The mystery was why
so many people needed
a different one.

© Susie Stiles-Wolf