Chapter Text
“It fucking sucks.”
“I know, Cle, I know."
"I can't be a cunt anymore!"
"It's a travesty, really," Frida said, adjusting her phone between her shoulder and ear. She pushed her shirts to the right, hangers scraping on the closet rod.
Where was that damn button-up?
“I used to snap the phone closed on these bitches and that was it, fuck you!” Cleopatra lamented through the phone speaker, “Now I have to push a button, everything is made of glass and ugh, I hate the future!”
“Yeah, but flip-phones don’t have FaceTime,” Frida sang.
That was how this phone call started after all.
Frida was scarfing down her breakfast sandwich this morning, when she got an impromptu FaceTime request from Cleopatra. A swipe to the left revealed Cleopatra, sitting in a bubble bath.
Flip-phones couldn’t do that, no sir.
“But if you care that much, they still make flip-phones. We could get you one.” Frida grinned, already anticipating the reaction.
“Jesus FUCK, you want me to be a loser forever, don’t you?”
Frida could hear her on the other line, crunching on whatever snack she was eating, “People would bully me! I would bully me if I weren’t me!”
“They wouldn’t bully you,” Frida said, “They’d just think you're doing shady shit, like dealing drugs.”
“Oh really? Then they would fear and respect me…no, no, I can’t, I need a good camera for my pictures.”
Her hallowed selfies. Of which, there were many.
On their Friday night Uber-ride from the party to Cleopatra’s apartment, Frida was treated to a highlight reel of Cleo’s favorite selfies of the week. Frida particularly liked the selfie Cleopatra took while a bar fight was clearly happening in the background.
She looked good in that lighting, to be fair.
Cleopatra crunched again.
“What the hell are you eating, girl?” Frida said, pausing to look at an old shirt she forgot she had. Ah, I think I stole this from an ex. Oops.
“These…fucking red sticks. Takeez? Whatever, I saw a meme about how all hot bitches do is eat these and lie.”
“Takis?” Frida said, “Fuck yeah. What do you think? Are they too spicy for you?”
“They’re supposed to be spicy?” Cleopatra crunched, in between each word, “There’s a little kick, I guess.”
Frida silently fist-pumped. Maybe Frida would finally get to share her homemade salsa with someone who won't start sobbing when it kicked in.
“Well, don’t eat too many,” Frida said, pawing through her clothes again.
“I'll do what I want.”
“Okay, but your tummy is gonna hurt. And it’s got a lot of Red 40 food dye. Super bad for you, they say.”
“Bitch, what the actual fuck happened to food? They unfroze me and now everything has tiny plastics in it or pieces of rat ass or whatever. Do you guys actually give a shit?” Cleopatra continued to crunch, “Are you vegan too?”
“I’m not vegan and I can hear you using it as a slur,” Frida said, finally finding the shirt she wanted, “You’ve never had vegan desserts? It’s not so bad, it’s— aiiii, puta madre, hijo de perra.”
“What? What?”
Frida sighed, adjusting the phone against her ear. “The shirt I was gonna wear for the showcase tomorrow. A moth munched it up. Fuck.”
She poked her thumb through the holes. There were so many! Did they eat the button too? God damn.
“You guys have moths? Ew.” Cleo’s voice was muffled by a wrinkling chip bag.
“Yeah. Puta madre,” Frida threw the shirt down on the bed, “Fuck. I’m screwed.”
“Use another one, duh.”
“This was my only nice one.” Frida held the phone to her ear, other hand on her hip.
God damn it.
This art showcase was really getting in the way this weekend.
It was the reason why Frida had to leave Cleopatra’s apartment very early yesterday, to the great displeasure of Cleo, who was really not a morning person.
It wasn’t at all how Frida pictured the morning after their heart-to-heart and, um, fun in the bathroom to be—but Frida had begged her professor all week to open the art studio on the weekend so she could finish her installation.
Even Cleopatra wrapped around her body like an anaconda, and whispering sleepy promises of morning sex couldn’t get her to bail.
Art was truly a burden.
“It’s a sign!” Man, she could hear Cleo smiling over the phone, “Ditch the showcase and hang out with your new, sexy, gorgeous girlfriend. I think she has this little outfit she wants to show you.”
The way she said outfit made her think it barely qualified as underwear.
“Cleooo,” Frida groaned, but a chuckle softened it, “You know if I could, I would.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cleo crunched, “You’re so…what’s the word?”
“Responsible?” Frida scratched her nose.
“Fucking weird and boring, but sure.”
But she giggled, and Frida’s heart was spurred on by the sound.
Por dios, I'm her bitch already.
“So anyway,” Cleopatra said, “When you come get me later, I was thinking–”
“—Ah, Cle, I gotta get another shirt first,” Frida sat down on her bed, “But I can hang out after if—"
“—-Whaaaat? Nooo!” Cleo whined, “Don’t you miss me?”
Cleopatra missed her. Frida closed her eyes. Wow.
“Of course I miss you,” Frida said, soft.
“Then why don’t you—WAIT!” Cleo screeched, the noise overload made Frida fumble the phone out of her hand.
“What?! What?!” Frida pressed the phone back to her ear.
“The mall! Let’s go to the mall!” Cleopatra squealed, a high sound the microphone barely picked up, “It’s perfect! You need a shirt and I need to be surrounded by beautiful, expensive clothes.”
Frida felt the excitement like a vibration through the phone.
Her own excitement, however, was thin.
Shopping malls. Ugh. A small clot of dread stuck in her stomach thinking about it. But Cleopatra was practically levitating on the other end, and Frida knew it was no use.
“You...wanna come with?” Frida asked.
“Uh DUH! I fucking love shopping.”
“What? That’s so out of character.”
“Shut up! We’re going.” Frida could hear the chip bag being rolled up, “I can be ready in 20 or 30 minutes.”
“So an hour?”
“An hour, duh. How’d you know?”
“I just do," Frida shrugged.
She didn’t know how to say that this wasn’t her first rodeo with a high maintenance lady.
But none were like her Cleo.
HER Cleo, oh my god—just thinking it made her giddy, like an idiot.
It has only been a day or so since the fateful smoke session and with working on the damn art show, she didn’t have time to let it settle in.
But slowly, the reality solidified.
This thing was like, a thing. They were a couple. They were on an hour long phone call. One of her earrings was on Cleopatra’s vanity. Cleopatra had drooled on her as they slept. Frida took down her hair in front of her.
Frida even met Cleo’s beloved Siamese cat-- Cleocatra, which is apparently a nickname, but it made her bust out laughing anyway (and she swore the cat rolled her eyes).
Cleopatra was her girlfriend: this four-word sentence rattled around in her head, a marble in a spray can, as she worked on her art on Saturday, as she tried to sleep last night,
Cleopatra was her girlfriend! Getting dolled up to be picked up in her car!
Life was amazing! Life was so super—
—Oh shit, I need to clean my car.
“—And an hour is perfect actually,” Frida whirled around, looking for her keys in her room, “You’ve been to a mall since 2003, right?”
“Have I already been disappointed and depressed by shopping malls in the year 2023, yes,” Cleopatra sniffed, “Fucking sad what you people did to them. That would have never happened under my watch.”
Frida chuckled, and started pulling her shirt off, “Blame that on online shopping, okay?"
The open door of her room creaked, her roommate Harriet poked her head through.
Frida waved her in, but pointed to her phone.
Harriet nodded, her head remained bent over.
Right, right. She was in the process of braiding her hair—the thick pink strands held tight in her fingers. Harriet checked herself in Frida’s mirror, at the clips sectioning up her hair.
Cleo's voice pulled her back.
"Blame internet shopping, yeah, over my dead body.”
Frida snorted, “Also, I’m gonna be really real with you. My car is like a total carcacha, a piece of shit beater—”
“—Oh thank fuck, I thought you were gonna make me get on your skateboard!” Cleopatra wailed, “I didn’t know you had a car!”
“I don’t even think my car knows it’s still a car,” Frida walked to her dresser, began yanking the drawers open, “Unless, you want to skate–”
"—FUCK no, absolutely not. What if I fell?”
“I would catch you!”
“You would try, you’re the size of a munchkin,” Cleo scoffed, “And what if I hurt myself? My face?!”
“I’d actually stop time and gravity itself before that happened, with the sheer force of my gayness," Frida grinned, pulling out a solid colored heavy tee.
“Psst!” Harriet hissed from behind her.
Frida turned.
“New girl?” Harriet mouthed.
Uh oh.
Frida hadn’t seen Harriet since the party. She didn’t get to tell her the story.
She didn’t know.
Frida nodded, suddenly sheepish.
In her ear, Cleo continued.
“Oooh, I like that answer. But I’d look much better in your passenger seat, you'll see. Okay, begone—I need to do my makeup. Wear something cute, okay? Wear shorts! I wanna see those legs.”
“Alright, alright–”
“—That ass—”
“–Alright!” Frida groaned, a smile playing on her lips, “You’re insatiable.”
“Thought you already knew that, Fri,” Cleopatra purred.
Harriet, extremely curious by Frida’s flushed face, whispered frantically, “Who is she? Who is she?”
Uh oh.
Cleopatra said, “Aren’t you gonna say goodbye?”
The pout was audible.
Frida tossed her shirt on the bed.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll see you soon, Cleo.”
“Cleo? CLEO?!” Harriet yelled after Frida hung up, “Like, CLEOPATRA?”
Frida scratched her chest, “Yeah…?”
“Wh-How…What the fuck?” Harriet screeched, “What the actual fuck?”
“I know, I know, she’s so out of my league–”
“Aht, aht! That is not what I said,” Harriet pinched her braid between her fingers, straightening up, “I mean like she hated you. She wouldn’t even talk to you. She’s called you ugly! Many times! We all heard it!”
“Yeah,” Frida was still grinning, “I know, huh?”
“And Cleopatra likes girls?!”
“And boys and everything in between.”
“But like… how the fuck is this even happening?” Harriet asked, pulling the braid back, “Is this a hate fuck thing?”
“Nah,” Frida beamed, “The fuck was pretty loving, actually.”
“OH my god,” Harriet shouted, “You guys—already?”
Frida shrugged on her shirt. “It was kinda one of the first things we did, he he."
“When?!”
Frida hooked her thumb under her gold chains, and untucked them from under the shirt. “Remember when I didn’t come home on Friday?”
“BITCH!” Harriet hopped around in a circle, “The party?! But—shut the fuck up, was it during the party?!”
“Ya tu sabes, bestie, you know how I am,” Frida flexed her bicep.
“You motherfucker!" Harriet kicked at her, joining in her laughter, "You…okay, but was it good –”
Frida was much too pleased with herself to do anything but grin.
"Son of a bitch," Harriet said, in awe, "Girl, she is like, way bigger than you, how the fuck did that even work?"
"Gay finds a way, baby," Frida wriggled her unibrow, "You know I love climbing trees."
"Jesus Christ, you dog. And now? What, you guys are like fuck-buddies?"
"Girlfriends, actually,” Frida said.
Harriet raised an eyebrow, “You're dating? Really? Like...how she dated JFK? How she dated all those other guys?"
"Let's hope it's better than that."
"Yeah," Harriet said out of the corner of her mouth, "Because did you see how those ended—"
“—Hey, hey, don’t be like that.” Frida shucked off her shorts, “C'mon. It's different than you think. She's different. Really! We talked a lot. I think we have a lot in common. She’s funny, she’s nice.”
“Nice. Nice…is that a new word for rude—”
“—Harriet!” Frida said, standing in her boxers, “C’mon. Seriously, I really like her. She really likes me, I think. This is a real thing. Be open-minded for me, please?”
“Okay, okay," Harriet relented, quieting for a moment.
"I just don't want you to get hurt. It's hard as fuck to visualize a nice Cleo. Or one that doesn’t loathe your existence,” Harriet started tucking her braid on the back of her head, “But hey, if you like it, I love it.”
"Thank you."
“But she better be good to you. Or else. And you tell her that I said that.”
“I gotta go pick her up first.” Frida started searching for her shorts, “Actually, I gotta go clean my car first.”
“Wait. You’re taking Cleo in the Orange Julius?” Harriet howled with laughter as she left the room, “Oh bitch, you have to show me a picture of that. Hah!”
“Fuck, is it that bad?” Frida whispered, and hurried up, still looking for her keys.
“… Oye, princesa,” Frida bobbed her head to the reggaeton, “—llegó tu principe, el grosero, los bochincheros...”
Frida eased her car by the curb, a spot opened up right in front of Cleopatra’s apartment. Townhouse? It was an apartment, she supposed, but certainly not how Frida and Harriet’s place was an apartment.
This was beautiful, located snugly in the residential neighborhood a good distance from to campus. A gated apartment complex, not infested with broke college students and other vermin.
And the inside was even better.
Not that Frida spent much time pondering the interior decoration. To be fair, when Cleopatra is beckoning you into her bed, it’s hard to focus on anything else.
Frida put the car in park, the gear groaning and clunking, brakes screeching.
Dog-walkers and pedestrians turned to the sound, walking faster away as they beheld the orange mechanical beast. Frida shot them a smile and cranked up the volume, the blown out speaker in the back rattled with every drum beat of the song.
"....La gente no comprende," Frida mouthed, "Que mi enchule por ti nunca se expira..."
Frida checked herself in the rearview mirror—yes, the unibrow was glistening, the hair was perfect, the ‘stache was looking right.
She checked her cleaning job, her efforts focused on the front two seats.
Where Cleopatra will sit—there used to be a mountain of papers from her classes, broken canvases, empty boxes of art supplies, an extra skateboard, little paper bags that she got from the dispensary, stuff she didn’t want in her room, shoes and clothes. There were empty cups, markers, paintbrushes in the cupholders and sticking out of her center compartment.
Now the passenger seat was open, at least.
The clothes migrated to the trunk and the rest of the crap that wasn't tossed, filled the backseats in huge piles— along with most of her Squishmallows. Here’s hoping Cleopatra thinks girls with a slight stuffed animal obsession are hot.
Frida cut the engine, leaving the music and AC on full blast.
She rubbed her palms into her eyes, groaning.
This would be fun, right? It’d be much more fun if she didn’t have to buy anything. If she could just go, carry Cleo’s bags and buy her food, she would be over the moon.
But Frida really didn’t like shopping for herself, a fact that was not changing the more she sat here—it worsened, growing heavier.
“Ayúdame, please,” Frida tapped the small Virgin Mary portrait she had hanging from her rearview. The gold of its gilded frame shone on the big, fuzzy lesbian-flag colored dice, and the pearl rosary.
Frida tried to hype herself up, to the words of the song still playing, "…Pa' meterle mano hay que tener un manual—“
—In her peripheral vision, she saw the apartment door open.
She’s here!
Frida rolled down her window, heart racing, play it cool, play it cool.
“Oye mamiii!” Frida called, leaning out on her elbow, “Need a ride?”
Cleopatra strutted out into the sunlight.
Frida stopped breathing.
Yes, Frida had looked at Cleo before.
Everybody had, even if they didn’t want to, didn’t care to—that was the gravity she possessed.
Cleo’s past disdain for her made it so Frida never looked at her for too long, but she had looked. Common sense dictated that once you become accustomed to something, it wouldn't be like the first time. This logic would tell you that looking at Cleopatra shouldn't knock the taste out of your mouth, if you've seen her before.
But man, you haven't seen her.
If you had, you wouldn't think of logic, bookly things. Her beauty communicated directly to your brain chemicals and the vascular system, it spoke in goosebumps and stirrings. It killed you and made you whole again, in the same fucking second. Like dying plants in the sun.
And like with other celestial beings—photos and FaceTime weren’t built to capture her.
God, she was meant for marble statues and obelisks, etchings stamped on coins and stitched on banners. A face that could last two thousand years and two thousand more if Frida could help it.
Between cartoonish urges to wolf-whistle and gay urges to start weeping, Frida smiled and thought: I’m the luckiest little lesbian in the entire fucking world.
Today's outfit was a baby pink cropped lace cami with a color-matched skirt. Rimless, ombré lens sunglasses covered her eyes, up into her bangs. A tiny purse in the crook of her arm. Heels, as always. Thick, gold hoops, as always. Lips glossed, as always. Eyeliner, eye shadow, perfect as always.
The formula was very simple and with a body that could force anybody to their knees, very effective.
Cleopatra put her sunglasses on the top of her head, “Get out of here before my girlfriend sees you.”
“Oh shit,” Frida joked, “Can she fight?”
“Over me?” Cleo tossed her hair over her shoulder, “Of course.”
Frida grinned, scrambling out of the car.
“Whatdya think? This is the Orange Julius.” Frida knocked on the roof of the car.
A piece of the door handle fell off. She hastily put it back on.
“Wow. Wow. It’s so…orange!” Cleopatra said, through a large fake smile, “How much more do I have to pretend it’s cute?”
“Just a little bit,” Frida jogged over to the passenger door to open it, “Don’t be too mean. She’ll stop working—we think she senses haters.”
Cleopatra strode off the sidewalk, looking over the car as she rounded by the trunk.
Apprehension paled her face, like seasickness.
“Your license plate is crushed. You’re missing a back light thingie,” Cleopatra said, “Did you know that?”
“Pshhh, check out my side mirror,” Frida pointed to it, “Harriet backed into a shopping cart doing like, 40 miles an hour. But I found the pieces and taped ‘em up. Still works!”
Cleopatra kicked the tires. “Are you sure this thing will even make it to the mall?”
"If I have to Flintstones this bitch all the way there, yeah."
Cleopatra rolled her eyes and came to her.
Her hips swayed to the beat of the song booming from the car’s open window. Cleo’s gaze raked over Frida’s body, looking her up and down.
Frida fought a shiver at how blatant Cleo was with her approval—her desire.
Cleo hooked her finger on Frida’s belt loop, pulling her close, away from the open door.
Proximity, touch—their first since Saturday, lit her up.
Now that she was close, Frida wanted to collapse against her, feel her skin, her warmth under her hands again, all of it at once. She gazed up into her face and noticed dull purple hickies spotting Cleopatra's neck—oh, they were hers; heat flashed through her, at the memory.
“Hi. Cute shorts,” Cleo hummed, “Turn around for me? I wanna see something.”
Frida begrudgingly started turning, “Why? There’s literally nothing back there.”
“Oh, I don't know about that–”
Cleopatra caught her hips from behind and suddenly, Frida was being pulled back into her–
“—Hey!” Frida squeaked, pushing away with a grin, “Damn, you missed me.”
“Every inch.”
Frida’s heart could take no more. She wrapped Cleo in a tight hug.
Her girlfriend startled at the suddenness, but relaxed into it, bringing her arms around her. Her perfume enveloped her, drowning her in the sweetness. Frida held her tighter. Could her pounding heart be heard through her ribs? They were close enough.
"I missed you too," Frida murmured, rocking a little back and forth.
"How much?" Cleo asked, rubbing her back.
"A lot."
"Enough to step into my apartment for a quick—"
“—Yo!" Frida released her and poked her in the stomach, "Get your horny ass in the car.”
“Booo.” Cleo gave Frida's butt a pat, before gingerly lifting her leg and lowering herself into the passenger seat.
Was she holding her breath?
“This…this is okay,” Cleopatra decided, bringing her other leg in, “Okay, I thought it would be way worse in here.”
“It was. Just don’t look behind you,” Frida said, and closed the door, muffling the shriek Cleopatra gave when she turned around.
“Why is this seat so far back?" Cleo asked, creakily bringing it forward with the button, “What skank did you have in here?”
"Hmm, I have so many, I don’t really remember their names," Frida said, sliding into her seat.
"You know how I know you're joking?" Cleopatra gestured around them, "There's just no way you bring girls into this car."
Frida turned the music low, “You’re in this car right now, no?”
“I mean other girls. B.C.”
”B.C.?”
”Before Cleo, duh, your dark ages,” Cleopatra said, putting her purse on her lap, “No effing way you had girls in here."
Frida shrugged, palms up.
“You're telling me, you used to pull bitches—” Cleopatra made a circle with her finger, “—with this piece of shit car?”
“They never came for the car,” Frida grinned, clipping into her seat, “You didn’t.”
Cleopatra studied Frida, from the corner of her eye, “Sometimes, I forget you’re a little player.”
“I let you forget? My bad.”
“Shut up,” Cleopatra reached out and flicked her dashboard Garfield bobble-head, “I can’t believe I’m even in this jalopy.”
“I know! This feels like a miracle!” Frida leaned on the steering wheel, “Harriet was even asking for photographic evidence.”
“Who? Oh, your roommate,” Cleopatra huffed, “Well, what the hell does she know? I’m your girlfriend. I will stomach your orange trashmobile and I will look amazing. It’s my job.”
And she did it well.
Frida twisted the key, and the engine sputtered a few times, turning over and over before stopping. FUCK!
"Uh, is it supposed to sound like that?” Cleopatra asked.
“Nah, I think you talked too much shit,” Frida smacked the dashboard, "She's rebelling."
“Ha ha. Seriously, what the fuck do we do now?"
"Maybe you have to say nice things,” Frida joked, trying the key again. Nothing. Weird.
“To who? To the car?"
“Might be worth a shot,” Frida leaned into the wheel, twisting the key harder, "She's sensitive like her mama.”
"How is that gonna help make it work?"
"The power of friendship or something, fuck," Frida pressed the gas, hearing the engine sputter. Hijueputa.
“Whatever,” Cleopatra said, examining her nails, “Um, I like the leather wheel. I like the dice hanging on the mirror. I like how this car smells like you, like oranges—"
CH-CHUG.
The engine trotted on.
They blinked at each other.
“That was not...t-this car isn't like, actually possessed, right?” Cleopatra whispered.
“No promises, I did buy it from an old curandero.” Frida put her elbow up on the wheel, “You think I smell like oranges?”
"Shut up."
Sun, the easy Sunday kind, streamed in from the window. Summer wind cooled the side of her face, picking up the hairs on her arm. Frida's hand hung out the window, tapping to the beat.
This was it.
Frida lived an entire life waiting for this moment, like every butch did.
Having your girl in the passenger seat, sitting there while you do all the work.
Shit, it turned the world new, every color brighter, every street a little cleaner. People waved, you waved back, people cut you off, who cares. Didn’t matter if you were dead-tired or if your thighs were sticking to the seat: everything was easy because she was there.
She made driving broken-down little beaters feel like whipping a Cadillac. Like you were taking a fucking parade float down the block—you don your biggest smile and let the queen wave for the boys and girls.
You feel honored that this meager car might serve the higher purpose of beauty, for a few short moments. And that you, equally humble and dirtied, might have something to do with the way she looks in the sun, in the wind.
I'd take you anywhere, Frida thought, chancing a glance over.
Her passenger princess was currently taking selfies. Cleo found the backdrop of Squishmallows worthy enough, and already staked a claim on a few of them to take home. (Frida would give her all of them if she wanted, even the axolotl.)
Their first official selfie together was in this car—Cleo kissed the camera while Frida threw up a peace-sign at a red light. Along with their first kiss, Frida would secretly never forget their first selfie, nor the first time Cleo squeezed her thigh as they drove (mostly because she almost sent them into the car in front).
What was another scratch on the bumper anyway?
Cleopatra looked entirely too good to be in this car, too expensive, and too beautiful— and that just made Frida’s grin larger, the music louder, her chin rise up.
“This is…reggaeton, right?” Cleopatra was fixing her lip gloss, in the dingy mirror.
“Si, si,” Frida turned the wheel left, her arm out the window. “Old school. Los clásicos. What’d you think?”
“Reminds me of these parties I used to get invited to.” Cleopatra said, capping her lip-gloss, “Not that I really remember much."
“Bitch, when are we going to a perreo?” Frida bounced in her seat, “We need to. The queer ones are lit! Great mixes of new stuff like Bad Bunny, Rauw, Tokischa, and old school stuff–”
“—How old is old school?”
Uh oh.
“Well...like music from the 90’s- early 00’s?”
Cleo shut the mirror with a snap, “Oh my god, I’m fucking old school.”
“You? Never!” Frida eased them into a stop at the red light, “The music…maybe?”
“I hate you!” Cleopatra gave her a shove, “Ugh!”
Frida fished out her phone, handing it to Cleo, “Here. Let's stick to new stuff, then. The password is 4299.”
Cleopatra snatched it up, gleefully, “You're fucked, I’m gonna make myself your screensaver.”
“Lockscreen. And I was gonna do it if you didn't," Frida batted her eyelashes.
"Ugh, stop being cute, please."
"Never. Now go on Spotify,” Frida hit the dashboard and the air conditioning started up again, “Then type in ‘Megan’—she should be the first one to come up.”
“Thee Stallion?” Cleopatra flicked her hair back, “She's a horse?”
“You’ll see."
The Orange Julius arrived at its destination, finally, loud rap music shaking dust off the windows.
Frida cut the engine, “Bitch, you’re still staring?”
“I literally can’t look away.”
It only took a few bars for Cleopatra to declare this song to be the pinnacle of music, and after pulling up a picture of Megan at Frida’s insistent request, she looked ready to risk it all.
"Where was she in 2003?" Cleo bemoaned.
"I think she was in middle school—"
"—NO, okay, that was a rhetorical question," Cleopatra cut her off quickly, "Not an invite to make me feel 40 million years old."
"Right, right, my bad."
Technicalities were a tricky thing when you were an unfrozen clone.
“You think I could wear this?” Cleo’s eyes sparkled, turning the phone toward Frida. It was Megan Thee Stallion’s latest photoshoot. “What do you think?”
Frida’s eyes bugged out, “I think I’d fucking die.”
“So yes?” Cleopatra asked.
“Yes please,” Frida reached into the backseat, hand stretching and grasping at the little black bag on the floor.
“Frida?”
“One sec."
"Friii."
"Yeah?” Frida grunted, finally snagging her fingers on the bag.
She moved to sit back, but a hand at her chin stopped her.
Cleopatra had taken off her shades.
“I missed you.”
All Frida could see was her.
Afternoon sunlight lit up her dark hair, the tips of her eyelashes, her brown irises.
Suddenly, Frida felt her presence, like she was pressed against her, like they were fighting for the same strip of air. Waiting, waiting, until their atoms couldn't handle it, her breath was soft on her mouth, her thumb was tracing her lip and Frida leaned forward—
Destroyed.
Kissing Cleopatra destroyed everything else.
No car, no mall, no thoughts. Just the softest lips she’d ever known, the sweet gloss sticking to her tongue. She could hear the tiny sounds and murmurs she made, louder than the music. Frida breathed in the heady notes of her perfume, did she always smell so intoxicating?
Fingertips urged her closer, tangling in her chains and oh god, Frida was starting to feel a little—
“—Don’t you wanna shop?” Frida broke away, reigning herself in.
Cleopatra thumbed Frida's lip, “We could be quiick.”
“Yeah, but why would anyone wanna go quick with you?" Frida whispered.
"Because sometimes you want something really bad," Cleopatra pulled, just a little, on her chain.
"But we're in public and my windows aren’t tinted at all,” Frida gave her a forgiving peck, “I want to not go to jail really bad.”
Grumbling, Cleo released her, “Fine. Not again.”
“Again?” Frida snickered, “Man, you’re a—“
“—Slut, si.” Cleopatra said, “What’s in the bag?”
“Just a little devil’s lettuce,” Frida set the bag on the parking brake and unzipped it, “If I’m going in there, I gotta be high.”
“High for the mall?" Cleo asked, incredulous, "Why?”
Frida turned the music down, sitting up.
“It’s to calm down. Because I…don’t.” Frida swallowed, “Like…shopping?”
Cleopatra appeared to short-circuit.
“Why?" Cleo barked, "Are you like, too cool for it?”
"No, no, not that."
Frida plucked a small pre-rolled joint from the bag.
She weighed it in her hand.
“Shopping when you look like me fucking sucks,” Frida blurted out.
“Huh? What do you mean?" Cleopatra frowned, "Look at you. You’re hot!”
Frida tapped the joint to her mouth.
“Yeah but...look at me. I'm not hot in the traditional way. Like, nothing about me is conventional. Right?"
Cleopatra couldn't argue with that, no one could.
"Exactly," Frida said, through a deep breath, "The beauty standard is not my friend. I’m different. My body shape. The way I am, the way I want to present myself. It’s really different. Going shopping reminds me that I’m a square peg."
Frida bit the joint, looking down at her hairy legs underneath the wheel.
Suddenly, she felt microscopic, a writhing ant under the afternoon sun. Why the fuck did she start talking about this, why the fuck didn’t she brush it off?
Because Cleo asked. And Frida was her open book.
Explaining her body image issues to Cleopatra, of all people, felt strange. Was there a quick way to explain the crushing might of Eurocentric, heteronormative beauty standards?
How could she begin to outline how it attacked the self worth?
How could Cleo possibly—no, no, that wasn’t fair. Frida couldn’t assume Cleopatra didn’t understand. She’s another person of color, after all, she had an idea.
And in this evil world, being beautiful was as much a curse as being ugly.
But still, the curse wasn't the same. Cleo had a much different lived experience than her and it showed.
“It’s not…fun for you?” Cleo asked, awkward, “Getting clothes?
In another context, someone might have laughed. But Frida knew it was a genuine question. She could imagine how much fun shopping is for Cleopatra, how easy. Like a Barbie buying clothes.
"Yeah, it's fun when I find stuff, but fuck, it can be draining to look," Frida admitted, "It’s so much work. And when you keep not finding stuff, over and over, it gets depressing.”
"Like I don’t even know what side of the store to look at sometimes!" Frida couldn't stop herself, she was rambling, "Everything is super like,...rigid in there, yknow? Men or women. This or that. And where am I? Makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong. Or like, maybe I’m wrong.”
“But you’re not!” Cleopatra said, alarmed, “I thought..don't you know that?”
“Of course, I do. I've been different my entire life, man. But the mall is one of those spaces where it feels like a fucking problem."
Frida trailed off, looking away.
Was this really the first time she expressed this to anyone? Was that why the words came out so stilted, why they felt heavy in her throat?
Maybe.
Frida shrugged off conformity in every way, all the time. She made it look easy. This created a double-edged sword. People assumed since she did it often, it didn't bother her anymore. They didn't ask about it.
But scars are still wounds, and they will always have a weak point. Shopping malls were the specter of her girlhood, its shadow lingering.
The corners of Frida's vision blurred, and she forced herself to stop. Not when Cleo was so excited to come with her, not when the day was young.
She could do this. It's just shopping.
Shaking her head, Frida took a lighter from the cup holder.
Glancing around for security guards and finding none, Frida sparked up. She cracked the window, enough to blow the smoke out.
“Does it piss you off that I love shopping?” Cleopatra said, fiddling with her purse.
“No!” Frida blurted, reaching for her hand, “Baby, no. That’s awesome. Look, don’t worry, okay? I'm fine. I have my ways of dealing with the bullshit. I’ve done it all my life.”
“This’ll still be fun! Honestly!” Frida squeezed her hand, “I’ll be okay. I'm here with you. It can't be so bad. And there’s a lot of cool shit in the mall.”
"Yeah right," Cleopatra snorted, thumb rubbing on Frida‘s, "Not anymore. All the stores are weird and empty. Everything looks all modern and boring. Totally lame.”
“It's boring only ‘cuz you haven’t gone with me,” Frida said, joint hanging off her lip, “You’ll see.”
Cleopatra leaned over the center console to pluck it out of her mouth.
“What makes you say that?" Cleo took a drag, "You got a secret fuck spot in there?”
“Huh?” Frida pried her eyes away from that god damn cleavage, “I-In public? Hell no.”
“What, you’ve never…?” Cleopatra smiled, dangerously, putting the joint back in Frida’s open mouth, “Well, well."
"By the way, I heard you," Cleopatra took out her lip-gloss, "You called me baby.”
“Oh,” Frida’s face dropped, “Uh, d-did–was that not okay or–”
“—I loved it,” Cleo hummed, rubbing the applicator on her lips, “I was waiting for you to call me something. Babe.”
Frida watched Cleopatra, spread the gloss over her parted lips.
Frida took a hit, puff of smoke curling away into the fuzz-lined ceiling, “Don’t put it away. You're gonna need it again in a sec.”
Cleo smiled, and un-tinted windows be damned.
Okay, Frida had to admit—being at the mall was better with your arm around a pretty girl.
Maybe that was true for everything, every activity. She would have to try it out.
As they walked toward the entrance, past the rows of cars and disembarking families, Cleopatra tugged her arm and Frida fell into her, against her waist.
Perfect fit.
Frida loved thoughts of fate, and decided this had to be the reason she never grew past 5’3”. Cleo’s hand on her shoulder, holding her weight, their strides falling in a rhythm like they were dancing—this had to be the reason.
Frida leaned her head onto her, sighing with deep satisfaction. What a fucking Sunday.
Cleopatra declared she wanted a pretzel, the instant they made it past the sliding doors. The munchies and Frida's hesitance for shopping, led her to happily oblige.
Cleo led the way by memory, weaving by crowds of families, couples. They parted for her, like the sea.
Auntie Anne’s Pretzels was one of the few places that remained from 2003 apparently, and on the way, Cleopatra filled her in on what else had changed.
Which was a lot. Frida didn’t recognize half of the stores she missed most.
“I used to stand right there,” Cleopatra pointed behind her, “In front of KB Toys and make fun of ugly people.”
“Babe!” Frida said, nearing the table, pretzels in hand.
“What? I don’t do that anymore!” Cleo said, taking off her shades, “Out loud.”
Frida rolled her eyes, handing Cleopatra her pretzel, “Here you go. Oh, speaking of ugly people?”
Frida flashed the receipt in her hand, “You got a number.”
Cleopatra didn’t even look up, tearing the pretzel with her fingers, “The pretzel guy? Yeah, as if.”
No wonder he looked so nervous taking their order. The guy was shaking.
“Does that happen to you a lot?” Frida sat down, looking back at the pimply teen at the cash register.
He gave a hopeful thumbs up. Frida returned a grim thumbs down.
“What do you think?” Cleopatra sat back on the spindly chair, “I could write a phone book with all the numbers I get. Do you know what a phone book is?”
“Yes, grandma,” Frida said, through a mouthful of pepperoni pizza pretzel.
“You have 3 seconds to take that back or you’re never touching—“
“—I meant yes, young lady! Silly me!” Frida grinned, “And what did you do with all those numbers?”
Cleo popped a chunk of pretzel in her mouth, “Call the hot ones. Use the uglies as gum wrappers. Sometimes I write the nastiest ones on bathroom stalls.”
“Call me for a good time?”
“Something worse than that,” Cleopatra licked the cinnamon sugar off her lips. Man.
“Does that piss you off?” Cleopatra asked, “Dudes hitting on me when I’m out with you?”
Frida shrugged, “Eh. This isn't my first time. I used to get mad when that happened, with um, my old girlfriends.”
Cleo had no reaction to her mentioning exes, that's a relief.
“But not anymore?” Cleopatra said, "Why not?"
“At the end of the day, you’re sliding under my sheets, who gives a fuck what they want?”
Cleopatra raised an eyebrow, “So you’re not the jealous type?”
“Nah,” Frida leaned back in the chair, “If you say you’re mine, you’re mine. I trust you. Why wouldn’t I?”
Cleopatra tilted her head, “You’re fucking weird.”
“Or am I just not insecure?” Frida chewed, unibrow raised.
“Whatever. What kind of shirt did you have?” Cleo asked.
“Huh?” Frida blinked, “Oh! Yeah, it was uh, white. Long sleeves. Just a super basic formal men’s shirt. I’ve had it for forever.”
Cleopatra nodded, crossing her legs, “What’d you like about it?”
“Uh….I like that I had it?”
“Okay fine, what did you hate about it?”
“So fucking much. It was so long,” Frida groaned, “I feel like every time I wear dude stuff, I look like a toddler broke into a Men’s Warehouse. The proportions are all off.”
“I bet.”
“I had to tuck the shirt in my pants, made my butt look lumpy.”
“Aw, not your little butt.”
“It just looks like I’m not meant to wear it,” Frida licked her fingers, “I hate that feeling."
Cleopatra nodded again, slipping her sunglasses back on, “Fuck, I forgot how thirsty pretzels make you. What’s good to drink in the future?”
They were standing by the Pick-Up station of the boba kiosk, their beverages secured.
Little kids ran around them, pre-teens eyed at them curiously. Everyone else, looked at them with various motives.
Frida noticed they had eyes on them quite often; being around Cleo meant people paid special attention, eyes lingering more than they should. That was gonna take some getting used to for someone like Frida, who lived her whole life enjoying a healthy level of public indifference.
“What the fuck is this?” Cleo said, looking at the bottom of the cup, “Are those balls? What the fuck?”
“The boba! It’s made out of tapioca,” Frida stabbed the straw through the top of Cleo’s iced lemon green tea, “That’s why the straws are so fat. You suck them up—“
“—You suck up balls?” Cleopatra said, gleefully.
“Cmon,” Frida said, exasperated, “Yes, they’re balls. But it’s yummy! Suck slowly.”
“Suck slowly on these balls?—”
“—Bitch!” Frida suddenly understood how this girl dated JFK for so long. “Fucking try it already.”
“Okayy,” Cleopatra shouldered her purse, taking the straw.
Frida took a sip of hers, “So. What do you think?”
“Weird texture,” Cleo chewed, exploratory, “Chewy as fuck. I don’t know how to feel. What’s yours? Why’s it so fucking orange?”
“It’s Thai tea,” Frida said, “That’s how it is.”
“Does it taste like orange juice? Looks like it.”
“No, it’s—“
Cleo hacked, patting her chest, “FUCK! I almost just died! These fucking balls are like missiles!”
“I told you to suck slowly!”
“I thought you were being funny!” Cleopatra held onto Frida’s shoulders, “HAGH! Oh my god, I swallowed like, five at once. Am I gonna die?”
“No, you’re okay! Sit down, baby,” Frida fought back her laughter and pulled them over to a nearby bench.
Ironic, because Cleo just finished complaining about how none of the mall furniture made sense anymore. Frida had to agree—there was an odd New-American geometric aesthetic going on.
Frida sat her girlfriend down, carefully, away from the groups of rowdy mall teens.
“Fuck,” Cleopatra sipped her drink, hopefully slowly, “These little balls are deadly. This needs a fucking warning. Children drink this?”
Frida could only laugh, planting a kiss on the top of Cleo’s head, waiting for her to recuperate.
“So,” Cleopatra asked, rattling her drink, “Why’d you even have such a shitty shirt in your closet? You usually have cute tops.”
Frida gave a little pose, “I thought you used to say I was too ugly to look at.”
“Okay. Well,” Cleopatra’s face flushed, “Um.”
“You thought I was gonna let you get away with that?” Frida sipped her drink, “Nuh-uh. I am now accepting apologies.”
“Well, um, basically,” Cleopatra held her drink on her lap, “Sorry. Very…not cool of me. I was…wrong.”
“How was that? Was that good?” Cleo perked up.
“Painful. Did you mean it?”
“Yes!” Cleo whined.
“Then yes, it was very good,” Frida sat next to her, “I get it anyway. I sneak up on people. You probably looked at me for too long and then it all made sense.”
“Shut up,” Cleopatra nudged her, “If you’re so hot, why the ugly shirt?”
Man, she wasn't letting it go.
Frida played with the straw, chewing on the question.
“Shopping for regular clothes sucks. But formal clothes are always the worst to buy,” Frida said, “I hate dresses, but men’s formal clothing is way too misshapen on me. But women’s formal isn’t really right either. I don’t want to look like a mom. So I just picked whatever worked."
“But fuck it!” Frida said, kicking her legs out, “It’s not like I do fancy shit all the time anyway. I can look like shit for a few hours.”
Cleopatra was about to speak, but choked again on the boba.
“I said slowly, pendeja! Slowly!” Frida slapped her on the back, and couldn’t resist: “You know, I really thought you’d have less of a gag reflex by now.”
“Oh, blow me.”
Frida thought Cleopatra would be chomping at the bit to get to the stores, but she was the one to lead them in a lazy lap around the mall.
“Let’s look around,” Cleopatra pushed her shades up on her nose.
No complaints from Frida, not at all, not when she was so comfortable in the dip of Cleopatra’s waist.
Like at the party, Cleopatra had an abundance of questions for Frida. Like at the party, Frida had nothing but answers.
Some were tougher than others, for sure. Cleopatra wondered about everything: why had they closed the Disney Store, why is JCPenney still open, why did they get rid of the huge carousel in the middle of the mall—and why are so many people wearing CROCS?
Cleopatra really wanted the answer for the last one. Frida would have to mention her own pair of Crocs some other time.
Like a socratic seminar in the mall, they discussed in open air, the answers often involving Frida giving CliffNotes versions of modern events. The 2008 recession. The emergence of online retail.
Hey, it wasn’t like Frida was a historian, but she certainly knew more than Cleopatra, who clearly didn’t pay attention to any orientation classes they gave the unfrozen clones.
(Honestly, who could blame her).
Frida, enamored by how strong Cleopatra's curiosity was getting, encouraged her further. They ran around the kiosks and stores, pissing off the attendants by asking questions, but not buying anything.
Cleopatra was especially bewitched by the toys marketed to children, that made absolutely no sense to her.
“You pop it, see? I think they’re called fidget toys,” Frida held out the popit toy to Cleopatra.
“What the hell…and what shape is this supposed to be?” Cleo cautiously popped one of the circles.
“It’s from this one video game, it’s about these animatronics.”
“About what?”
Let’s just say Cleopatra remained in the dark when it came to certain popular media.
However, she did enjoy the Sanrio store immensely, delighting in the fact that Hello Kitty and all her friends were still alive and kickin’.
They spent an hour in there. Frida could only afford to buy a humble pair of Kuromi and Melody keychains—Cleo immediately hooked Kuromi to Frida’s shorts and Melody on her purse as they left the store.
"These little bitches are so us," Cleopatra cooed, taking a picture of Frida with the keychain.
“You know, when you hook stuff to the left side of your belt loops, it means something,” Frida said slyly.
“Really?” Cleo lowered her phone, “What does it mean?”
“Some people use it as lesbian flagging. Wearing carabiners on the right means you’re a bottom, on the left means you’re a top,” Frida explained.
“Bottom and top,” Cleopatra mused, “Bottom and top what?"
“You know. Bottom. Top," Frida whispered, loudly, "Like sex stuff."
“Oh. Ohhhh.” Cleopatra said, reaching over, “Then this on the wrong side for you—“
“—Hey!”
They did a spin around the food court, taking as many samples as possible, doubling back for more. Cleo was a master at manipulating people for free things; one look and they’d forget they served them three of these things.
Cleopatra complained at how un-spicy the hot sauces were, and as she dumped them on her free chicken wings, Frida mentally calculated that they would need some Tums at the end of this mall date.
But hey, she even got Cleo to try a vegan cookie!
Cleopatra was hesitant, to put it lightly.
“If I throw up on you, it’s your fault.”
”C’mon!” Frida begged.
Cleopatra held the cookie in her hand, trying to take the world’s smallest bite.
“You look like Squidward in that episode," Frida cackled, "You know, where he tries a Krabby Patty for the first time?"
“Squidward? Like from fucking Spongebob SquarePants? I didn’t watch that.” Cleopatra smacked her lips, “Oh hey, this is pretty good!”
“You…didn’t watch Spongebob?” Frida felt her eye twitch.
And so that was another long conversation they had. Cleo was now bound by pinkie-promise to watch it with her later.
The hours passed, careless. They had become that couple in the mall, draped over each other, lost in their own world of two.
The mall had transformed in front of her, away from the backdrop of her squirmy adolescence. Now every quiet corner was a chance to kiss Cleo, every spot of good lighting was their next selfie—their beaming faces quickly filling up Cleopatra’s photo album. Frida wished she could hold them in her hands, touch the physical evidence of their time together.
Luckily, they had found a photobooth, shoved in the corner of the food court. They squeezed in the cramped box, Cleopatra's legs over her lap.
“Fuck, I think I moved,” Cleo hissed, as they pulled apart from their kiss pose.
“Okay now, we do a silly one! Quick!” Frida said.
Apparently, Cleopatra didn’t do silly.
Frida bolted out of the photo-booth, snatching up the printed photo strips before anybody could see them.
“I can’t believe you flashed the camera!” Frida wheezed.
“It was an instinct, okay!” Cleopatra took one. “Ooh, they look amazing.”
“Bitch, now we can’t show anybody these!” Frida giggled.
“Uh, I will, I don’t give a fuck.”
They did look pretty amazing, to be fair.
More and more, as they walked around, Frida noticed that Cleopatra's favorite pastime was people watching.
Okay, people judging, let’s call it what it is. Every outfit, every person—Cleo had something to say.
Frida would poke her if she was being too cruel (which was a little too often, but they were working on it) but otherwise, she marveled at Cleopatra’s eye for fashion.
Cleo could pinpoint exactly what could be improved in an outfit. Raise this, lower that, wear different shoes, not with that bag—Cleopatra had suggestions and fixes for anything. She could even guess what size they were.
“That lady needs a better bra and different earrings. Longer ones,” Cleopatra whispered down to her, “And that guy? That color is washing him out, belgh. His skin has olive undertones, the shirt is too yellow.”
Frida nodded, trying hard to not look like they were staring, “Oh right, skin has undertones. It’s the same in painting.”
“Fashion is art, babe.”
And they chatted about art all afternoon. Resting on at bench, her head on Cleo’s lap, watching unruly children on those tiny animal scooters.
They were sharing a Dippin-Dots ice cream that Cleopatra dragged them to because it was the ice cream of the future, how could they not?
Frida served herself a spoonful of the dots, in the pause between Cleo’s questions. They were judging the men that walked by, like they were on a runway.
“I feel like I just looked at more dudes than I ever had before,” Frida sighed, “Alright, we tried our best, but we should probably start shopping.”
Before she spent all her money on food and trinkets.
The weed had done its job, dulling the ball of nerves growing in her stomach at the thought of braving the stores. For a few hours, she barely thought about it. But the high was tapering off, the excuses were all spent.
Cleopatra took the spoon back, licking the melting ice cream, “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you trust me?”
“I do.”
No hesitation.
Cleopatra smiled, and Frida wondered if she would ever withstand the power of it.
“What if you waited in the fitting room and I brought you some shirts to try on?”
Frida sat up, “Uh…but you don’t know my size?”
“Medium.”
“Oh wow, okay, yes, but…h-how will you know which ones I like?” Frida asked, her heart rate picking up.
Cleo moved a hair out of Frida’s face, “You trust me?”
Frida wasn’t prepared for this proposition, not in the least. She knew Cleo would try to help, but to take over the job?
On one hand, Frida would love nothing more than to sit down in a quiet room and not have to shop. Oh, imagining it sounded blissful.
Too good to be true.
Could Cleopatra actually…know? How?
But Frida was high on the wonderful day they were having and wanted badly to believe in the magic.
“Okay,” Frida said.
Cleopatra squealed, and before she knew it, Frida was being pulled to her feet, “I know exactly where to go!”
Frida clasped her hands together, rubbing her thumbs together. Her leg bounced, a frantic beat.
Cleopatra was taking a long time.
Worry, like dying ice, was dripping into her chest.
Frida wanted to trust in Cleo’s fashion powers, but there was a reason why Frida rarely shopped with others.
Shopping was an already disheartening affair: pulling clothes off and on, feeling weird, staring at your body in the mirror—having eyes on you while it’s happening was much worse.
The eyes brought expectations, opinions. There was a laid-back image to maintain.
Fuck.
How would Cleopatra deal with her disappointment? She’d have to go back and get other ones, maybe even a different store. Maybe more stores. Maybe this would take hours.
What if Frida started getting overwhelmed with the options? What if Frida couldn’t shake the past of countless botched shopping experiences, frustrated tears in the dressing rooms?
What if Frida lashed out, would Cleo take it personal? Would they fight? Would this be it for them?
Frida shook her head, hard—forcing herself to see it positively.
Cleo could do it. They would be okay. She could find something for her.
But who ever had?
Frida let out a sigh, her head falling back on the mirror wall of the dressing room.
Nobody ever knew how to shop for her. Not her mom, not her friends.
Being one-of-a-kind meant exactly that—the only one of your kind. Nobody quite knew what to make of you.
And that was originality. Square pegs simply have to create new holes, through constant friction against the norm—and in that niche they existed forever.
What her friends and lovers admired her for, the thing she waved around like a flag, had to double as armor.
The oddball, the black sheep—a butch lesbian with a unibrow and a mustache; no matter what she did, Frida would always be different, and it made loving herself an act of resistance.
Freeing in a sense, radical in another.
And incredibly isolating, at the end of it all.
Frida’s hands trembled in her lap, as she took deep breaths, trying to keep herself calm.
Waiting was beginning to feel worse than shopping herself—
“—Bitch,” A voice hissed, “Where are you?”
Frida stuck her hand out of the thick curtain, the door of the dressing room.
Cleopatra poked her head through, “Close your eyes.”
“What?” Frida quickly shut her eyes, “Did you not find any? It’s okay, we—”
“—Of course I did,” Cleopatra cleared her throat, “But I wanted to give a little showcase of my own.”
"What, you found something for yourself?”
“No, no, I want to present my findings,” Frida heard Cleopatra’s heels click into the dressing room, the hangers clanking together, “Like in those courtroom shows. Ooo, or Legally Blonde! Yes, I’m a very sexy lawyer, and you’re a very sexy judge.”
Frida snorted, hands over her eyes, “Sure, okay. Proceed.”
Cleopatra cleared her throat.
“My client is looking for a dress shirt, formalwear. The bottoms? Black pants. Some people would go for a black or white dress shirt—“
“—-Right—-“
“—-But my girlfriend is better than all those people, so no,” Cleopatra paced, click-clicking on the ceramic tiles. “I gathered my evidence, after much tasty snacks and balls in my mouth, I came to a few conclusions.”
“Which are?” Frida squirmed in her seat.
“Women's clothing was a no. The cuts are too ‘slimming’, too booby. You want straight and loose, but with the right proportions, so that’s a no on most menswear. Looking at you, I thought of some ideas.”
“Sexy ideas?”
A finger booped her nose, “Always. I was thinking—a short sleeve button up.”
“Short sleeves? Isn’t that kinda casual?”
“It can be. It’s all about the fit. Business is a tight cut. Casual is slouchy, baggy.”
“I know,” Frida hung her head, “So you had to get something tight—“
“—Of course not!” Cleopatra declared, “What are the facts at hand? You lean into masculine silhouettes, you want shoulders big, waist small. No emphasis on curves or hips or chest. But you also don’t want to look like a kid trying on daddy’s clothes. You want it to look like yours.”
Frida nodded, heart racing, yes, yes, exactly.
Cleopatra continued, “I focused on natural materials, obvi, because you don’t want to overheat with that binder thing on. Something basic enough to pair with whatever bottoms, but fucking cool because why the fuck would you have anything ugly in your closet?”
“And judging from your car—” Cleopatra made a noise, “—No delicate fabrics. You need a shirt that’s easy to wash and durable. I don’t think you know what dry cleaning even is.”
“I do!"
But did she know how it works?
“Most importantly, you need something unexpected, different, and perfect. Something you. Ladies and gentlemen of the fitting room, I found it. Open your eyes.”
Frida let her face free.
Three shirts hung from the bar. Cleopatra stood by them, presenting them proudly.
“Like, I've been noticing this current trend of workwear, so I thought—workshirts! These are modified versions, obvi, and you will be perfect in it! Simple shape, classic cut, unexpectedly dressy.”
“It’s masculine, but you won’t look lost in it," Cleopatra straightened the collar, "And it goes with your whole hands-on, rugged, paint-splatter artist steez you got going on. Plus, I noticed a lot of lesbians are wearing them these days.”
Frida rose to her feet.
Eye caught on the middle one.
Cleopatra clapped, giddy, “Yes! I knew you'd like this one. A dark red, because duh, you love primary colors. Embroidery detailing on the shoulders, pocket, and cuffs cuz’ I know you love knitted textures. A soft collar, and opal-shelled buttons because…well, they’re cute.”
“And,” Cleopatra added, “They’re all cotton chambray! I can tailor that quick as fuck, bring the hem up to your natural waist and you’ll look taller, broader.”
Frida touched it, the softness of it.
“So! What do you—Hey?! A-Are you crying?!” Cleopatra gasped, “Oh my god, is it that fugly?”
Frida had no power to stop her tears.
It hit her square in the chest, like a bat had been taken to it—blindsided, without any mercy for her heart. A wave of relief.
She had been wrong.
Frida wept, fingers smushed to her eyes as if the tears could be held in.
She was wrong about how much Cleo paid attention to her, and that threw her with the force of a rug-pull.
To be seen and to have her differences be studied, quantified into a science, to have it laid out in front of her so confidently—was an indescribable feeling. Cleo didn't have to guess, she knew. It was precise.
Cleopatra had done the impossible. And it took her about 30 minutes.
Her ragged breaths were turning into laughter.
“Frida,” Cleo whispered, “Please say something, I don’t know what to do when people start crying—”
“—It’s p-perfect!” Frida wailed.
“Oh,” Cleopatra caught her face in her hands, “Then why are you crying?”
Frida blubbered, “It’s just—you—I—how the fuck did you do that?”
“I love fashion, duh. I know how to style people,” Cleopatra said, wiping away a tear from Frida’s face, “And, I was thinking about what you said in the car.”
Slowly, Cleo pulled up Frida’s shirt, carefully over her head, past her hair. Gentle, like the shirt would break apart in her fingers. Frida raised her arms, letting herself be undressed, still sniffling.
“You said a lot of stuff I hadn't thought about before,” Cleo placed her shirt on the seat, “I know I don’t see it the way you do. But even if I don’t understand yet, I still wanted you to have fun.”
“So–,” Cleopatra said, as she unbuttoned the shirt from the hanger, “I just did all the shitty parts of shopping you don’t like. Easy peasy. Now you’re happy.”
“B-But how did you know!?” Frida whispered, “What I liked? How I want to look?”
"You said some stuff. I thought about it. I noticed." Cleo said, simply, "I remembered what you wear. What you don't. Like I said, it was kinda easy."
Frida wanted to sob. It was as she dreamed, she was being seen and it was easy, oh my god.
"Everything I couldn't figure out, I just asked you. Like when we were looking at those guys."
“I-I…wait, that was? That was for this? ” Frida balked.
Cleopatra gave her a deadpan look, “Why else?”
“I don’t know, I thought you wanted to check out guys together—”
“—You’re a lesbian and my girlfriend Frida, of fucking course not,” Cleopatra laughed, “I wanted to see what your opinions of different styles. Different cuts, fabrics, vibes. I could have asked you, but I don't know, I thought I’d ruin your day if I kept bugging you about it.”
Frida tried to find words, but her disbelief spilled out in breathless laughter.
She was right, again. What the fuck?
Cleopatra was fucking collecting evidence this entire time? And Frida didn’t notice because she didn’t want her to stress.
It made her want to start crying again or maybe start bursting into song.
“You’re so sweet, Cle,” Frida wiped her eyes, “Not that it’s really surprising, it’s just…you do care. Don’t you?”
Cleopatra held the shirt in her hands.
“I just don’t care about a lot of shit,” Cleo murmured, “Except…for you. So I left you the best parts."
Cleopatra gestured for Frida to turn around—on a pre-teen reflex, Frida avoided looking at herself in the mirror.
She let her arms be guided through the sleeves, one by one, feeling the fabric lay across her shoulders. Sturdy but light.
“The best part of getting new clothes—,” Cleopatra continued, she felt her buttoning up the shirt, “—is how it makes you feel like a brand new bitch. They’re supposed to make you feel like you, the best version of you, the version you didn't know you could be. It's a celebration. Shit like that.”
“Fri,” Cleopatra said, as she reached the top button, under her neck, “Look at me?”
Frida’s eyes fluttered open, to meet hers.
Looking into her eyes, she was reminded of the party bathroom. When sincerity mixed in with tears in her eyes. When the mask slipped, and suddenly they were face-to-face, no pretenses left.
"I like that you’re a little square peg. That's what drew me in— I don't know, it’s fucking crazy that you're you all the time, no matter what. It can be hard but—” Cleopatra wiped another tear away, “—I can help it feel less shitty, if you want me to. I’d like to try.”
Frida struggled to speak, to breathe—but before she could try, Cleopatra stepped aside.
Frida blinked.
Her arms lowered, away from her face.
There she was?
That was her?
This must be what Cleo means—in this new shirt, there was a brand-new dimension to Frida, another facet cut in a stone.
Suddenly, she could see herself wearing this tomorrow, confidently presenting her installation. She could see herself wearing this out to dinner, out to a club. She could see different pants she could wear, different shoes.
Frida could see herself, and the vision aligned with reality, without any frustration, any anguish.
God.
“Now imagine this, but!” Cleopatra was behind her now, folding the bottom of the shirt up, “We take the hem up to here. Oh, I’m seeing a white shirt underneath, very James Dean, very Grease!"
“You know how to sew?” Frida croaked, touching the buttons.
“Uh, duh. I can bring the sleeves up a little too,” Cleo said, hovering behind her, “What do you think? What do you feel?”
Staring at herself, Frida thought of one thing.
Cleopatra really cared about her— cared about her so deeply that it had become a garment to wear.
Cleopatra lent her more patience and grace than she’d ever given herself in a single afternoon—and yet Frida knew there was a piece of Cleo that doubted her own ability to care for others.
This was proof—of exactly what and to whom, Frida wasn’t sure. But this moment was a shared exhale for their bond, a passage point.
And so Frida sighed too, a small smile at her lip. “This was incredibly gay, Cleo.”
Cleopatra froze and then relaxed, “Oh, that’s a good thing now, right, right.”
Frida laughed, a snort somewhere in there, “Do you get that this is the happiest I’ve ever felt in a fitting room? I mean, I ended up crying anyway, but still.”
Frida looked over her shoulder, up at her, praying her eyes could express what she couldn’t, “Thank you, Cleo. I love it. I love the shirt. Thank you.”
Cleopatra squealed, “Yay! I also got the same one but in plum. Do you want two? I say fuck yes.”
“I don’t know, I’d have to check the price,” Frida found it under her arm, “If it's—GIRL, WHAT?”
“What?”
“This is so fucking expensive! I can’t–”
“—You won’t. It’s my gift to you.” Cleopatra said, matter of fact.
Frida honest-to-god swooned, but was trying to keep some composure.
“I…But I’m supposed to spoil you, ” Frida said weakly.
“You know, normally I would agree but—,”Cleopatra hugged her from behind, “—it's been making me happy to make you happy. What’s that about? That’s like empathy right?”
Frida laughed, looking at them both in the mirror. Cleo rested her chin on the top of her head, arms draped over her shoulders. Frida held onto her, beaming through the runny nose and wet cheeks.
Suddenly, Frida had an idea.
“You know…” Frida said, kissing Cleo's hand, “I think I can invite a guest to the showcase. If you’re free tomorrow–”
“—JESUS, I thought you’d never fucking ask!”
“Okay, ready?”
“I’m all eyes.”
Cleopatra ripped open the box, “Fuck, I hope it’s a Joan.”
“HUH?” Frida boomed, “Yo, I’m tellinggg—“
“—NO you’re not! This Joan of Arc is very cute! She has a little sword!” Cleopatra protested, “Nothing like the real Joan, that bitch is so pasty and tragic and has no sword—“
“— Okayyy, okay, open it!” Frida giggled, drumming her hands against the wheel.
They sat in the spoils of their conquest.
Shopping bags, big and small, now took up every empty space in Frida’s car. Cleopatra had bags barricading her legs in, Frida almost couldn’t see out of the back window with how many there were back there.
As their last stop, Frida took her to the blind box vending machine, the one with about fifty different figurine series, given to you by a machine claw.
Cleopatra was instantly intrigued, hooked on the concept of surprise goodies. Frida bought them one of the Snoopy series and Hello Kitty x Tokodoki.
But she couldn’t resist wasting money on one box from the very bizarre, very neglected “Women of History” series.
When they saw it, they thought it was hilarious. They laughed for quite some time.
The series featured many of their classmates—a Joan of Arc, an Amelia Earhart— but sadly, no Frida Kahlo. Which was sort of rude, no?
But there was one they both hoped—
“—No fucking way.”
“What? What!” Frida urged, trying to peek into the box.
Cleopatra held up the little vinyl statue, a chibi-fied version of the one and only: Cleopatra.
“No fucking WAY!” Frida screamed, shaking her fists, “YES!”
Cleopatra studied the figurine in her hand. The little-Cleo was finishing the top of a pyramid, kicking up her leg.
“That lady wasn’t even around when the pyramids were being built. It was like two thousand years later,” Cleopatra tutted, “Lazy.”
“At least she’s brown, ey?”
“Hmm, I guess we do look a little alike,” Cleo posed, holding it up to her face, “Take my picture with my mini-me.”
Frida grinned, snapping a picture on her phone. She looked down at it.
Cleopatra was something out of a movie, but that was nothing new. Frida thought what was most beautiful about this photo, with the sun setting in the parking lot, was her smile.
Frida knew it was a real one.
It’s not the perfect one, the one for the world, the one people envied—this was edging on goofy, some of her bottom teeth showing, her eyes crinkled.
Would she like this photo? No, this would be one she deleted, but Frida would frame it if she could.
This smile, like the candid photo Frida snuck off her trying on hats in Hot Topic or the other one of her gawking at a giant Pokemon plushie—was becoming Frida’s favorite version of Cleopatra.
Frida was prepared to do what she had to, to stoke that smile out of her forever.
“You’re amazing, you know that?” Frida said.
“Ooh, lemme see.”
“It’s not the pic,” Frida showed her anyway, “I mean, you. Today. The shirt. What you did for me. I…really appreciate it, Cleo. You amaze me.”
Cleopatra shrugged, “Yeah, well.”
But a little pleased smile appeared on her face.
“I’m saying it right now. I don’t care what anyone says. You're a great girlfriend," Frida declared, "You’re sweet. You’re thoughtful. You’re caring. Thank you for showing me this side of you.”
Cleopatra was still staring at the picture, in the silence.
“Thank you,” Cleo managed, a whisper. And she glanced up at her.
Would it always knock the wind out of her?
Yeah, maybe.
Frida leaned over and placed a kiss on those lips.
Cleopatra chuckled, pushing her away with her phone, “Here, doofus. I looked funny in that one. Delete it.”
“I know, I know.”
Cleo regarded the statue. “What should I do with this girl?"
“Lemme have it!” Frida begged, “Pleaaaasee?”
Cleopatra frowned, “Why?”
“I wanna put it on my nightstand, so you’re the first thing I see when I wake up.”
“Uh, or you could just turn the other way and look at the real thing, weirdo.” Cleo rolled her eyes, but gave the figurine to Frida.
Frida cheered, and strung it up next to her rosaries and fuzzy dice.
“Maybe I’ll put you next to la virgen then, to watch over me.”
“Virgin? Virgin who, I know you’re not talking about me.”
“La virgen Maria, like Mother Mary?” Frida said, tapping the portrait, “Now I got both of you guys to protect my car and all my precious trash.”
“I really shouldn’t be so close to a holy virgin, but I’ll take it,” Cleopatra winked, “And if I draw a little unibrow on Maria, I’m going to hell?”
“Maybe, yeah,” Frida took her hand, “But I think we’re headed there anyway after what we did on Friday. And in that one fitting room.”
“Fuck, since we’re headed there anyway,” Cleopatra kissed her hand, “Where’s that sex shop you were talking about?”
Frida scrambled to stick the key in the ignition. The engine kicked to life without any extra urging, thatta girl—
“—WAIT, fuck,” Cleopatra grabbed her arm, “I have to tailor your shirt. We should probably do that first, since it’s due tomorrow.”
Frida groaned, slumping over the wheel, "You're right, fuck."
“I am? Oh ewwwww,” Cleopatra wailed, recoiling, “Oh my god, did you hear me? That sounded so…responsible, barf!”
Frida started laughing.
Cleo started smacking her arm, “What did you do to me? Blegh! What the fuck was that?!”
Frida said, her forehead on the wheel, “I think that was Cleopatra turning down a sex shop to go home and sew.”
“Don’t tell anyone, you cannot tell anyone!”
“Trust me, when I tell this part of the story, I’m gonna change the ending,” Frida said, thumped her head against the wheel, “God damn that cockblocking showcase.”
Cleopatra rubbed her shoulders for a moment, the pair in mourning.
“Well, when we’re the sexiest people in the building tomorrow, it’s gonna be worth it,” Cleopatra said, “Let’s call it foreplay.”
Frida laughed, looking forward to it.