No really, I'm okay. I'm also a great liar.

i teach my girlfriend how to be gay

We decide to be cultured adults for once and take the train to go to the symphony.

Okay, yes, we could've driven or even walked if we'd've left earlier, but let me indulge myself. If I am able to take the train, I will.

Hilary Hahn is playing, and as soon as Annabelle saw a billboard for it she reserved tickets.

"We're sitting as close as we can," she informed me.

"Got a crush?" I had bumped her shoulder. She scoffed.

"Of course not. It's not like I'm gay or anything."

"I'm gonna have to break up with you if you're not gay."

"No, don't break up with me!" Her puppy-dog eyes were coming out. "Teach me how to be gay."

"Okay," I said, standing on my tiptoes to reach her face, which was still too tall, even when she was leaning against the counter and over me. "So, you find a girl, and then ..." I pulled her jaw down until her nose was squishing against mine and stared real deep into her eyes. "You gay." My breath brushed over her lips and bounced back to my chin.

"M'kay," she whispered back, her gaze flickering down my face. "I'm gay now."

"How did you cope with the identity revelation?"

"Thought about you. In an old sweatshirt and messed up hair. In the mornings. Sitting across from me at the breakfast table with sleep lingering in your eyes."

And it hit me that that's exactly what happened. We seemed to realize this at the same moment, and shared a shy smile that says everything.

Now, I'm leaning against her with my head tipped back and settled on her collarbone and staring out the window.

We always seem to catch the trains at the non-popular times, as we've once again got a compartment to ourselves.

Annabelle's phone lays on the bench opposite us, playing music that's slightly muffled by the cushioned seat.

Her black zip-up hoodie's pockets are full, and something in there's poking into my back. I shuffle around to try and readjust around it, to no avail.

"What do you have in your pockets?" I ask, trying to sound annoyed. I'm pretty sure I fail, spectacularly, but no one has to know. She nudges me off her for a second and draws out the contents of her pocket. A library card, way bent out of shape; two pens; four hair ties; a bottle of clear nail polish; and two wrapped chocolates.

She lists the objects off to me as if I can't see them.

"Why do you need all that, exactly?"

She looks towards me, heavy eyebrow raised. "I might need it."

"Chocolate?"

"What if a dementor attacks?"

"When's the last time you even went to the library?"

"Monday."

I sigh dramatically and flop back against her, unable to find fault in her hoodie-pocket collection.

Womens' clothes never have pockets, and I don't like carrying around purses. I have a small backpack I fill with things for adventures like this. I'm sure if Annabelle looked through that, she'd find some things unnecessary for going to the symphony. But I'll be prepared in case we need an escape through a high window or something like that. Much more realistic than Annabelle needing to stop by the library.

I've always liked going to the symphony with my dad. He'd take me sometimes on the weekends if someone he knew of was playing.

It's been a while, though, and I'd forgotten just how lovely it was.

First things first, Hilary Hahn is incredible on the violin. (Visually stunning too, Annabelle and I both agreed.)

Second, the symphony hall is grandiose and elegant, and though I feel a little out of place and underdressed, the plush velvet seats and smooth wooden walls make up for my bit of uncomfortable-ness.

Third, I'd never gone with a significant other before, and Annabelle traced light patterns into the skin on the back of my hand through the whole show. Things with her are just better, because she is so gentle and overbearing at the same time, and yet exactly the right amount of everything.

I appreciate you, I think really hard at her right before intermission. I'm not sure she hears it, but she feels me staring at her and turns, offering an excited smile.

Afterwards, we go out for soup and then take the train back home.

I must fall asleep, for when I come back to, my mouth tastes a bit sour. My water bottle's on the nightstand beside me, and I reach out to drink a bit from it. I'm tucked snugly into a quilt burrito and Annabelle's got the lamp on the lowest setting possible, slowly and quietly turning the pages of a book.

I look at her for a couple moments, drinking in the sight of the freckles resting on her cheeks and the tip of her nose and how relaxed her posture is and how I really want her in this burrito with me.

So I roll over and open my arms as best I can under all these blankets. She looks at me, then grins and puts her book on the nightstand, turns out the light, and joins me, her limbs curving around my body and her breathing suddenly on my neck and ears. I can hear her smile at the contact.

"Good night, Annabelle."

"Good night, Hazel Ava."