Even though most people tended to skirt questions about the relationship, at least Dyan had an interesting and unique response should anyone inquire as to how she and Cindy had first met.

She hated the mall with an unrivalled passion.  Possibly this was because, to her, the mall represented and seemed to cater mostly to the typical female of her generation.  It was crawling with so many giggling examples of the stereotype that to see them was unavoidable.  Here, two bottle blondes clad in hip-hugging jeans and skimpy spaghetti-strap tops; there, a clean-cut teenaged couple strolling along with hands clasped, glancing absently at the store windows' mannequins as though no false model of a human being could possibly compare to the vision of perfection each thought rested just at their fingertips.

Usually, when Dyan found it necessary to venture out into the world of sales, she preferred to go alone, slipping as quickly as possible into and out of whatever few shops she needed to visit.  That way, only her needs were important, and she ran no risk of being dragged toward side attractions by an annoying, whining shopping partner.  The mall was not a place for social happenings, she believed, but a place to serve the needs of consumers.

Not caring for public opinion, she had pulled on a pair of black jeans and her favourite black T-shirt which read, FBI: Female Body Inspector.  Knowing how little attention she paid to the numerous other mall-crawlers in the building while she was there, she had expected everyone to share her sentiment.  However, she hadn't accounted for the fraction of those mall-crawlers who had come solely to people-watch.

As she exited the music store and slouched onto a bench to review her purchase—an older CD from one of her favourite heavy-metal bands—the throng of bottle blondes that forever seemed to live in the mall offered her a companion.  Approaching her was a slim teenaged girl in blue jeans and a blue-and-white striped tank top, whose golden locks were clipped behind her ears by blue plastic butterflies.  Dyan didn't react except to mentally snort at the sight of the apparent conformist and continue to flip through the book of lyrics included with the CD.

She hadn't been expecting the girl to note her presence, but to Dyan's surprise, the stranger caught her eye and held it, then blurted, "Hey, I was wondering about your shirt.  Are you a lesbian?"

This time, Dyan's snort was audible, and very much so.  "Yes.  And before you run home to tell everyone you know that you narrowly escaped such a so-called creepy person, let it be known that I don't find you all that attractive."  Her voice was icy, each word carrying its own biting tone as it was hurled from her mouth like a freshly-sharpened dart.

Predictably, the girl's eyebrows hiked up—but not in an expression of fear or intimidation, Dyan realized with substantial disappointment.  "Huh.  Pretty, intelligent, and sarcastic," she mused, extending her hand.  "I'm Cindy.  Not that you probably care, considering everything you just said.  I just wanted to commend you on being able to be so open about who you are."

Even more so than when the girl had first spoken to her, now Dyan was shocked.  Her second thought, occurring to her shortly after the swell of pride that filled her, was that Cindy was playing a cruel joke on her.  She eyed the girl's hand warily, almost expecting it to swoop up and slap her hard in the side of the face.

"I don't bite," joked Cindy, as if reading her thoughts.  "Unless you want me to, I mean."  The comment was probably made in the hopes of rising a laugh from Dyan, but no such reaction ensued, and Cindy retracted her hand with a sigh.  "Seriously.  Are you really? . . . you know.  Or was that whole thing a diss to me for asking such a dumb question?"

"What do you want?" snapped Dyan, her grey eyes narrowed.  "Why do you care so much if I'm gay or not?  I don't mean to be rude, but it's really none of your business."

"I know that."  Cindy paused.  "Actually, I may as well tell you, since either way after this we'll probably never see each other again.  Why I wanted to know was because . . . well, because I am—well, you know.  But nobody else is that I know of.  I mean, how am I supposed to get a girl if I can't tell which ones are into that?  So I came over here to hit on you."

"Isn't that convenient," muttered Dyan.  "Did it ever occur to you that we might not have anything in common?  Just because lesbians are rare doesn't mean you have to hit on every single one you find."

"Well, why not?" replied Cindy with a laugh.  "Like you said, we are a rare breed.  You take what chances you get.  It's not always easy to find the safe bets.  So, hey, you wanna walk around the mall for awhile?" she suggested, her eyes brightening as she straightened up and brushed the imaginary dust from her shirt.  "Maybe get to know each other?"

"This is a joke, isn't it," Dyan accused her flatly, still reluctant to appear vulnerable.

"No joke."  Cindy again extended her hand.  Torn, Dyan looked up into the girl's blue eyes, desperately searching for some clue of the real motive behind the invitation.  She had expected to have to investigate for several seconds, at least—but, despite that Cindy was hardly a friend, somehow Dyan instantly knew that the look she saw was one of sincerity.

Her face forcibly devoid of expression, she took Cindy's hand.

She had told the story many times, and Cindy charged her with glorifying it more and more each and every time it came from her lips.  Now, although she remembered being hesitant to trust Cindy, Dyan was almost angry with herself for nearly losing the greatest relationship of her life before it had even begun.

"Such a smart girl you are.  Always thinking."  Cindy's voice broke into her mind.  "I hope you're thinking happy thoughts.  I don't want you spoiling our day," she teased.  "Look what I got."  With this, she opened her palm and flung it upward with a laugh, sending hundreds of glittering scraps of confetti fluttering into the air above Dyan's head.  Dyan, too, burst into giggles—a sound which, in the past, she would have abhorred hearing come from her mouth—as the confetti rained down to take refuge in the folds of her black cocktail dress and in her long, carefully-crafted auburn braid.

As the final stray pieces of confetti floated safely to the ground, Dyan sighed.  "Who's going to clean up this mess?" she scolded her girlfriend.  "It better be you, Cindy."

"Hey, it's my anniversary, too!" protested Cindy, snickering in spite of herself at the stern expression on Dyan's face.  "Speaking of which. . . ."  She raced across the living room to the stereo, pressed PLAY on the CD player, and waited for the opening notes to kick in before declaring, "We need to dance.  I believe our song is playing."

Unable to keep the grin from her face at the spectacle Cindy had created, Dyan, amused, shook her head in her direction.  "You know, you are amazing," she observed, her joy evident in her voice as well, as she crossed the room to join Cindy for the dance.

Cindy beamed.  "Happy two years, Dy."  Gratefully, Dyan returned the smile.

"Happy two years, Cin," she echoed.