Your Bisexuality Is About To Expire

I drop the door shut behind me and give the pile of sopping wet mail a hard flick, sending a shower of droplets onto the linoleum floor. I kick my wet loafers in front of the shoe rack, drop the flower bouquet onto the counter, and sigh.

Today was supposed to be celebratory—my first paycheck after five and a half months unemployed. But now I have the soaking wet mail to contend with.

The problem is not so much that the mail is wet, but that Emily has been asking me to install the new mailbox for months. And now the mail is wet.

We’ve argued about it so many times that the fight begins and she isn’t even here. Her voice seems to fill the empty house—high-pitched and edged with frustration.

“Steve, we need to replace the mailbox. I bought the new one in January. You just need to install it.”

“Yup, got it. This weekend.”

“You keep saying that, Steve, but you haven’t done it. The mail is going to blow away, and we are going to miss something important. Who knows how much mail we’ve already lost.”

“Emily, I promise you that nothing we receive from the US Postal Service is important. It’s all spam. Do you need a seventh copy of Pizza Pizzazz’ specials to stick in the takeout drawer?”

“What if we forgot to go paperless on a bill and it blows away? And even if we didn’t, even if it is all junk, that is an environmental nightmare! The neighbors already think we are too young to own this place.”

And then, because I am defensive and mad, I will say the unnecessary.

“We don’t own this place, Emily. I own this place. And I maintain it just fine. I’ll replace the mailbox. Leave it alone.”

Her face would pinch and crumple a little. I would puff out my chest. She would go to bed early, letting me win the fight. Letting me get away with not replacing the mailbox week after week.

Now, staring at the wet mail, indignation and guilt bubble inside me.

I really have been meaning to fix the mailbox. I’d bungy corded it back to its post the same day the plow truck hit it back in December. But I never got around to replacing it.

Maybe she won’t even have to know. It’ll all be junk mail, anyway.

I busy myself putting the flowers into a vase and lighting the candle Emily loves on the counter, but the mail pulls at my attention. With a great sigh, I position myself in front of the recycling bin and begin to flip through it: junk, menu, nonsense coupon, spam, spam, spam.

I drop each wet, unopened envelope into the recycling bin with more force than necessary.

Finally, the only mail left is the newspaper. I raise it above my head, ready to spike it into the recycling, when a white corner peaks out from the pages.

I lower my arm, sliding the envelope out. A red stamp emblazons the front.

URGENT. FINAL WARNING. DO NOT IGNORE.

“Shit.”

The return address smeared—US Department of [illegible].

The months of unemployment crash into me, all my fear of losing the house, of Emily realizing I wasn’t good enough. Each mortgage payment written on her pink floral checks rises in my memory like bile in my throat.

The newspaper drops through the swinging lid of the recycling bin with a wet thwap.

I’d tried to be so diligent, making sure that even though Emily was the one paying the bills these last few months, I was on top of dates and the admin.

What had I missed?

The envelope is addressed to Emily, but I rip it open, anyway. I glance at the stove clock—5:05 p.m. If it is something that I can take care of before she gets home, she won’t even have to know. Whatever it is, I will pay it.

I had wanted to start putting money back into the engagement ring fund I had drained to cover bills, but I won’t need an engagement ring fund soon if I keep fucking up.

I unfold the pulpy letter.

Dear Emily,

This is your third and final warning that your membership in the United States Society of Bisexuals is due to expire on May 23, 2026.

As outlined in previous correspondence, should you fail to renew your membership, you will be barred from participation in any queer activities including but not limited to—Pride ERGs, Pride festivals and parades, gay dog adoption days, and more.

Should you wish to renew your membership, you must take one of the following actions before May 23, 2026…

To secure a 5-year renewal:

Have same-sex intercourse,

OR,

Purchase a Subaru with a roof rack (scan the QR code at the bottom of this page to find Subaru dealerships near you!)

To secure a one-year renewal:

Have a same-sex kiss.

To submit your renewal documentation, please visit staygay.gov.

Once the deadline is missed, bisexuality cannot be reinstated.

Thank you for your attention to this urgent matter.

US Department of Bisexuality

The note shakes in my hand as I try to swallow the lump in my throat.

Did Emily know that her bisexuality was about to elapse? She must not know; she would panic if she did. There would be plans and spreadsheets and urgent calls to friends.

I read the letter again.

I didn’t even know the government was involved in sexuality.

“Some ally I am,” I mumble.

My phone vibrates. Across the top of the screen, the date: May 21, 2026.

Then below that, a text from Emily: Pride planning going late. 2 weeks out to the Pride parade, you know how it is. I won’t be home for dinner!

Another text pings through.

Two emojis: sparkles and a rainbow flag emoji.

At least that buys me some time to figure out how we can reinstate her bisexuality in the next two days without her ever finding out that is what we are doing. Without her learning that two very important letters must have blown away.

Part of me argues that I should text her the photo of the page—admit that she was right, but I can’t bring myself to.

She’s been so excited about my new job, that I have a reason to change out of sweatpants, that I’ll be able to pay my own phone bill. I can’t give her a reason to resent me so soon after getting back on my feet.

But first things first, I need to repair the mailbox.

The rain lashes my face as I head outside with my toolbox. But that feels right, like the universe is punishing me.

‘The universe will take care of it,’ has always been one of Emily’s favorite sentences. She said it to me the first night I met her back at college. She’d been arguing with some frat boy at a party about trans women in sports—carefully laying out facts and statistics over a warming cup of Bud Light.

When he wandered away—visibly drunker, but unmoved by her speech—she had turned to me and proclaimed that the universe would have to teach him.

I think I fell in love with her right then.

She had so much intelligence and willingness to fight for what she believed in, but with this unshakable trust that the universe was supporting her. Plus, she was gorgeous.

It took her much longer to fall for me.

Years actually. She’d been dating Eloise—the captain of the softball team. It would seem like a cliché, the captain of the softball team dating the captain of the field hockey team, if they were not so goddamn cute together.

Wrestling the new mailbox into place, my mind clings to Eloise. Perfect Eloise, who would almost certainly have trekked out into the snow the same day the plow had knocked it over to replace the mailbox. That was just how she was.

But it was my chest Emily had cried on the week before graduation.

“Eloise just can’t accept that I am also attracted to boys,” she’d sobbed. “And, like, it doesn’t change that I am attracted to her, to women, but…it’s like…bisexuality is so much more than just sexual attraction. It’s this way of seeing the world where things are not so binary. Nothing is black and white.”

I had nodded as if I understood what she was saying. Now, after seven years with Emily, I really do understand. I’ve watched her puzzle through enough complex situations to see how well she can hold myriad opinions. It’s one of the many things I love about her.

But back in college, I just rubbed her back and hoped that Eloise’s fear of Emily’s bisexuality would work out in my favor.

It did. Their breakup left me to be the one to help pack up Emily’s dorm room, shuttling boxes into her old, beat-up Honda.

I had come back from bringing the last box to the car to find Emily pulling her pink, blue, and purple flag off the wall. She had it draped over her arm when she kissed me.

“This’ll be the first thing to go up when I move into my new place,” she said, pulling away from me. “So, everyone will always know right away who I am. No one will say I didn’t make it clear.”

I knew I couldn’t ever be Eloise—I didn’t have her drive, her intelligence. But I could love Emily just how she was.

In fact, I already did.

I shove the old mailbox into the trash bin on the curb and stomp back into the house.

Now, to handle the letter.

I peel off my socks and sneakers, looking around my kitchen as if inspiration for how to fix this will strike.

On the wall next to the door is Emily’s bisexual flag. I’d been the one hang her flag up in her tiny studio apartment.

When she moved into my house, Emily moved in six months after I bought it, the first thing I did was hang her flag in my kitchen. It’s been there ever since.

I imagine how sad she’d look taking it down. Folding it up donating it. Blaming me and the stupid mailbox.

It can’t happen.

I just need to find Emily a nice girl to kiss before the time runs out, buy her a year.

I smile a little to myself. Maybe they can do more than kiss. Maybe she can bring the girl back with her and…I shake my wet hair out of my eyes.

“This isn’t about you, Steve,” I say aloud. But the thought persists for a moment longer.

“Would be nice though. Everyone would win.”

I head to the office and begin mapping a plan. I don’t even hear Emily get home.

***

By the next morning, I have made a Tinder profile for Emily, researched all local Subaru dealerships (and promptly ruled them out as too expensive), and googled every queer gathering spot in the tri-state area.

I walk into the kitchen to find Emily in her underwear and an oversized T-shirt, hair in a messy bun on top of her head. She’s spooning grounds into the coffee machine.

“whydontwegooutforcoffee?” I ask, the words coming out as one breath.

Her forehead creases.

“What?”

I try to steady myself.

“Why don’t we go out for coffee. There is a cool queer coffee meetup happening in North Hampton this weekend. Why don’t we go out there?”

She looks from the coffee machine to me. She looks tired.

“Okay, but that’s almost an hour away. I will need pre-coffee coffee.”

Crisis averted.

An hour and a half later, enveloped in the refurbished warehouse-turned-coffeeshop, I breathe a full breath for the first time since I opened the letter. Visibly queer vendors are selling art, vegetables, soap, and jewelry at tables lining the walls.

We will almost certainly find someone to kiss Emily here.

Emily’s face lights up when she looks around. She smiles and squeezes my hand.

“Thanks for planning this, babe,” she says, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “I love a pride event!”

Guilt pinches at my gut. I would have done this even if my procrastination hadn’t compromised a fundamental part of her identity, right?

Waving her off to look around, I make a beeline for the counter and order our drinks.

Even in the sea of colors, Emily isn’t hard to find in her mustard yellow overalls.

She’s holding a candle up to her nose and nodding at the gorgeous woman behind the table. She’s dyed her undercut the colors of the lesbian flag.

Perfect.

Emily puts the candle she is holding down and lifts another one. I plan to hang back, let her talk to the woman, but then she turns towards me and gestures for me to come over, blissfully unaware of the stakes.

She holds the candle out for me to smell it.

It smells like wet socks.

“Mmmm, very nice,” I try to say, but I can feel my nose wrinkle even as the words come out. The vendor glares at me.

Emily giggles and puts the candle back on the table, wandering away to a jewelry stall.

“Ooooooh.” Her voice is soft as she reaches out for a necklace with a bee on it.

“Bisexuals love bees,” I say. I meant to whisper it, just loud enough for Emily to hear, to make her laugh, but it comes out loud. The girl behind the table hears me and scoffs.

“You can’t make statements like that. There is nothing that bisexuals universally like.”

The vendor reminds me of Emily when I first met her—ready to argue against any perceived injustice.

I stumble through insisting that it was just a joke. Flustered and talking with my hands, I go to set the drinks down on the edge of the table.

“Please do not put your wet cups of coffee on my merchandise table,” the vendor says, gesturing at a sign that says the exact same words right where I was about to put the sweating cups.

I blush.

Emily lets out a sigh, all traces of her giggle erased.

She’s been sighing like that more lately.

“Why don’t we head out? You didn’t sleep well last night, and it’s making you act weird. I thought maybe some coffee would help, but you ordered yourself whatever that is.” She points to the bright green drink in my left hand.

I can see she’s straining to bring some levity into the situation.

“No, I got that one for you! It’s a lavender matcha oat milk latte! The barista said it was the gayest thing on the menu!”

The jewelry vendor audibly huffs.

Emily’s nose wrinkles.

“You know I hate oat milk. Like hate oat milk. Plus, lavender tastes like perfume and matcha tastes like dirt.”

A teenager with neon green hair gasps as they walk by.

“This is a queer market, madam! Do not slander the good name of oat milk here!”

Emily feigns mock indignation, but her cheeks are pink. I can see that she’s getting ready to launch into her fake argument about ‘big oat commandeering queer spaces’.

Emily has just started her speech when the jewelry vendor leans over to the person next to them and stage-whispers about how much she hates straight women coming into queer spaces with their male partners.

Emily freezes.

“She’s bisexual!” I blurt, highly aware that we only have about 40 more hours that we can say that.

The jewelry vendor smirks.

“Sure, she is.”

I need to fix this. But Emily’s hand is on my arm, steering me towards the door. She grabs the caramel latte out of my hand and goes to climb into the car.

I take a sip of the matcha—she is right, it tastes like thick, perfumed dirt.

“Let’s just go home,” she says. Her voice is small.

I key in our address without saying anything and clip the phone into the holder on the dash.

My mind spins trying to calculate how I can afford to buy her a Subaru when I hear a sharp inhale of breath from beside me. I slam on the brakes, but realize there is nothing in front of us.

I glance over at Emily, confused.

“You downloaded Tinder?” Emily’s voice is incredulous.

“It’s not what you think!” I feel frantic, pressing my foot down on the accelerator, as if it will make my words come out fast enough.

“I just saw a notification pop up on the screen. You have Tinder.”

Then she is crying—hard.

“I know it’s been hard for you since you lost your job, but Tinder? Have I not been enough? I’ve been trying….”

I try to talk over her, to explain the letter, the elapsing timeline. I am frantically apologizing that I didn’t know that the government monitored bisexuality, that we should have been more diligent.

I hold the phone out to her, Tinder up to show her it’s a profile for her, but she won’t look at it.

“Wait,” she freezes, a tear clinging to her chin. “Did you say the Department of Sexuality? The fake department Jen made up when I told her it had been nearly five years since I kissed a girl?”

I am glancing between Emily and the road. Traffic has come to an abrupt stop ahead of us and I slam on the brakes. We fishtail and slide.

My mind struggles to process what Emily just said.

As the hood of my car crumples in.

I have two thoughts concurrently:

“Did she say this was just a joke?” and “I guess this is one reason to buy a Subaru.”