Are You a Friend of Dorothy?
<p>It was the evening of November 26, 1995, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, and I was at Lambert Field in St. Louis, waiting to board the plane that would ferry me back to Omaha after having spent the holiday weekend with my family. I was 21 years old, deep in the closet, and terribly naive.</p>
<p>Sitting with my duffel bag between my feet, I was reading a book when an older gentleman sidled up next to me.</p>
<p>“Are you a friend of Dorothy?” he asked.</p>
<p><a href="https://medium.com/the-memoirist/are-you-a-friend-of-dorothy-bad5ddb377dc"><strong>Click Here</strong></a></p>