by Sandy Lowe
Abbie frowned.
Oh no, she’s thinking of one.
“Yeah, I don’t need one, Abbie. Thanks.”
Abbie kept frowning.
“Really, when I say I don’t need one, I mean I don’t want one. Okay? Abbie?” I suppressed thoughts of Jemima Puddle-Duck.
“Absolutely.” Abbie nodded, distracted.
I could tell she was still thinking of one. And she was.
“Sad eyes.”
Any nickname with the word “sad” in it wasn’t good.
I raised my eyebrows. “Sad eyes? Really?”
Abbie nodded. “You have sad eyes.” She reached across and brushed my fringe aside as if she needed to see my eyes more clearly.
A terrible urge to cry tightened my throat.
She stroked my cheek and then brushed her thumb over the corner of my mouth. “Sad eyes with jammy lips.”
I stood up, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand. I would have cleared plates had we used any. “Coffee, then? Yes?”
Abbie nodded. She looked at me as if she was trying to work something out, before turning away to press at fallen crumbs with her forefinger.
“I don’t have decaf coffee,” I said. I couldn’t help but smile. “Just the strong stuff to keep us both up all night.” I hadn’t meant to be suggestive.
Abbie laughed. “That sounds fun.” She walked over to me. The kettle clicked. She was blushing and smiling, with those eyes that shined. “Really fun.” She tucked my T-shirt label inside my collar.
I swallowed, just finding breath to say, “So, erm, earlier, when you said ‘hot’…”
Abbie gave a slow nod. “Yes, I meant hot. I just thought I’d put it out there. In case…” She slipped her hand into mine, cool and gentle to the touch.
I swear I forgot to breathe, and, in that moment, with her body pressed against me, I forgot to hate the world, and come to think of it, I no longer remembered my hurt. I couldn’t quite take in what I thought was happening, in my kitchen, in Hooper Street, where nothing like this happens.
Okay, so I probably don’t need to ask you if you’re gay, then. But how did you know…?
“How did you know then about me…? I mean—” I had no moisture in my mouth to finish my question.
I felt Abbie squeeze my hand. “Let’s just say it’s less what I knew and more what I hoped.”
Hope. The word that mocked me by sticking around longer than it should have done, and upset me when it eventually left.
As if time, in that second, was waiting, pausing for me, I tried to decide whether kissing the girl next door, having only known her for a few hours, whether that would be all right or madness. Surely Abbie would need to ponder on this too, do that thinking thing she did.
Nope. No thought needed, apparently, as she began kissing me, pressing her soft lips against mine, tucking her arms around my waist. “You’re so lovely,” she kept saying.
I moved my face away. Acid tears rolled down my cheeks. “I’m not lovely. You need to know that. I’m not.”
“Surely,” Abbie whispered, her lips warm against my ear, “that’s for me to decide, not you.”
Her kisses were so gentle; they seemed to me what love would feel like if you could feel it, if it touched your skin as well as your heart.
My breath caught, as I felt Abbie’s hands softly find their way under my T-shirt. “Your hands feel warm, Mittens,” I said, smiling.
Abbie’s eyes misted with tears as she replied, “I know.”
I wondered how long she had waited for her hands to be warmed against another’s skin.
And with a smile that would shipwreck the sturdiest of vessels, taking my hand in hers, Abbie led me upstairs. She commented, a little dreamily, that my stairs had the same number of steps as hers and that we shared the same streetlight that lit the way from landing to bedroom. The same streetlight, in fact, that was soon to bathe our urgent naked bodies in a golden half-light.
*
Happiness is a funny thing, and I don’t mean funny ha ha. It is insidious, stealthy. One minute it’s a treat to wallow in melancholy and the next it’s achingly awful. You realise all you want is to be happy. And by choosing happiness, you lose your natural sense of balance. Everything feels too good. You sleep with the right person for the right reasons. You become too loud and you don’t care. You tell yourself you’re fine, because you are. And then you forget how to be with anyone else. You know how to do the girlfriend thing. You love her, all day, and all night.
I woke to see Abbie staring out my bedroom window, wearing nothing but my T-shirt. I yawned, a contented lion’s roar of a yawn. “Want some tea?”
“Ooh yes. I’ve been thinking—”
“Okay.” Abbie thinking or normal thinking?
“I think I’ll buy some trellis for the front, hide the bins a little. I may put a bench in, I mean, now that I’ve maybe got someone to sit on it with.” We shared a smug smile. “It’ll be easier to get to know people, as they pass by.”
And she did. And we sat, in the cool of the shade, talking to passersby, like it was something that always happened. And the neighbour a few doors down started sitting on her bench. And over time people started to say hello, without being made to.
I learned how to make jam, and Abbie learned that a million million was a billion of a chance that we had met.
Turns out to make a difference, to change a life, or at the very least a perspective on life, you just need one person to be brave enough to be friendly and one person to have enough conscience to let them.
And now we live together, in our home, on beautiful Hooper Street, where the bright white terraced windows gleam in the daylight, like the shining teeth of a broad smile. And the flowers, radiant in their baskets, flutter like the wings of butterflies in the gentle breeze.
Snow Day
Missouri Vaun
Snowflakes the size of silver dollars fluttered past. Well, maybe they were the size of quarters, but they were big snowflakes, and there were lots of them. And now they were coming down in blanket waves. Lane wished she’d worn wool socks and boots. The snow was already deep, and as she crossed campus she could feel icy melt seep inside her low-top Converse sneakers.
Students were piling into cars all around the quad because afternoon classes were canceled in advance of the foot of snow on its way in the next four hours. If she hurried maybe she could get to her place, gather her laundry, and make it to her parents’ house before the roads started to ice over.
She held her portfolio under her arm as she carefully climbed the somewhat steep sidewalk and turned the corner toward the old Victorian she called home. Just a couple of blocks off campus, the three-story house divided into apartments was enormous. The walkway had iced over fast and Lane was no more than two strides from the wide front steps when she fell on her butt, hard. She might have been able to catch herself if she hadn’t been focused so intently on keeping her portfolio from landing in the snow. She tried to stand but her feet scissored beneath her like ice skates.
Lane braced herself with her hand on the icy surface for balance. She scooted sideways until she could step into the snow-covered grass of the small front yard. Her shoes immediately filled with snow. Laundry would obviously have to wait. She was about to try again for the front steps when her downstairs neighbor, Mia, stepped through the door, waved, and bounced down the steps.
“Mia, wait!” Lane wasn’t fast enough. Mia’s first step onto the sidewalk sent her into a slide. Lane grabbed for Mia’s arm and pulled her toward the snow-covered lawn before she hit the concrete. For an extended moment, Mia whirled her arms in the air as her feet slid back and forth before she toppled awkwardly on top of Lane and they both ended up lying in the snow, along with her portfolio.
Lane felt like she was in a scene from a romantic comedy set in northern Minnesota. Mia had certainly been a reoccurring star of her late-night romantic imaginings, but she’d never thought it might happen in real life. Mia was di
stractingly gorgeous.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” Mia’s face was very close to Lane’s. Her long dark hair tickled Lane’s cheek as Mia tried to push herself up with both hands.
“It’s okay, the sidewalk is completely iced over. I fell and I was just about to warn you.”
“Your artwork is getting wet!” Mia reached for the portfolio and shook the snow off it.
How did Mia know she was an artist? “Um, thank you.” They brushed snow off their clothing, and Mia handed her the black folder.
“I was going to go get some food, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.” Mia looked up at the snow falling even heavier now.
“Yeah, I don’t think driving or walking is an option.” Lane hesitated for a moment. “I’m sure I’ve got something I could spare.” Her stomach clenched while she waited for Mia to respond. She’d probably said too much, but she’d love to have an excuse to spend a little time with Mia. She’d had a crush on her since the first time they’d bumped into each other in the hallway while checking their mail.
“Thanks, but that’s okay.”
Shot down. She gave Mia a weak smile. “Well, just let me know if you change your mind. I don’t think I’m going anywhere either.”
Lane followed Mia back into the house and waved before trotting up the stairs. Once inside her cozy apartment, she tossed her jacket over the back of the futon and opened her portfolio on the table to let the pages inside dry out. Snow had dampened the edges. She’d had a productive day, and looking over the charcoal figure drawings made her smile. The woman who’d posed for their class had beautiful subtle curves.
Lane realized she was starving. She’d skipped lunch and now the weather was too bad to go out. She figured her choices were ramen or mac and cheese. Hmm, starch or starch? As she stepped into the tiny kitchen the lights flickered and then went out. She flipped the switch on the wall a couple of times. The power was definitely out. Luckily the small gas stove would light up with a match strike and her second-floor apartment had a working fireplace. She’d be fine if she had to ride out the snowstorm for the weekend. Maybe she’d even catch up on her studio art projects without the distraction of Netflix. She had a design assignment due the end of the following week.
A half hour later, Lane was sampling her macaroni from the end of a large wooden spoon when she heard a knock at the door. She slid across the hardwood floor in sock feet, pot still in her hand, to see who was there.
“Mia?”
“Hi. The power’s out.”
“Yeah, mine is out too.”
“I see you managed some food despite that.”
Lane looked down at the steaming pot of mac and cheese she held in her left hand. “A gas stove will still work when the power is out.”
“Only if you have matches.” Mia smiled.
“Oh, yeah…hey, listen, would you like to come in? I’ve got plenty to share.”
Mia seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then she nodded and stepped inside. She pulled her coat tight. “It’s so cold.”
“I’ll light a fire.”
“You’ve got a fireplace?” Mia’s expression brightened.
“Don’t you have one too?”
“A non-working fireplace. I guess the owner couldn’t be bothered with repairing the chimney all the way down to the first floor.”
The instant Lane ushered Mia inside she realized how small her apartment was. The living room was basically the bedroom, outfitted with a futon and throw pillows. Even though the space was small, the fireplace made it cozy, and with the high ceilings and big windows, the light was great for the small studio workspace Lane had set up amongst the bay windows at the front.
“Follow me.” Lane led the way to the kitchen and started to spoon two servings into bowls. “If you carry these I’ll build a fire and we can warm up while we eat.”
Lane was hyperaware that not only was Mia watching her, but she was standing very near in the tiny space, closer than was necessary. The soft floral scent of her perfume invaded Lane’s senses. She almost dropped the pot when she felt Mia’s warm fingertips against her bare skin. She’d pushed up the sleeves of her sweater while cooking, leaving her tattooed forearms exposed.
“I remember when I first passed you in the entryway I thought these were printed sleeves.” Mia slid her finger over the dragon tattoo that encircled Lane’s left arm.
“I like dragons.” Lane cleared her throat. Every tiny hair on her arm stood at attention under Mia’s touch. And for that matter, all the nerve endings up to her shoulder and down her back.
“Did you draw these?”
“Yea…” Lane’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Um, yes, I did.”
Lane had decided to get the tattoos because her pale skin offered the perfect canvas. And besides, she loved creating pen-and-ink drawings that she could wear. Both of the tattoos that adorned her forearms were rendered in black ink with no color. She felt they balanced her dark hair. She’d been cursed, or blessed, depending on your perspective, with pale Irish complexion, blue eyes, and dark hair. In contrast, Mia’s skin was a warm caramel color. She looked like the female lead of the Bollywood films Lane had suffered through with her sister. At least the big dance scenes at the end of every movie were almost worth the wait. Women with long dark hair and brown eyes were her kryptonite.
All Lane knew was that every time she passed Mia coming or going, her heart skipped a beat. Mia would casually fling her hair over her shoulder to say hello. The innocently sexy gesture always sent Lane’s heart plunging into her stomach. And now Mia was in her kitchen, wearing skinny jeans that hugged every curve, touching her arm, admiring her dragon tattoo, and about to share mac and cheese in front of a roaring fire. It was like her own little butch girl dream come true.
Mia set the bowls on a table near the futon and returned to the kitchen table to look at Lane’s drawings while Lane started a fire. Lane said silent thanks that she had everything she needed to build a fire right at the moment when she needed it most.
“These are really good.” Mia held up one of the figure drawings to look at it more closely. “Is it pencil or charcoal?”
“Charcoal. Are you an art major?” She didn’t think she’d seen Mia around the Art and Architecture building, but it was a big place, so she didn’t want to assume.
“Communications major.”
“Oh, that’s great.” Lane wasn’t really interested in talking about course study, but, damn, she sure could use better communication skills right now. She felt tongue-tied and nervous. Pain seared her finger and she dropped the match that had burned down to her skin while she watched Mia study the drawings. She sucked her stinging finger.
“Did you burn your finger? Let me get some ice.” Mia abandoned the drawings and retrieved ice from the kitchen. She knelt beside Lane. “Here, just hold this on it for a minute.” She cupped her hand around Lane’s, keeping the ice against her throbbing fingertip.
Mia’s face was so close that Lane could sense the warmth of her skin. Mia opened her clasped hands and gently blew on Lane’s injured finger. Lane’s heart beat loudly in her ears and she was close enough to sketch the details of Mia’s face in her memory. Long dark lashes fluttered against her sculpted cheekbones, and when she looked up at Lane, her eyes were like dark bottomless pools. Lane wanted to dive in.
“Thanks.” That sounded lame, but Lane didn’t know what else to say.
She was more careful with the next match, and flames were soon licking at the dry wood she’d expertly stacked in the small fireplace. Mia moved to join her on the futon in front of the fire. They sat on either end, legs stretched out and facing each other, and made small talk as they ate. Mia did have a roommate who basically lived at her boyfriend’s place. That explained why Lane hardly ever saw her.
As they talked Mia was rarely still, leaning forward to listen, sitting back to laugh as they discussed movies, television shows, or music they liked. Their legs brushed with each motion and M
ia laid her hand on Lane’s calf while making several enthusiastic comments. Lane’s arousal registered an electric jolt with every connection.
Late afternoon had transitioned to evening while they talked. The night had taken on a sort of semidarkness. The snow blanketed every object outside the house, giving the atmosphere around the old Victorian an eerie magical glow, like something you’d expect to encounter in a fairy tale. Mia didn’t seem to be in any hurry to go back to her place. Without power or a fireplace, it likely was pretty cold and dark. Mia had lingered after dinner, and Lane was not anxious to see her leave.
Lane noticed the fire ebb. “I think we need a little more wood.” She reached around for her shoes to pull them on.
Mia fidgeted. “Maybe I should go. I’ve eaten your food and kept you talking for a long time. You probably had other plans tonight.”
“You don’t have to leave. It’ll just take me a minute to get more wood from the back of the house.” She wanted Mia to stay. Whatever she’d planned to do, she’d forgotten it the instant Mia knocked on her door. “We could have a nightcap. I’ve got some bourbon. I also have hot chocolate.”
“Hot chocolate sounds good.” Mia scooted to the edge of the futon and leaned around so that she could see Lane. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
True to her word, Lane was back in a flash with an armload of firewood. She dropped it into an old wood-sided box by the hearth and stoked the fire. Flames leapt against the blackened stonework, sparks flew up the chimney. She dusted her hands, admiring her pyro skills.
Lane wasn’t sure if it was the fire or her raging hormones, but she was feeling overheated. She needed to lose a layer of clothing. As she pulled her rumpled crewneck sweater over her head, her T-shirt underneath pulled up from her loose jeans that rode low on her hips, revealing the plaid waistband of her boy-style boxers and the tattoo on her lower torso.
“What’s that?” Mia leaned closer to examine the tattoo of kissing red lips.
“My girlfriend in high school talked me into that one. She liked to kiss me there.” Lane’s cheeks immediately flamed hot and she was glad the glow of the fire was the only light in the room. She hadn’t meant to reveal that personal detail; she’d blurted it out and she wanted to take it back. Mia was looking at her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher.