by Harper Bliss
If anything, Kristin displayed great empathy, and frankly, the woman was so gorgeous, so kind, so easy to be around, that Sheryl wouldn’t hold any reaction against her.
“Do I look like someone who has led a hard-knock life?” Sheryl leaned back and opened her arms.
Kristin laughed. “You look beautiful.” Her voice had gone earnest.
Sheryl responded in kind. “So do you.” That short black hair. Those dark, expressive eyes. The warm color of her skin. Sheryl remembered last night’s dance. She had wanted to pull Kristin a whole lot closer than she actually had, but didn’t think it appropriate for a first dance—a first real contact.
Kristin’s smile grew wider. “Is this where we cross over into the super mushy part of the date?”
“Either that or we have dessert,” Sheryl said, deflating some of the tension that had mounted.
“I do love a nice piece of pavlova.” Kristin narrowed her eyes to slits at the last word, and Sheryl couldn’t help but feel that Kristin was not talking about a fruit-topped meringue.
Kristin was exhausted but elated as they stood outside the restaurant. Summer was in full swing, but mid-December evenings in Sydney were usually cooler and pleasant.
“What’s next?” she asked.
“I guess that depends,” Sheryl said. “How early do your marketing duties start tomorrow morning?”
“No matter what happens tonight, work will start too early tomorrow, so that’s really not a factor.” Kristin had ended up having only one glass of wine with dinner—out of a strange sense of solidarity with Sheryl and her non-drinking habits—but it seemed to have gone straight to her head. Or maybe it was something else causing the headiness in her brain, the lightness in her feet despite the fatigue, and the will for this evening to never end, no matter how early she had to get up in the morning.
“I live just two blocks away. I don’t have much to offer in the way of nightcaps and I’d venture a guess that we’ve had enough coffee and tea for one day, but I do have a lovely bottle of mineral water itching to be opened,” Sheryl said.
“Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse.” Kristin already loved the way Sheryl used ten words when two would suffice. The intensity in her eyes when she explained something. Even the way she held back when it came to certain, too personal, topics. Kristin was not raised to overshare, nor to be overly emotional. She recognized a certain stoicism in Sheryl that she could appreciate. A restraint that she, too, craved. Though, as they walked to Sheryl’s building, she hoped all restraint would be loosened when it came to their first kiss. She already wanted it so badly, had found herself staring at Sheryl’s mouth as she spoke—even as she ate—with growing impatience, wondering what these lips would feel like on hers, and somehow knowing they would be impossibly soft and so, so right.
Every time she was preparing for a date with Petra, Kristin had been hopeful and had tried to convince herself that she’d finally found what she was looking for. But every passionless date had confirmed a little more that it was not enough. And now, walking through the falling night with Sheryl, she knew for certain she’d been right. This was how it was supposed to feel, this was it.
When they rounded a corner, and bumped into each other inadvertently, Sheryl took the opportunity to grab for Kristin’s hand and held it in hers for the rest of the walk. As their steps echoed on the sidewalk, Kristin felt the realization flare somewhere deep inside of her that she wasn’t just walking in the direction of Sheryl’s apartment, but toward something a lot bigger than that.
“I’m afraid grad students don’t live like queens,” Sheryl said.
Kristin let her glance wander around the place. It was small but tidy enough—perhaps some impromptu cleaning up had happened before Sheryl left that afternoon? Her own apartment wasn’t much better. Only six months ago, with her thirtieth birthday looming, Kristin had moved out of an apartment she shared with two other women, one a colleague, the other the colleague’s friend. She’d traded in space for privacy and what she’d thought of as a necessary level of independence for the start of her fourth decade.
“Nor do junior marketing managers, let me assure you,” Kristin said. While Sheryl busied herself in the kitchenette, Kristin walked to a bookshelf that took up almost an entire wall. She found a lot of text books and, in the far right upper corner, almost out of sight, a picture of a woman with whom Sheryl shared some distinct features. Well, mainly the blue of her eyes and that little pout in her lips when she smiled. Kristin thought it wise to not ask any questions about Sheryl’s deceased mother. She didn’t see any pictures of someone who could be Sheryl’s father, nor any family snaps—the kind that were featured everywhere in Kristin’s own apartment.
“Here you go.” Sheryl handed Kristin a glass of water. “Shall we sit?”
“Nice place,” Kristin said, and meant it. Her own apartment, close to the CBD so she could walk to work, was about the same size, much more modern, but a lot less cozy.
“It’s not much, but it’s convenient. And you might not believe it, but more than twenty people have been in here. At the same time.”
“I guess I can imagine it if I tilt my head this way and try not to think about what kind of party it was you were throwing.”
Sheryl huffed out a chuckle. “One with a lot of shouting and posturing. LAUS meetings can get a bit… overheated at times.”
“I bet you slept well that night.”
Sheryl rolled her eyes. “I adore women who have a strong sense of self and firm opinions, but twenty of them crammed in the same room is a bit much, even for me.”
“Poor you,” Kristin joked. “All those women.”
Sheryl put her glass of water on the table. “One is just enough for me.” She bit into her bottom lip again, the way Kristin had seen her do a couple of times already.
Kristin racked her brain to come up with a witty reply, but nothing materialized. So she sat there, Sheryl’s comment hanging in the air, looking into those blue, blue eyes. They were the kind of blue she’d witnessed being photoshopped onto a model whose eyes weren’t deemed blue enough to sell a particular brand of wine. At the time, Kristin had greatly questioned whether a lighter hue of blue mattered, but now, staring into the real deal, she could see that it did. How it made all the difference.
Sheryl shuffled a little closer to Kristin on the couch. She had drawn up a knee, which now bumped lightly into Kristin’s side, startling her out of her reverie on shades of blue.
“Your eyes,” she stammered.
“Have the most beautiful view at this very moment,” Sheryl added. Oh, how suave she was. Sheryl angled her head and leaned in. She paused, blinked, and softly pressed her lips to Kristin’s.
Kristin was still holding her glass of water. She wanted to just let it fall to the floor and wrap her arms around Sheryl’s neck, the way she had done when they were dancing last night, but with so much more intention behind it. Instead, after the first soft peck. Kristin hurriedly disposed of it, not letting her gaze leave Sheryl’s exquisite face for one split second.
The next time their lips met, the air in the room had already changed, had already gone from the possibility of kissing to wondering where it would end. But Kristin did her best not to think of that, and focused on the moment—on the here and now instead of the near and distant future, unlike what she’d been told to do so many times when she was younger—and to let her senses fully enjoy the fact that she was kissing another woman. For a lesbian—because, yes, she was exactly that—on the cusp of thirty, she hadn’t done a lot of that yet. Not nearly enough.
As Sheryl’s tongue probed her lips, Kristin couldn’t help but wonder how many lips that tongue had ventured past. Sheryl looked like a woman of experience—she’d even sounded like one on the phone. That was one of the reasons Kristin had felt so instantly attracted to her. She longed for someone like Sheryl; someone to show her what it was all about. This lesbian life she so hankered for but had, somehow, missed. She had so man
y questions to ask Sheryl, so much of her presumed knowledge to feast on. But right then, they were kissing, and Kristin’s neglected body was starting to react.
When they paused, Kristin tried to anchor herself into the moment again, even though she had no idea how. Her mind was racing, thinking all these thoughts that should just be erased by the touch of another woman’s lips on hers. She looked at Sheryl, at her hair that fell loosely to her shoulders—perhaps the most overtly feminine aspect of her. At those eyes that said so much, of that Kristin was certain, but she had no means to decipher their language. This was already so much more than anything she’d ever felt. The intensity of this kiss made her feel as though she’d previously only dabbled in lesbianism, dipped her toe into the proverbial waters just a fraction, whereas now her entire body appeared to be sucked under.
Kristin pulled back slightly and realized she was reacting in her usual way to her body’s growing excitement. It was as if she was conditioned to mitigate her visible enthusiasm, to put a lid on that scandalous sensation.
“Are you all right?” Sheryl asked, her voice husky and sweet.
“I am,” Kristin said, and leaned in. She kissed Sheryl now, or at least instigated the next kiss. Because she was more all right than she’d ever been, optimistic and so very certain of one thing: she wanted Sheryl’s lips on hers over and over again.
Sheryl caught her breath. Kristin was giving some mixed signals. She was harder to read than most women. There was something guarded about her, a wall that would probably only be broken down piece by tiny piece. She’d noticed that when they first shook hands at the wine delivery. Everything about that half hour they’d spent in each other’s company—that very first time they’d clasped eyes on each other—had been a mixed signal. But a signal nonetheless. A challenge Sheryl was more than up for.
Should she go for that top button of Kristin’s blouse or would that be construed as too forward? This was a perfect example of how Kristin made Sheryl doubt her otherwise instinctive actions. Sheryl was not the type to debate herself on whether she should start unbuttoning another woman’s blouse. She had undressed quite a few women so far and none of them had ever complained. Sheryl always followed her gut, and doing so had never let her down. So what was with all the back and forth now? Maybe she was just projecting her own insecurities because, damn it, she really liked Kristin. She didn’t want to mess this up. This could be the start of something Sheryl had been waiting for a long time.
Sheryl let her hand slip from Kristin’s neck to where her blouse gaped open at her collarbone. She traced a finger over Kristin’s skin there. Ha, she didn’t even have to unbutton that top button. She already had plenty of access to Kristin’s skin. Oh, Kristin’s skin. That pert mouth. God, this woman sitting on her couch, kissing her, was stunning. Everything about her was delicate in a way that seemed opposite to Sheryl. Even this blouse she was wearing. It made Sheryl’s simple T-shirt feel like a cliché.
That’s when it hit her. Kristin made Sheryl shake in her boots—made her feel so unlike herself—because she was already infatuated with her. Caitlin would mock her for even considering the possibility after only an extended evening in someone’s company. Betty would encourage her. But what would Sheryl say if anyone else told her about her current situation? And what the hell was she doing asking herself a question like that? Yes, Kristin unsettled her, but in a good way. In the most exquisite way possible.
This was the beginning of something that Sheryl never wanted to end, which was why she wouldn’t be unbuttoning any blouses tonight. This moment had to be approached with restraint and respect.
“What are you doing next weekend?” Sheryl asked when they broke next from their lip-lock.
Kristin pulled her lips into an O. “I think there’s a strong possibility that next weekend I’ll be doing whatever you’re about to suggest next.”
“Good.” Sheryl nodded. “I’d like to take you somewhere.”
“Oh yeah? Where to?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Kristin cocked her head. “I barely know you, Sheryl. How can I let you take me somewhere if I don’t know where it is?”
“I dare say you know me well enough already.” Sheryl pulled Kristin closer again, kissed her again.
Chapter Five
Kristin hadn’t stopped thinking about Sheryl all week. Work weeks usually flew by, never leaving Kristin enough time to finish her daily to-do lists. More often than not, she found herself popping into the office on Saturday morning to finish her tasks and have a clean-ish slate to return to the next Monday. This week, however, had gone by at an excruciatingly slow pace.
A few months prior, Kristin had received a portable phone courtesy of Sterling Wines—just another instrument to keep her busy when she wasn’t in the office—but apparently PhD students at the University of Sydney did not receive the same benefits. This meant that Kristin couldn’t call Sheryl in the evening because the woman was always busy at some meeting.
Sheryl’s only free night that week had been Monday, and that was the night Kristin was hosting an event at a new wine bar in Pott’s Point. Sheryl wasn’t only writing her thesis on the evolution of the butch identity in modern queer culture. She was also an essential member of the Lesbian Association of the University of Sydney, of the Sydney Mardi Gras organizing committee, and it seemed to Kristin, a whole host of other lesbian-related organizations. Sheryl lived and breathed lesbianism and feminism, and it kept her very busy.
They managed a quick lunch together on Wednesday—oddly, Sheryl seemed to have a lot more free time during the day than in the evenings—which had been a giddy affair of staring into each other’s eyes, not consuming a lot of food, and Sheryl teasing Kristin about where she would take her on Saturday, and giving instructions on what to take. Staying overnight was a possibility, if Kristin was up to it.
By the time Friday evening came round, and Kristin met up with Cassie for a much-needed drinking-and-sharing session, Kristin felt that a month had passed instead of a week since she had kissed Sheryl good-bye at the front door of her apartment.
“I’ve met someone,” Kristin blurted out. They had barely sat down at their usual table at The Barrel for their weekly Friday-after-work piss-up. “Her name’s Sheryl. We had coffee and dinner on Sunday, and then lunch this week. And she’s taking me away somewhere tomorrow, although she hasn’t told me where.” The words exploded out of her, just like the emotions had been exploding within her all week. Was this love at first sight or something silly like that? Was it the fact that Kristin had not acted upon her desires as much as she would have liked in her twenties? Or maybe it was the relief that when she turned thirty next week, she would be able to look back on the past decade with more than just regrets for what she’d been too afraid to do. As if Sheryl showing up in extremis had made the past ten years worthwhile.
“You’re seeing someone,” Cassie shouted. “I can’t believe it.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it seeing,” Kristin backpedaled a bit. “We’ve only just met.”
“Good grief, Kris,” Cassie continued, ignoring Kristin altogether, “that is such a relief.”
“Why thank you.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but, at times, I thought you were headed for surefire spinsterhood.”
“How can I possibly not take that the wrong way?”
Cassie gently put her hand on Kristin’s shoulder. “Because I don’t mean it in a bad way. Just in a worried-about-you way. You’re a gorgeous person, Krissie, but sometimes it just seems as though you’re very reluctant to be happy.”
“That’s not—” Kristin started to object.
Cassie held up her hand. “I’m not finished and it’s very important I finish this thought, okay? I’m your best friend and you only came out to me, what? A year and a half? Two years ago? And you haven’t told anyone else since.”
“I haven’t had that much to tell.”
“But what I’m really try
ing to say is that it doesn’t matter how long it took. It’s Friday evening, I can tell you’re tired, but I can tell there’s something else going on as well. Hand on my heart, I can tell just by looking at you, and that makes me so very happy. That’s all.”
Kristin had no objections. If Cassie had made a similar comment about her future as a spinster just the week before, she would have debated, defended herself, because she was so much more than perpetually single. She had achieved a lot, not in the least professionally—if her boss Nigel was to be believed, a promotion wasn’t far off.
“It’s early days still,” was all Kristin said, after which she allowed herself a minute of the hormonal reverie she’d spent most of the week being lost in. When she was a teenager, and her friends went on and on about this boy or that, Kristin found it so hard to relate. To the point that she started to wonder what on earth was wrong with her. She got it now. She was twenty-nine and she got it.
Of all people’s, Sheryl had managed to snag Aimee’s car for the weekend.
“It’s all yours,” Aimee had said, dangling the keys in front of her. “Take your girlfriend into the woods with my old Porsche.”
The university department where Sheryl spent her days was a hotbed of gossip and being all up in each other’s business. Perhaps it was the sort of subjects they studied, or the way their analytical minds were always busy looking for more meaning, more of everything. Their everyday lives were not exempt from the same level of scrutiny. Their work relations depended on having everything out in the open at all times, it was at the very core of what they did, because if it wasn’t, what they studied lost a lot of its meaning.
Sheryl didn’t own a car herself, she got by on public transport, as did most of her friends, and didn’t like how unsure she was behind the wheel. Thank goodness it was early on Saturday morning, and there wasn’t that much traffic to negotiate. She was grateful for the short drive to Kristin’s place so she could get her bearings in the car, tap into an air of confidence she mostly had to fake because she didn’t possess it naturally when she was in the driver’s seat.