Reality Bytes

by Jane Frances

Finally Paul too was tossed out, although not literally. He received a few good pushes from Justine but crossed the threshold of his own accord, hurling a string of expletives as he went; a string of the same was hurled back at him. “Fuck off, you fucking bastard!” The door to Justine’s home was slammed, leaving Paul on the step.

  Emma watched Paul gather his belongings and shove them into the back of his four-wheel drive, cursing as a pedal of his mountain bike caught on the rear bumper. Then she watched his vehicle pull out of the driveway and disappear into the night. She let a minute pass before making the short walk to Justine’s front door.

  An angry voice came in response to her knock. “Fuck off, bastard!”

  “Justine, it’s me, Emma.”

  The front door opened and Justine threw herself into Emma’s arms. For the first time Emma felt just how slight Justine was, and she marveled at the strength displayed in her golf club and bag toss, the whole kit and caboodle being hurled a good few meters in one impressive throw.

  “Are you okay?” asked Emma.

  “Fucking bastard,” Justine repeated, seemingly at a loss to say anything more. “Fucking fuck of a fucking bastard.”

  Given the current limitations to Justine’s vocabulary, it was pointless trying to eke an explanation, so Emma busied herself preparing what her mum called the salve to every problem—a good hot pot of tea. She didn’t know if her mum still thought of it that way, as they hadn’t spoken in years. Not since Emma took Chris home to meet her parents. That was a day she wouldn’t forget in a hurry. It was the day she placed the key to her childhood home on the dining table and left it there, along with any hope of acceptance by the two people she most wanted acceptance from.

  But her parents’ reaction to Chris and Emma’s relationship was not of current concern.

  “Here you go.” She placed a cup at Justine’s elbow.

  Emma sat at the kitchen table, opposite Justine, also at a loss for words. She was not well versed in post-fight etiquette. She and Chris had rarely raised their voices to each other. Even their breakup had been very civilized, Chris calmly announcing she had been seeing The Trollop for a month and that she was moving out to be with her. Shocked, numb, Emma just nodded and left the house while Chris packed. On her return, it was as if Chris had never been there, except of course for Kayisha. Kayisha had been the runt of an unwanted litter, deposited in a cardboard box at the back door of the vet practice. Lots of love and lots of attention from both Chris and Emma saw her thrive. But obviously The Trollop didn’t have the time, space or inclination to take her on. Which was just as well. Emma would have walked over hot coals to get custody of their baby and she was overjoyed to find no battle necessary.

  Feeling old anger at Chris once again rise to the surface, Emma concentrated instead on the etchings in Justine’s kitchen table. Not really graffiti—the kitchen table had become a guestbook of sorts, and the etchings the entries. Justine liked each new visitor to her home to scratch their name, the date of their first visit and a byline into the tabletop. Justine called it an historical record. Emma saw it more as personalized notches on a horizontal bedpost. A little of her heart bled with each male name she read.

  Justine swiped at her eyes. “How the hell am I supposed to go to work tomorrow? I’m going to look like shit in the morning.”

  Emma took her attention from the “Paul” etching in her immediate line of vision. Justine’s cheeks were streaked with tears. Her anger subsided; she now looked tired and drawn. “You look fine.”

  “Can you write me a sick note, doc?” Justine managed a smile through her tears.

  Emma smiled back. “If you don’t mind the excuse of having either worms or fleas.”

  Justine hiccuped a giggle and Emma’s heart bloomed in her love. She took a quick sip of her tea and spooned more sugar into it.

  “Do you like a little tea with your sugar?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your tea.” Justine pointed to Emma’s cup. “You’ve put about six spoonfuls in there now.”

  “I like it sweet.” Hoping to disguise her embarrassment, Emma took a sip, nearly gagging on the sugar hit that assaulted her taste buds.

  Justine saw through Emma’s pretence and pried the cup from her hands. “I’ll get you another.”

  Emma watched Justine rise from the table, pull a fresh cup from the cupboard above the bench and pour from the pot.

  The cup placed in front of her was left untouched as Justine said, “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  Emma knew Justine was referring to the fight, not the tea pour. “It’s okay.” She shrugged. “Everyone has…disagreements…once in a while.”

  “Fucking bastard.” Justine reverted to her earlier chant. “He can go to hell.”

  Emma just nodded, wondering if that was indeed the last they’d see of Paul.

  It turned out she didn’t need to ask, Justine volunteering the information. “The bastard had better watch out if he comes round here again.” She folded her arms. “I’ll take his fucking golf clubs and shove them down his throat.”

  “That might be a bit difficult,” Emma offered. “I think they’re all bent now.”

  “It was a pretty good throw, huh?” Justine’s scowl disappeared and she grinned.

  “If it was an Olympic sport, you’d have won the gold.”

  Justine laughed and again Emma’s heart soared.

  On a roll, and encouraged by Justine’s improved humor, Emma continued, “Your jockstrap toss was quite impressive too.”

  That comment prompted a raucous shriek from Justine. Her cup left the table as it was knocked by her hand, her reliving the moment she hurled Paul’s clothes outside.

  “I’ll get it.” Emma was immediately off her chair and to the site of the damage.

  At the same time Justine scraped her chair away to squat beside the broken china. “It’s okay, I’ll get it.”

  “Shit!” A dual curse emerged as their heads knocked together.

  Emma rubbed the point of collision, it taking a moment for the pain to register. “Ouch.”

  “You okay?” Justine reached to touch Emma’s head.

  “Yeah, fine.” Emma briefly met Justine’s eyes but lowered her gaze, focusing on the china that lay in a spreading puddle of tea.

  “Emma—” Justine’s hand flattened against Emma’s forehead, slid across her temple to her cheek.

  Wordlessly, Emma lifted her gaze once again. What she found were eyes filled with…want? Or maybe it was confusion? Or maybe it was just sympathy for the poor lesbian who was in love with her straight neighbor. Whatever it was, Emma couldn’t hold the look. She groped for the broken china, not looking at Justine, not looking at the floor.

  “Shit.” Pain sliced through her middle finger and reflex brought it to her mouth. She tasted blood. Jesus, she was pathetic. Tears sprang to her eyes and she stumbled to her feet, wanting to escape an atmosphere that was suddenly suffocating.

  Justine rose with her, capturing her hand and examining her finger. Five minutes later Emma’s finger stung from the antiseptic that had been applied and throbbed from the “Simpsons” plaster wrapped a little too tightly around the wound. Once home Emma would rip the plaster off and put a fresh one on, but for now she just sat, uncomfortable, at the kitchen table, feeling quite the fool.

  “I’ll get going home then.” Emma stood, her middle finger held up in what would normally be construed as an insult. “Thanks for the first aid.”

  Justine smiled at Emma’s single finger salute, a casual arm circling her waist as they walked to the front door. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.” Emma’s waist was given a squeeze. “You’re a good friend.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Emma?” Justine caught Emma’s elbow just before she stepped onto the veranda.

  “Yes?”

  Justine’s hand dropped away and she shook her head. “Nothing. It’s okay.”

  “What, Justine?” If Emma was pushing, she didn’t care. Her fi
nger throbbed, but more from the force of blood coursing through her body than the tightness of the plaster.

  “Nothing,” Justine repeated. Emma was in the middle of nodding a dejected “Okay” when Justine piped up again. “Oh, what the hell…” Justine pulled her closer and Emma found she had been kissed.

  On the mouth.

  Quickly.

  But on the mouth.

  Now, as Emma walked the short distance from her house to Justine’s, she clutched onto the thought of the kiss and the possible intentions behind it. The physics of the kiss were fading, it too fleeting to register a permanent place in Emma’s memory. It had been three days since they had spoken. That was how long it had been since the fight…and the kiss.

  The kiss on the mouth.

  Physical memory was fading, but the promise of new memories beckoned. Emma vividly recalled the phone call she received at the surgery just that morning. Justine had been breathless on the line as she invited Emma to her home that afternoon. Breathless as she announced she had something important she wanted to tell her.

  Emma rolled her shoulders, releasing some of her tension before she knocked.

  “Just a minute.” The voice of the angel sounded through the wood. Emma gave another shake of her shoulders, relaxing but immediately tensing again when the door opened. The lips that had kissed Emma on the mouth moved to say, “Hi, Emma, come on in.” Emma was no sooner in the door than slender arms drew her into a hug. “Emma.”

  Joyful, Emma hugged Justine back. “Justine.”

  “You’ll never guess.”

  “What?” Emma inhaled deeply. Justine smelled so good. Good enough to eat. Emma wondered if the rest of her tasted like her mouth. Not that she’d really tasted her mouth, but she knew when she did, it would be sweet.

  “Paul came back this morning and we had a long talk.”

  Emma imagined Justine living out her promise and threatening to shove his golf clubs down his throat. And then telling him it was over. She couldn’t see Paul taking the news too well. Emma almost felt sorry for the man. Losing Justine would leave a hole like…well, like nothing she could imagine. “How did it go?” she asked.

  “Better than I expected,” Justine said as she held Emma at arm’s length, her eyes sparkling. “Emma, he asked me to marry him. And Emma”—Justine’s laughter rang like bells as she pulled her close again and squeezed her tightly—”Emma…I said yes!”

  If there was a moment when the world turned black and everything was sucked into some airless void, then this was it. Emma stood motionless, aware she should be hugging Justine, giving her congratulations and admiring the stupid ring (no doubt cubic zirconium, Paul too much of a troglodyte to even think of buying a diamond that large) thrust in front of her face. Numbly she went through the motions, her brain telling of the need for a cigarette, although it was a habit she’d given up nearly three years prior. She’d puffed like a steam train for weeks after The Trollop completed her home-wrecking, but that didn’t count. Anything to do with The Trollop counted for nothing.

  The lie slipped from Emma’s throat and over her tongue with surprising ease, “That’s great, Justine. I’m happy you two sorted things out.”

  Chapter Two

  Sensation focused sharply, then eased and spread, dissipating to all points, fingertips to toes. “Oh…” Toni fell into the mattress, her head hitting a goose-down pillow that would benefit from a good plumping. It had been plumped on entry to the bed that afternoon, but the hours since then had seen the pillow clutched at, pushed into the headboard and generally squashed by heads or feet or arms or whatever other part of the anatomy was at that end of the bed at the time.

  Pillow plumping was, however, not currently high on Toni’s agenda. She concentrated on regaining her breath and running a limp hand across her brow. The film of perspiration coating her body was more prominent on her forehead, and her hand came away quite damp. Toni wondered if her blood sugar was low. It crossed her mind that a burger would go down well. A burger with the lot, including bacon and double cheese.

  “Here you go.” A sports bottle with the insignia of the gym Toni was a member of was held out to her.

  Toni gratefully accepted the bottle and chugged the remains of the contents, the water now lukewarm, but at least wet.

  “You want another?”

  Toni accepted what she assumed was an offer of a new bottle of water. At least she hoped it was a water offer only, as she was unable to find the energy to go another round.

  “You poor thing.” Heather’s laughter washed over Toni as a quick kiss was aimed in the general direction of Toni’s lips. “Is my little accountant all worn out?”

  Whether Toni’s reply registered or not would remain a mystery. Heather swung her legs over the edge of the bed, not bothering to don any covering as she headed out of the bedroom, presumably to the kitchen. Toni watched her depart, at once admiring the toned and tanned body that moved with the litheness of a cat, at the same time admitting the fascination she had with that body was no longer quite enough.

  The empty drink bottle was rolled dispiritedly in Toni’s palms.

  Three weeks.

  Toni wondered if that was an appropriate amount of time to make an accurate judgment. Maybe she was being too hasty, wanting too much too soon.

  No, Toni admitted to herself as the bottle came to rest insignia-side-up between her palms, she and Heather just didn’t mesh. At least not outside the bedroom. Or the gym. Or anywhere else that provided a workout opportunity.

  Heather was a fitness fanatic. As a gym instructor it was her job to promote the healthy lifestyle, but she didn’t hang up her healthy hat with her microphone headset at the end of class. She lived it twenty-four-seven.

  Three weeks ago that fact had been Toni’s prime attraction. Actually the attraction happened a lot earlier than that, Toni fast becoming addicted to the “BodyPump” class offered at the gym. Four times a week Toni’s endorphins surged, not only from the choreographed weight workout, but also from the woman who led her and the other “Pump” disciples in their quest for tone and buff. Months passed with Toni huffing and puffing in the second row, awed and fascinated with Heather and her biceps, before she worked up the courage to approach her after class and suggest they have a coffee.

  Heather readjusted the twist tie that held her brown hair in a high ponytail and flashed a whiter than white smile. “I’d love to, but I have another class in half an hour. Maybe after that?”

  Toni considered doing the next class but decided she’d be a limp, useless ball of aching muscles by the time she finished, so she had a spa and sauna instead. An hour or so later she discovered Heather didn’t drink coffee—would Toni like to go back to her house? Apparently Heather grew her own wheatgrass and could whip up a few shots in no time. Toni agreed, swallowed the shot of bright green chlorophyll and then, without much further ado, they wound up in bed.

  What a workout that turned out to be. Heather approached sex with the same enthusiasm and energy she gave her gym instruction. More than once Toni congratulated herself on her decision to soak and steam instead of taking Heather’s second class. She was just at the point of saying, “Enough, no more,” when Heather, in a rare moment of stillness, cast an appraising eye over Toni. “You know, you’re starting to get some great definition.”

  To Toni, this was the highest compliment that could be bestowed by her gym guru. Puffed with pride—obviously her months of four-times weekly gym attendance was beginning to show results—she ran her hand the length of Heather’s flawless thigh and over an almost washboard stomach. “Thanks. I just wish I could say the same about you.” The arched eyebrows received in reply caught her by surprise and for some reason she felt she had to explain herself. “I was only joking.”

  But it seemed she had read Heather’s expression incorrectly. Toni found herself flipped onto her back. “You’re gonna pay for that, Ms. Ljanjovich.”

  “How so?” Toni looked up at the woman who strad
dled her stomach, somewhat impressed that Heather rolled her surname off her tongue so easily—most people she met had to ask for it to be repeated at least twice. At that moment, however, Heather’s pronunciation skills took a backseat to her more physical attributes. Toni watched the bulge of biceps and the pleasing line of taut triceps when Heather lifted her arms to again adjust her twist tie. A healthy dose of lust reared its head. Along with it came her second wind.

  She was ready.

  “Maybe like this.” The muscular arm descended and disappeared behind Heather’s back, her hand probing the space between Toni’s thighs.

  A groan emerged as Heather’s fingers found their target. Another burst forth as she began a slow grind over Toni’s stomach, pace quickening in time with Toni’s undulating hips.

  The bed shuddered and shook. Toni shuddered and shook. She lost her second wind then gained a third. And a fourth. They spent the entire Saturday afternoon in bed. And they stayed there well into the evening.

  The only problem was, they hadn’t moved far from there since. The reality was that Toni and Heather shared great sex, but little else. And while great sex was…well…great, it wasn’t enough.

  Toni knew what she wanted. She wanted a relationship based on mutual trust and understanding, a relationship where sex was integral, but not the be-all and end-all. She wanted a lover but also a friend. She wanted to discuss and debate every topic under the sun, and she wanted to be comfortable just being silent.

  She wanted the fairytale.

  She wanted the lot.

  With bacon and double cheese.

  That last thought made Toni salivate. She really could go for a burger.

  Toni sighed, remembering the look of absolute horror on that first night, when she suggested they make a trip to her favorite fast-food joint to fuel up.

  It was at this point that Toni discovered, in addition to her no caffeine regimen, it had been five years since Heather had consumed any sort of dairy. Red meat was also off the menu. Prepackaged foods—forget them. And alcohol was a definite nono. It seemed Toni had been poisoning herself with almost every bite of food since birth. And she was putting the largest organ in her body—her liver—under enormous strain.