This was the cycle of thoughts repeating from one week to the next as I worked shifts with Venetia: curiosity, intrigue, apprehension. Every week as that terrorizing wall around her slowly crumbled, every week as she became more and more affectionate with me, I tumbled through this same cycle of emotions.
Still, I wasn’t sure what to do—or how to take initiative. I didn’t want to make the first move. Venetia was the forward one; she should do it. Maybe I was being too unresponsive. Maybe she wasn’t making a move because she was afraid of being shot down, though it was hard to imagine Venetia afraid of anything.
Months of this torment had gone by before I finally endeavoured to be more obviously receptive of Venetia’s advances. It wasn’t reluctance that held me back; I just wasn’t used to being so touchy with people. I tended to keep my hands to myself, but I pledged the next time Venetia traced her fingers along my back or tugged my hair, I would do the same to her.
By that time, I had a much better grasp of our clientele, of what they needed and of what they didn’t need from Helping Hands. Really, I had Venetia to thank for that; she was earning a degree in social work, so she knew just about everything about social justice and fighting oppression and all those topics that had only existed on the periphery of my awareness.
Anyway, because I’d learned the job so well from Venetia, she finally trusted me to work directly with clients. We had this really young guy in one week whose brave story I wish I could share, but he told me in confidence. He’d been in during my previous shift to get a suit for his first ever job interview, and he was back this week to exchange it for a second-interview-suit. It’s the most exciting thing in the world when you see hope in the eyes of a person who could so easily have given up long ago.
I was setting my new friend up with some fancy duds when Venetia came in from the back. Her eyes lit up when she caught sight of the boy. “Hey, sexy!” she cried, running over to give him a hug despite the stack of suits in dry-cleaning bags tossed over her shoulder. Taking his face in her hands, she gave him an exaggerated peck on the lips and giggled like a kid with a caterpillar. I made a valiant effort to conceal my resentment, but my throat did that growling thing before I could stop it.
Was I jealous?
Of a little kiss with a guy who definitely wasn’t interested in her?
Yeah, I was.
I was in a bit of a stormy mood after that, though I tried not to be. Isn’t that the worst feeling in the world, when you’re so looking forward to seeing someone, then you somehow end up irritated over nothing? Venetia tried to make conversation, but I wasn’t very responsive and that just made me annoyed with myself.
“I’m going to the Bollywood cinema tonight. All those beautiful boys and girls... ahhh...” She sighed. “You should come with me.”
“I don’t speak Hindi,” I said. Of course, I wanted to punch myself as soon as the words slipped out. Of course I wanted to go.
“You think I do?” She laughed. “It’s subtitled.”
She was smiling, beckoning me like a Siren. This was it: Venetia was asking me out, finally, after all those months, and there I was being an incontrovertible ass! Why was I doing this to myself?
“Just come!” she said. “It’s that or I’m going alone, and I’d rather have the company.”
Even if I was incomprehensibly irritated by her, I couldn’t very well say no. “Okay. And if we can’t follow the plot, we can always make out in the back row.”
I couldn’t believe I’d said it, and neither could Venetia, apparently. She’d just taken a sip from her hidden soda can and now ginger ale was shooting out her nose, dripping across a plastic dry-cleaning bag.
“Bad Venetia!” I mock-scolded. “See? That’s why there’s no food or drinks allowed on the floor.”
“Fuck you,” she giggled, wiping her nose with a paper towel before mopping it across the plastic.
We loaded up on pop, chocolate and gummy candies at the dollar store, but gave in to the outrageous popcorn prices at the theatre. What else could we to do? Couldn’t very well bring popcorn from home.
I sat on her right because I kiss better from that side. I thought we’d be the only white-ish people there, but not so. I never knew Bollywood was so popular. The theatre wasn’t particularly packed, seeing as it was a weeknight, but Venetia told me it was a zoo on a Saturdays.
“It’s visually-stunning,” Venetia explained. “The costumes and the dancing and the music... gorgeous!”
Her own costume was pretty stunning too. She had on her long black skirt and a very Victorian cream-coloured corset under a black lace shrug. Her hair was up in a tight bun like any good dominatrix. Stunning wasn’t even the word. Venetia was breathtaking.
When the lights went down, my chest fluttered. If I were I an older person, I would have thought I was having a heart attack. In my relative youth, I knew it had to be love. Scary love. Crikey! I took a sip of my soda and ate a whole handful of popcorn, then some peanut M&M’s. I tried to follow the plot—a typical Bollywood love triangle, Venetia informed me—but I was more interested in my date’s reactions. She gasped when they danced. She smiled when they sang. Who’d have thought a dark angel could be such a romantic?
When one of those melodramatic love scenes came up, Venetia grabbed my hand and held it to her heart, dangerously close. That was the moment. There was always a perfect moment for a perfect first kiss, and that was it. I leaned in, aiming to touch my lips to hers, but suddenly Venetia was as far from me as she could be without jumping out of her seat. “Liz, what are you doing?”
I bolted upright. Her brow furrowed. Her lips pursed.
She was serious. She was angry. Disgusted, even.
I stammered, “I thought... I thought...”
“You thought what?” she hissed.
“I thought you wanted me to.”
Her jaw dropped. “Do I look like a dyke to you?”
The only thing I could think to say was, ‘Hell yeah!’ but that might’ve made things worse, so I didn’t say anything. I was so confused. I only fell for her in the first place because I thought she was hitting on me! I don’t go around randomly kissing girls. I could have sworn she was interested. I was breathing through cotton again, and it was wet and popcorn-scented. Sudden indigestion struck and I held a hand beneath my breasts to help relieve it. How could I have been so wrong about her? I could have sworn...
The screen went dark and the house lights came up. Thank God! I could retreat to the safety of home.
“That movie ended really weirdly,” I said, trying to act normal.
“This is only intermission,” Venetia replied, looking straight ahead. “There are two more hours left.”
“It’s a four-hour movie?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She still wasn’t looking at me.
I wasn’t sure what to do or say. “Do you want me to go?”
Venetia shrugged. Monotonously, she said, “We still have half a bag of M&M’s and we haven’t even opened the gummies yet.”
I took that as an invitation to stay. A meagre one, but it was something.
“It’s a good movie,” I said, like I actually knew what I was talking about. “I liked the dance with the fountain.”
“Yeah, that was gorgeous, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
She glanced toward me, then quickly away.
What else could I say? I didn’t want her to be uncomfortable, but I felt like I had to address the elephant in the room. “It’s because you’re always touching me. That’s why I thought...”
Strange that I’d just tried to kiss her and now I couldn’t even say, ‘I thought you liked me.’
“Oh,” she replied.
As much as I didn’t want to leave Venetia’s side, half afraid she might take off, I really had to pee. By the time I got back, intermission was over. When I settled in, Venetia tapped my thigh to offer me some gummies. What would movies be without candy? She’d taken off her lace shrug and now her shoulders
were bare. In the blue movie light, her blemishes vanished and her gorgeous breasts glistened like water at night. She noticed I noticed, and she dropped an M&M into her cleavage.
No way! After the last rejection, Venetia’s cleavage was about as appealing as a bear trap. But I wanted to go after that candy, and she knew I wanted to.
“Melts in your mouth, not on your breasts?” I whispered.
“Find out,” she snickered, grabbing my hand and pressing my fingers into the warm fold.
I didn’t linger. I didn’t squeeze. I just grabbed that M&M and got the hell out of there.
Apparently, that wasn’t good enough for Venetia. She dropped in a whole handful. Taking my hand in hers, she thrust it between her breasts. She didn’t let go this time. With M&M’s stuck between my fingers, I plunged my hand down the cup of her corset. The warmth of her body had melted the candy coating. I traced them around her chest, drawing sloppy hearts. I couldn’t believe she was letting me do all this! Ten minutes ago...
“Naughty girl!” Venetia scolded, eating the chocolates from between my fingers.
My heaven was in that mouth!
Pressing my head against her chest, she commanded me: “Clean up this mess!”
It was a moment of intoxication, taking in the candy-sweet aroma of her skin. I actually gasped as I kissed her neck. Her flesh felt exactly as I’d imagined against my tongue, and, I had done a lot of imagining! The whole experience was out of this world. Luckily there was Bollywood dance music blaring from the speakers, because Venetia was not so quiet.
We laughed in those fits where every time you think it’s subsided, you spot another candy stain or your crush says “Mmm... M&M’s” and it starts right back up again.
I was still in disbelief about everything we’d done, even as we rode the bus all the way back to my place after the four-hour film.
There’s a Roman playwright called Terence who said, “Many a time, from a bad beginning great friendships have sprung up.” When I first met Venetia, I didn’t think I could stand even volunteering with her. Now she’s teaching me to use her sewing machine so we can both go above and beyond for the Helping Hands clients.
That Bollywood film was a new beginning for us. Now we spend every free moment discovering each other in some sense—physically or emotionally or intellectually.
Often, there’s candy involved.
3
One Good Deed
As they walked home from the supermarket, Shahira spotted a scrap of paper at the sidewalk’s edge. Weighed down by bags of milk, oranges, and cat food, she bent to pick it up. It wasn’t until she’d unfolded it that she finally realized what she held in her hands.
Lana turned around to find her kneeling on the sidewalk, and rolled her eyes. “What are you doing back there?”
“I found somebody’s paycheque,” Shahira replied, getting up and jogging to join her roommate.
“Let me see that,” Lana whispered, tearing it from her hand. “Nice! All we have to do is forge an endorsement and we’re six hundred and fifty seven dollars richer.”
Ripping the cheque from Lana’s clutches, Shahira scolded her. “We’re not stealing this chick’s money!”
“Why? Who is she?” Lana asked with a blank stare.
“I don’t know. Some girl who lost her paycheque: Marta Diaz. If you lost your paycheque, wouldn’t you want it returned to you?”
“I wouldn’t lose it in the first place,” Lana answered, nose in the air.
The employer’s address was in the top corner of the cheque, and it would only be three minutes out of their way, so Shahira set off in that direction.
“Where are you going?” Lana asked.
“She works at Madeira Bistro.”
“You’re going there now?” Lana whined. “This sun is killing me. I’m not going with you.”
“Do as you please.”
When Shahira pressed forth in the direction of the Bistro, Lana chased after her. “Fine, I’ll come too. Maybe she’ll give us a reward.”
Shaking her head, Shahira said, “I don’t want any reward, I just want this girl to get her paycheque back.”
“I’m sure they’ll replace it. It’s not a big deal,” Lana said. When Shahira didn’t respond, she went on, “I hope they at least give us a bottle of water. I’m dying in this heat.”
“Here it is.” Shahira stopped in front of the quaint Bistro. “It’s closed.”
Peeking into the darkened interior, Lana said, “No kidding, Queen of the Obvious. Here, just push it through the mail slot.”
Shahira read the sign on the door. “Look at this—they’re on vacation until the end of the month. I can’t leave it here. Marta will never get it.”
“So no reward, no water, and you won’t let me steal the money?” Lana whined as they headed for home. “What a waste of time.”
With a tender smile, Shahira said, “A good deed is never a waste of time.”
Leaving Lana to put the groceries away, she went straight for the computer. In a city of two and a half million, the name Marta Diaz didn’t appear even once, but there were twenty listings under M Diaz.
She called every one.
Three were named Marta, but none worked at the Bistro.
“Are you still trying to find this chick?” Lana laughed, painting her nails as she read the local free paper. “Give it up already.”
Placing the phone down as she walked to the kitchen, Shahira said, “I’d just like to think that anybody out there would do the same for me.”
“Nope,” Lana chuckled. “There are no Good Samaritans anymore.”
“And some people don’t even put the milk away!” Shahira cried, finding the groceries still in bags on the floor. Shaking her head, she unpacked them herself.
“Oh whatever. It’s not like I drink milk anyway,” Lana said, distractedly. “Hey, what did you say that girl’s name was again? Marta Diaz?”
Looking up from the fridge, Shahira quickly said, “Yes. Why?”
Lana carried the local paper across the room, walking on her heels so the polish on her toes wouldn’t get ruined. Placing it on the cutting board, she pointed to a classified ad.
For piano, guitar, or voice lessons, call Marta Diaz.
“Did you try this number?”
“No,” Shahira said, grasping for the phone and dialling. “That’s a cell number, isn’t it? My search only gave me landlines.”
A satin-smooth voice answered on the second ring. “Marta Diaz music lessons.”
Shahira’s skin tingled as she spoke. Those words swam through her like rippling waves of velvet, each subtly running into the next.
“Do you work at Madeira Bistro?” Shahira asked, hearing the question from her lips without any awareness of speaking.
There was dead air for a moment before the woman answered. “Yes...?”
“And you lost your paycheque?”
Again, she paused before saying, “Yes, I did.”
Shahira began to worry that she’d given the wrong impression. This stranger was going to think she’d stolen the cheque and was holding it hostage or something.
“I found it,” Shahira said, the words bursting from her lips. “On the sidewalk on Queen Street.”
“I live on Queen Street,” Marta replied. “At Silverbirch.”
“That’s where I found it!” Shahira cheered, as though it were all a big coincidence.
Lana stood at her side, whispering, Don’t tell her where we live. She could be a psycho killer, but Shahira didn’t heed her advice. Their proximity, even at that very moment, excited her too much.
“We’re neighbours!” Shahira told the voice on the phone. “I’m one street over at Willow.”
“You’re not serious,” Marta said. The excitement in her voice matched Shahira’s. “Step outside now. I’ll meet you.”
Dropping the phone and grabbing Marta’s cheque, Shahira ran down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, heading east. She knew Marta the moment she c
aught sight of her up ahead. Marta’s face lit up. They’d never seen each other before, and yet they somehow knew each other, like they were meant to meet. The fates had aligned, had blown that paycheque Shahira’s way. Everything happened for a reason.
They met, both panting for breath, halfway between their two streets.
“Your cheque,” Shahira said, extending the rectangle of paper.
Marta took it between her fingers, but Shahira didn’t let go right away. The girl’s stylish black hair and bronze skin lent her the look of a goddess. Shahira had never met anyone so striking. How could they have lived in the same neighbourhood, just one street apart, and never noticed one another? This whitebread area wasn’t exactly seething with black-haired, brown-skinned beauties.
“Your name?” Marta asked.
Smiling, she released the cheque. “Shahira.”
Placing the slip of paper in her jeans pocket, Marta took hold of Shahira’s hand. “One good deed deserves another. Tell me what I can do for you.”
Shahira returned her gorgeous grin and didn’t even blush as she chuckled, “Marry me?”
4
There’s A Girl
“You’re thirty-four years old,” Maureen’s mother said, taking on that clucking tone reserved for unpopular subjects. “There must be someone special in your life by now. Why don’t you ever talk to me about these things? Your sisters talk to me. Last night, Steph called me up at one in the morning to rant about her date, but you...”
“Mawww-awwm!” Maureen set her head down on the kitchen table. This conversation always made her brain feel like a bowling ball. “You wonder why I don’t call more often? You’re always harping about how I should get married.”
“That’s not what I said. Is that what I said, Harvey?”
Mom stopped scrubbing the soup tureen to glare at Dad, who was hiding behind a newspaper at the end of the table. “I can’t hear you,” he said. “I’ve gone to my happy place. Be back in an hour.”
Sweet Lesbian Love Stories Page 3