by Radclyffe
Amanda abruptly pulled her close and Christina found herself on her back. Amanda’s lips and hands seemed to be everywhere as she parted Christina’s lips with her tongue and kissed her deeply. Breathless with arousal and relieved that she seemed to be forgiven, Christina returned the kiss with all her love.
Christina cupped Amanda’s face between her hands, registering every beloved feature of Amanda’s strong face. How many times had she seen these extraordinary slate gray eyes flash at her in anger, or melt her with just one sultry glance? How many times had Amanda kissed her with those full curvy lips, mapped every inch of Christina’s skin? Christina ran her thumbs over the elegant black arches that were Amanda’s eyebrows. How many times had she seen them knit together in concentration or frown at her in hurt confusion or anger when they fought?
“Oh, God, darling. Darling!” The realization that she’d come to take this woman—this amazing, one-of-a-kind special, remarkable woman—for granted made Christina so furious with herself, her throat constricted.
“What’s the matter, Christina?” Amanda asked, sounding worried.
“Nothing, darling. Not now.” Christina smiled with trembling lips. “You’re just so beautiful it makes me ache inside.” She knew she had to be truthful or this extraordinary moment wouldn’t count. “I haven’t been fair to you, have I? I haven’t been honest. I’ve buried myself in work instead of telling you the truth.”
“The truth?” Amanda asked, her voice tinged with concern.
“The truth is, the only thing—I mean the only one in my life who really means something—is you. Without you, all the rest, career, money, status, reputation, is meaningless.”
“You are who you are, Christina,” Amanda said quietly. “An intelligent, ambitious woman. You shouldn’t apologize for that.”
Christina pulled Amanda close. “I’m not apologizing. I’m trying to tell you that my work gives me joy, but part of that is because I can share my success with you. Nothing I do, or experience, feels real, or has any true meaning, if I can’t come home and talk with you about it. Do you understand what I mean? Without you, it’s just…hollow. Empty.”
Christina touched Amanda’s chin with a finger and tilted her face up. Slowly kissed Amanda’s trembling lips, over and over. “I love you,” she murmured against the velvet softness. “You mean everything to me, my heart.”
“Love me,” Amanda breathed. “Make love to me, Christina.”
“Amanda,” Christina whispered throatily. “Darling…” She shifted a bit, changed her position so that she could stroke along Amanda’s body. “Five years,” she murmured against her partner’s soft hair. “Five years with you, Amanda, with your love and loyalty. That is truly something to be thankful for, but I’m just as greedy as you. I want at least fifty more too.”
“Mmm.” Amanda purred. “Deal.”
Discovered in Light - Clifford Henderson
CLIFFORD HENDERSON lives and plays in Santa Cruz, California. She runs The Fun Institute, a school of improv and solo performance, with her partner of sixteen years. In their classes and workshops, people of all genders and sexual orientations learn to access and express the myriad of characters itching to get out. When she’s not teaching or performing, she’s writing, gardening, and twisting herself into weird yoga poses.
The Middle of Somewhere, her first novel, will be coming out in January 2009, published by Bold Strokes Books.
Contact Clifford at www.cliffordhenderson.net.
Discovered in Light
Clifford Henderson
When it comes right down to it, I’m not even sure I want a girlfriend, not at this late date in my life. I don’t want to have to go changing. I’ve already done that once; I quit eating meat for somebody. Boy, was that not worth it. My friends think I’m being stubborn. Tell me I should at least get another chair, maybe even a second wineglass—their idea being I’d appear open to the possibility of a girlfriend. But I’ve tried both these things, too, lots of times, and it never works. My place isn’t big enough for two anyway. And I like my routines, or ruts as my more tactless pals like to call them. My routines are all I’ve got. And they don’t talk back. Well, mostly they don’t. Evenings can be a little tough. Especially on weekends. That’s when my imagination kicks in and starts begging for something besides the usual microwave dinner and TV marathon.
That’s what brought me here. I thought to myself, what would keep me busy on weekend evenings? And the answer that came to mind was, community theater.
I was a techie in college. Did all the lighting and set building for the shows. I was good at it, too. Just couldn’t make a living once I graduated—not one with benefits and a decent paycheck. Not that the job I have now is all that glamorous, driving a forklift at a paper company. But I’m the only woman in the warehouse and that gives me some satisfaction—when it’s not giving me a pain in the ass. Like the time I decided to give those boys a reason to stay off my forklift.
They were treating Bessie like she was community property, which they never did to Jerry’s or Don’s forklifts. If one of them didn’t feel like walking the quarter mile from one side of the warehouse to the other, they’d snag Bessie like she was a go-cart or a taxi—which pissed me off royally. So one morning I got there early and duct-taped a bunch of tampons around the roll bar, let ’em dangle by the strings like little pom-poms in a low rider. Problem solved. Nobody gets within ten feet of Bessie now.
I don’t like to take shit. Especially from guys. Women, now, that’s a whole other story. I get kinda soft around women… But don’t get me started. Suffice it to say I’ve had my share of heartbreaks and I don’t fancy getting my heart trampled again. I’m too old for that shit. Besides, I’ve got a bad hip—which is giving me a hell of a time tonight as I try to keep myself busy while waiting for the actors to show up.
I’m stage managing for a new comedy that opened last weekend. Minutes Ticking it’s called, written by some local hotshot. I don’t think it’s had the reception anybody’d hoped for. The reviews weren’t bad, but they didn’t exactly call it a “must see,” which is what it takes these days to get people off their lazy duffs and into a night of live theater.
It’s the story of a couple of empty-nesters, which is part of the problem. Hollywood’s got us so jacked up on the young and beautiful that nobody seems to care about the middle aged and frumpy. Once you’re over thirty you’re not interesting anymore.
The other problem with the play is Mark. He’s playing across from this beautiful actress, Camille, and it’s like he doesn’t see her. All he can think about is the cute, young light board op, Lucy, who I’m stuck running the show with for the next month. I tell you, she may be cute but she’s dumb as a tack. I’m having to call light cues a couple seconds early because it takes her that long to hear the cue, then send the information down to her pretty little French tips to execute. The girl is dense. But when Mark’s onstage he’s delivering his lines to her, acting for her. Or that’s how it looks; he faces out instead of facing Camille, and he’s always glancing up at the booth as if to say, check this move out, Lucy. And the second he’s offstage he’s badgering her, asking if she liked his performance, if she noticed his new line delivery or the way he tossed his wineglass into the fireplace. I don’t know why the director never called him on it. I sure would have. But now the director has moved on to another show and it’s just me to keep the damn thing running.
Tonight we have a brush-up rehearsal. My job is to open up the theater, turn on the lights, and hold a prompt book in case either of the actors forgets a line. I’m not here to offer opinions. Just the basic stage manager routine.
Since I got here early, I decided to replace a burned-out lavender gel. That’s what’s got me up on this ladder. I turned the house lights off so the place is dark except for this one ellipsoidal I’m working on. I like the satisfaction of slipping a new gel in, watching the light go from white to lavender.
Someone enters.
Since I’ve got the house lights out, I can’t make out which of the two actors it is.
She walks into the pool of light and looks up at me, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Hi, Roque.”
As usual, my heart does a triple gainer. She’s so beautiful under the light—her light. Tonight she’s wearing this fringed shawl thingy tossed over a shoulder, giving her a bohemian look that suits her to a T. She’s a classy one, Camille is. Tall, with curly salt-and-pepper hair she’s pinned up on her head with a pencil. Loose tendrils curl around her long neck. A particularly impish curl falls in front of her eye. She brushes it back as she cranes her head up to see me. “That is you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I was just…uh…putting a new gel in your special.”
“Thank you, Roque. Is Mark here yet?”
“Nope.”
I hear her settling into her usual front-row aisle seat. She’s one of those women who carry a handbag that’s more like a fancy shopping bag. She riffles through it.
“I’ll turn the house lights on,” I say. “So you can see.”
“Don’t bother. I like the theater like this.” She riffles some more. “Besides, I seem to have left my glasses at home.”
“You shouldn’t need them tonight,” I say, coming down off the ladder and folding it up. “Your lines should all be in your head, right?”
She laughs. “One would hope, but my memory went shortly after my eyes.”
I laugh. “Know what you mean. Spent half an hour yesterday looking for my keys. Turned out they were still in the door. Put my groceries down and forgot all about ’em!” I wait for her to say something, maybe one-up me on the losing memory thing, but she seems preoccupied. I pick up the ladder and carry it backstage. I’m no good at small talk. Never have been.
It’s pitch-black dark behind the flats. I lean the ladder against the upstage wall and feel around for the blue-gelled clip lamp, flicking it on when I find it. It bothers me that I get so nervous around Camille. I wind up coming off like a moron. Part of the problem is we don’t know each other too well. During rehearsals it’s been all business, and after rehearsals, well, we’re past the age where any of us want to go out for drinks.
Camille’s an accountant. I know this because she offered to help the theater with the books until they hire a new bookkeeper. I also know she has a couple of grandkids she’s crazy about. And she’s single. Once, in rehearsal, when they were doing some character work, she let on that she’s experimented around with women. I forget her exact words, but she glanced at me when she said it. Guess it’s pretty obvious I’m into women, although I’ve never mentioned it. No reason to.
Another thing about Camille is she likes her chocolate. She brings in bags for everyone to share, but I notice she dips in the most. I always take a handful just to be polite, but I don’t much go in for sweets. Salt, that’s my vice.
Having done everything I can backstage, I come out from behind the flats. There’s still no Mark.
“So…” I say.
“So…” she says.
I’ll be damned if I can think of anything to follow this inspired bit of dialogue. I bend down and secure a peeling spike mark in the lavender light. It’s Camille’s spike, where she places her feet each night so the light will hit her perfectly.
“Shouldn’t we call him?” she asks.
I think it’s sweet she says “we” because we both know it’s me who should be doing the calling. “Uh, yeah. Let me get some lights on and find my contact sheet…”
“That’s okay. I have him programmed into my phone. I’ll call.” She takes out her phone and pushes a few buttons. The glow from the phone dimly lights up her face. She smiles at me while waiting for him to pick up.
Now I feel like a total moron. Why haven’t I ever taken the time to learn how to program numbers into my phone? It’s the damn buttons on the thing. They’re too small. I pick up my folder of replacement gels and walk it up to the booth, then bring the house lights up to half, a nice golden glow, and a few other muted stage lights. No use us sitting in the dark.
When I return, her eyes are brimming with tears—not the sad kind, but the mad kind.
“You okay?”
“No. I am not okay. That jerk just told me he’s in L.A. auditioning for a commercial.”
I feel my chest tighten and remind myself to breathe. The guy’s not worth a heart attack. “Did he act like he knew there was a rehearsal?”
“Oh, he knew.” She blows her nose on a giant colorful hanky, then mimics Mark’s don’t-you-wish-you-could-sleep-with-me voice “‘Sorry, babe, but my agent thinks this could be my big break.’”
“Camille, I’m sorry…” Ultimately this kind of screw-up is my responsibility. I’m supposed to keep my actors in line. “I’ll give him a call.”
“What for? He’s seven hours away.” She takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Anyway, he says he’ll be back in time for tomorrow’s performance.” She pulls out a plastic bag of what look like chocolate-covered peanuts. “Want some?”
I reach into the bag and pull out a couple.
She takes a handful and pops one in her mouth, then begins to rant while at the same time fiercely chewing. “Here I left my ninety-one-year-old mother—who just flew in from Phoenix—home by herself. Well, not by herself exactly, my neighbor’s going to look in on her, but basically alone, and this jerk doesn’t have the decency to even call and tell me he’s not going to make it. He is so arrogant!” Another chocolate down the hatch. “I’ve never worked with an actor like him. He ad-libs half of his lines and mugs through the rest of them. I don’t think the guy would know truth if it hit him on the head.” Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a smile creeps onto her face. “I just wish I could be there when the advertising people find out he’s not as young as his headshot.”
This cracks me up. When he came in for auditions, I didn’t even recognize him from the twenty-year-old glossy. Mostly, though, I’m relieved she’s stopped crying. I’m not too good with women crying. She reaches over and takes one of my hands, sandwiching it between her own. “Roque, you have truly been one of the best parts about working on Minutes Ticking. You are a real gem.”
I want to say something about how I’ve liked working with her, too, but all I can think about is the softness of her hands, and how my fingertips are acting like a conduit to my whole body. “Maybe we can fit a brush-up in before Friday’s performance” is what I come out with.
She releases my hand. “I can’t,” she says. “I told Mom I’d take her to dinner before the show. You’re just going to have to stand in for him.”
My throat tightens. “Me?”
“Why not? You know the play better than anybody.”
“Like a line run-through?”
“I’m going to need you to walk though his part, too. The blocking stimulates my memory. So if you could just read his lines, do your best to get his blocking…”
“Uh…sure…why not? I mean, if it would help you…”
“It would more than help,” she says, standing. “And, who knows?” She places her finger on my chest and gives me a devilish smile. “It might be fun.”
An involuntary quiver shoots up my spine.
Ten minutes later, we’ve got the set pieces and props in place. The play is basically a series of vignettes that happen in a bedroom, a slice of this married couple’s life.
“Are the board ops scheduled to be at rehearsal?” she asks, double-checking her hand props on the night stand.
“No. Just you and Mark.”
“Anyone else likely to show up? Box office? Maintenance?”
“Nope. All ours.”
She cocks her head and looks me right in the eye. “Well, let’s get started.”
The first few scenes go well enough. They’re just your basic humorous scenes about life after kids. Remarkably, I’ve got most of the lines memorized. I guess this should be no big surprise. I’ve sat through tons of rehearsals. Still, I’m feel
ing pretty proud of myself and even start to try out a little acting. You know, feeling it and all. I strut around the stage like I am Doug—a seemingly self-satisfied sporting goods store manager who, on the inside, longs for meaning in his life. Living, I discover, is easy when the words and movements are already figured out for you, when all you have to do is recite. And Camille gives so much back. She really listens, for one thing, and even though she knows what I’m going to say she acts like she doesn’t. She finds nuances inside of nuances for her character, Anna, a woman searching for ways to invigorate her empty days.
Then we get to the scene, the one that turns the play on its side. Anna has bought a book to reignite their sex life.
“Back in a second.” I consider bolting for the exit. “I’ve got to use the restroom. Too much coffee, I guess.” Does Camille expect me to play this scene, too?
In the tiny actors’ bathroom, I can barely get myself to pee and I spend forever washing my hands. How am I going to do this? The whole scene takes place on the bed.
By the time I return, Camille is already in place—smack in the middle of the king-sized bed. “So,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. “We discover you in the light. Doug is offstage in the shower, singing.”
“Aren’t you going to walk though it?” she asks.
I notice she’s removed her fringy shawl and is now wearing just her spaghetti-strap cornflower blue sundress. “Uh, sure. You want me to?”
“Well, it would help,” she says, removing the pencil from her hair. Locks of salt-and-pepper curls cascade around her shoulders. “This scene is always hard for me.”
“Okay. So I’ll just go out here and be Doug taking a shower.” I retreat backstage and begin singing All of me…why not take all of me… just like Mark does. Admittedly, this is one thing he has up on me. I’m a rotten singer, but I give it my best. Anything for Camille.