by Radclyffe
“I was afraid you might not. You read my letter?”
“I did. I’m not sure if I would have ten years ago, but I don’t see any benefit in you lying now.”
“I never set out to seduce you. I didn’t know that thing was on, but as soon as I found out I made her give me the tape and I destroyed it. Coach threatened to take Shallon’s scholarship if there were copies. People may have heard about it, but they didn’t see it. Do you believe me?”
Gianna hesitated. She wouldn’t just be saying she believed Elle. She would have to let go of all the anger she’d held on to over the years.
“I believe you.”
Elle’s body seemed to sag with relief. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. I’m sorry I didn’t allow you to tell me sooner.”
“That’s okay. I was angry at you for believing me capable of that anyway. If we had known each other better before we had sex, things might have been different.”
“Maybe,” Gianna said.
“I got over being mad at you a long time ago. I’ve read all your books,” Elle said shyly.
Gianna flushed. “What did you think of them?”
“They were all great. I love a good mystery. I kept expecting a romance out of you, though.”
“I never could write those.”
“I liked the one I read.”
Gianna laughed. “I haven’t had the courage to read it again. Nothing like reading your first attempts at writing to dampen your spirits. I got rid of most of my first attempts a long time ago.”
“You won’t…”
“No, of course not.” It surprised Gianna that Elle would think she would throw away that particular story. She might not read it, but she would never throw that story away. Even ten years later, she still remembered her longing for Elle. The story had been the only way she knew to deal with those emotions.
“Good. Okay then, so do you want to go in with me?”
“It doesn’t open until five.”
“Not for the public, but it’s open to us.” Elle held up a key. “My parents own it.”
“They own it?”
“Yeah, I worked here all through high school. I always thought it would be a romantic first date. A theater all to ourselves… I don’t know, what do you think?”
“Our first date?” Gianna grinned. “I think we’re doing this backward.”
Elle looked very serious when she said, “Whatever it takes. I had hoped you would finally put an ending on that romance you started in college. It’s kind of tough reading it for ten years and always wondering how it would have ended if things had gone differently.”
“Maybe we should collaborate?” Gianna said as Elle put the key in the door and turned the lock.
“I’ll let you deal with the fiction. I’m going to focus on the real thing.”
Three Minutes - Jove Belle
JOVE BELLE grew up in southern Idaho and now lives in Portland, Oregon, with her partner of thirteen years. When she’s not writing, Jove dedicates her time to chasing her four-year-old around the house, making silly faces at the baby, and being generally grateful for the crazy carnival ride of life. She is the author of two novels with Bold Strokes Books: Edge of Darkness and Split the Aces.
Three Minutes
Jove Belle
There are moments, I’m told, that define who you are. Life draws a line and waits for you to step over it. And when you do, you come out on the other side forever changed for having crossed it. Complete rubbish, or so I thought, preferring to believe that change happens slowly over time. And I maintained that healthy bit of cynicism right up until the moment Katie plucked the timer off the bathroom counter and twisted the dial, setting it to go off in three minutes.
I knew, without reservation, this was one of those moments. I swallowed hard, the physical manifestation of the “Oh my God, what have we done?” screaming through my head and out the tips of my super-spiky hair. Katie pulled her boxers up over her hips and gave me that half-smile that melted my insides. The same one that sent my heart tumbling along after her in a headlong rush that hadn’t eased in the six years since I’d fallen in love with her.
She placed her hands on either side of me and stepped in close. “I need to wash up.”
Our bathroom was tiny, too small for both of us, but it hadn’t stopped me from following her through the door when she’d held up that slim white stick a few minutes ago and announced it was time. I shuffled to the right, a not-so-subtle attempt to clear her path to the sink.
She pressed closer, her mouth brushing against my ear. “No, don’t move.”
This is how we ended up in this position in the first place, that damn smile and her body so close to mine that I couldn’t think beyond the need to hold on to the moment, to not let her slip through my fingers. I heard the splash of water in the sink behind me as I surrendered to the feel of her. Even through the layers of our clothes, I could feel the heat of her skin inviting me in. I wrapped my arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. God, the smell of her, that light, lingering scent of lavender. Not the manufactured kind that gave me a headache, but the fresh, unmistakable reminder of the garden she loved so much.
That’s where I’d found her the first time, only it wasn’t her garden, it was my grandmother’s. Summer vacation—the three-month reprieve between my junior and senior years at the University of Washington—had just started, and I’d promised to spend it in Boise with my grandmother. The thumpa-thumpa of bass pulsing out of my speakers died abruptly when I killed the engine, and I was instantly surrounded by the Saturday afternoon peace of suburbia—the dull roar of a lawn mower, distant laughter of children, and the unmistakable smell of meat on a grill. I hefted my duffel over my shoulder and started around the house.
“Grams?” I called, more to let her know I’d arrived than anything else. After all, I knew where she would be.
A light breeze rippled across my skin on its way through the neighborhood, carrying the promise of hot summer days and cool, lazy nights. I found her, as expected, knee deep in the field of lavender that made up her backyard. Ambitious wisteria and clematis tangled their way through the chain link that separated Gram’s property from the community park on the other side, completely blocking out the dull sheen of metal fencing.
“Lana?” Grams raised her hand to block the sun, an unnecessary effort since her face was already well shaded by a wide-brimmed, floppy hat. “Come give me a hug.” For as long as I could remember, that’s how Grams greeted every one of us grandkids, with enthusiasm and love. It didn’t matter how long it’d been since she’d last seen you.
I dropped my bag and jogged over to her, threw my arms around her waist, and hugged hard enough to pick her up. “I’ve missed you.”
“Put me down.” The protest was offered with a smile. “You need to be careful with these old bones.”
I knew she didn’t mean it, but I placed her back on the ground as requested.
“Yes, Grams.” I laughed along with her. Not because anything was particularly funny, but because it was just so good to be in her presence again. Nine months was a long time, and I had the next three to make up for it.
She squeezed my hand, a firm reminder of her love, and stepped to my right until we were both facing the same direction. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Grams said more, I’m sure. She’s a well-mannered woman. She never would have left the introductions incomplete like that. Still, I didn’t hear another word. My eyes tracked to where she pointed and the world faded away until all that was left was an enchanting woman rising out of the lavender. Her wild tangle of hair tumbled down her shoulders in an untamed wave and all I wanted was to lace my fingers into the reddish gold mane, feel it flow over my skin.
A light spray of freckles fanned out across her nose and cheeks. I wondered if a similar pattern could be found anywhere else on her body and if she’d let me play connect the dots with my tongue. She pulled off her gloves, tucked her hair behind her ears—
something I immediately wanted to help her with—and stuck out her hand. She stood there, head tilted to the side, mouth slightly open and curved up on one side, waiting for my brain to stop short-circuiting.
Six years later, she looked at me the same way as we stood together in the too-small bathroom waiting for the timer to wind down. Unlike the day we first met, I didn’t repress the need to kiss her. I pulled her in close, dipped my head slightly, and pressed my lips to hers. I tried to impress everything I felt for her, every sweet thought, every dream of happily ever after, into that extended moment of contact.
“Two more minutes,” she whispered, her forehead against mine, her eyes, the color of summer sky, full of love, desire, and just a hint of fear.
“Scared?” I traced the line of her jaw with the back of my hand, a promise that everything would be all right.
She took a shaky breath and squeezed me even tighter. “Terrified.”
I followed her gaze to the plastic white stick on the bathroom counter. One blue line—the control line, according to the instructions on the box—solidified before my eyes.
“Did you ever think we’d be here?” Her voice was low, husky, with a little tremble tied into it. Her words tore at my heart.
I slid my hands down her arms and laced our fingers together. “See this?” I lifted her left hand, the diamond and platinum promise prominent on her ring finger. “This is the only place I ever could have been.” I brushed my lips over her knuckles. “Here, with you, is the only place I ever want to be, regardless of what that test tells us.”
She nodded slowly and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were shiny with unshed tears. “Me, too.”
I smiled then. Big and real, the kind of smile you can’t hide because it starts in your gut and bursts through before you can stop it and once it’s out there’s no taking it back. “Me, too.” It was a faint benediction from my heart, our special way of saying I love you with everything that I am.
We’d dated for almost a year before either of us made that declaration. I was too afraid, knowing that my heart would break beyond repair if she didn’t share my feelings. But once we said it, we never stopped, until the day of our wedding. When we were supposed to publicly announce our love and devotion, the words that came so easily to us just didn’t seem enough.
She walked down the aisle, all flowing white and glowing smile, and my heart was gone. Unfortunately, it took my brain and the ability to articulate along with it. Katie stopped in front of me, those perfect blue eyes mirroring every overwhelming “hold on tight,” “run and hide” emotion ripping apart my insides.
The church—stiflingly hot and overflowing with boughs of lavender fresh from Grams’s garden—faded into a blur of white noise and static as the minister carried the ceremony forward. I was vaguely aware of a carefully constructed speech about commitment and family extending beyond the bounds of ordinary love, and the words etched themselves into my subconscious to be inspected later. The minister, chosen mainly for her charisma and ability to hold an audience, jolted me back to the moment with the words before “I do.”
“Kathryn Mary Taylor”—her voice was laden with serious intent—“do you promise to love, honor, and cherish Lana Corinth Anders, to keep her heart safe for as long as you both shall live?”
Katie looked through her lashes at me, shy with a blatant layer of lust just beneath surface. “I do.”
Before the minister, a small-framed, overly serious woman, could ask me the same question, I blurted, “Me, too.”
A nervous ripple of laughter washed over the crowd and I touched Katie’s cheek. I was almost there, our lips scant inches apart, when the minister cleared her throat, reminding me that it wasn’t time for that yet. I had to earn the privilege of kissing my soon-to-be wife. I pulled back, embarrassed and frustrated. I wanted that day to be perfect. Katie deserved that. More than that, though, I wanted to kiss her.
“Soon.” She’d said it quietly, just for me, then tightened her grip on my hand.
Since that day, four years ago, we’ve relied on that ineloquent, if enthusiastic, declaration when our love feels too big to be expressed by simple words: Me, too.
The timer crawled slowly, relentlessly forward. “Who knew three minutes could take so long?” I tried to lighten the mood, ease some of the tension from Katie’s body.
“Lana, are you sure you want to do this?” There was that doubt again, like she was waiting for me to disappoint her.
I cupped the back of her neck, willing away her apprehension. “Absolutely. And in a minute we’ll know if it worked or if we get to try again next month. Either way, I want this.” The sink was hard against my back and I was grateful for the support. No way my legs would have held me up on their own. I wondered if her wavering sense of certainty was about me or her. Did she have doubts that she was trying to project onto me? The walls pressed in and I wanted to lead her out of the bathroom, lay her down, and cover her with my body until she felt safe, protected again, but the timer held me captive.
I pictured us, nine months in the future, a beautiful, tiny version of her curled between us on our bed. I could see the baby, the result of one simple act involving a syringe and some bodily fluid I never wanted anywhere near me in the past. More than that, it was the culmination of our love, the perfect, undeniable, irrevocable expression of our commitment to one another. The magnitude of it humbled me and tears stung my eyes. My throat tightened and I choked on my next sentence.
“I love you.” My voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. “I love that we’re doing this, that you want…” I couldn’t finish, the emotion building in me too much to hold back. How could I ever express my gratitude, show her the truth in my heart? It was a gift, this precious life I hoped for. How could I quiet the voice of doubt whispering in the back of her mind?
Ding! Katie’s mouth hung partially open, her response cut off in the sound of the timer. Her eyes, full of hope and longing, locked on mine. After several moments, we turned and read the results together.
Two lines. Relief and gratitude flooded my body as I wrapped Katie up in my arms. She swayed against me, her breath a hot rush on my skin. I stumbled out of the bathroom not yielding my grip on her and swung her around, too excited to remember her newly defined delicate state.
I set her down, the enormity of those two little lines sobering me, and brushed away her tears with my thumbs, my caress smooth and sure. I pressed my lips to her forehead. “We did it.”
Three minutes and two little pink lines and my life was dumped upside down. Forget noble arguments about change being gradual, the culmination of micro-events. Everything good and right in my life—Katie rising like a goddess out of a sea of lavender; saying “I do”; knowing, rather than suspecting, that Katie was pregnant—happened in the blink of time between inhaling and exhaling. I gripped Katie’s hand as she marked off days on the calendar, setting the timer for our next life-changing moment nine months in the future.
Signifier, Signified - Nell Stark
NELL STARK is currently working on a PhD in medieval English literature in Madison, Wisconsin, where she lives with her partner and their two cats. When she is not teaching, writing, or teaching in the Writing Center, she enjoys reading, cooking, and most sports. She has published two novels with Bold Strokes Books, Running With the Wind (March 2007) and Homecoming (August 2008). She is also a contributor to several erotica anthologies, including Erotic Interludes 4 and 5 (Bold Strokes), Wild Nights and Fantasy: Untrue Stories of Lesbian Passion (Bella), and After Midnight (Cleis). Nell can be reached at [email protected], or by visiting www.nellstark.com.
Signifier, Signified
Nell Stark
I hadn’t thought seriously about getting a tattoo before I fell in love with Melanie. The idea had always intrigued me, but as I told her—back in one of those early conversations over the phone when we were just getting to know each other—I hadn’t found any design or symbol that I was absolutely certa
in I wanted on my body for the rest of my life. And I needed to be certain.
“Maybe someday,” I had said. “If the spirit moves me.”
Someday had come and gone. By now, four days after walking into the local tattoo parlor with sweaty palms, the healing itch had faded from maddening to bearable. The tatt was beautiful where it lay nestled in the juncture of my abdomen and left leg, its lines dark and crisp against the vivid whiteness of my thigh.
Mel was going to love it.
For the third time in as many minutes, I glanced up at the clock above the mantle. Just past ten at night. I sighed and shifted in my chair, unable to get comfortable despite the fact that it was my favorite in the house. On my lap, a stack of unread student papers sat neglected. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus, couldn’t seem to do anything except wait in anticipation for the sound of the front door being opened.
Five days. In the grand scheme of things, five days was inconsequential. But this was the longest business trip Mel had ever taken, and I missed her with an unnerving ferocity. The past several days had felt like the first few years of our relationship, back when we were living a thousand miles apart, unable to see each other for months at a time. Back when all the unchanneled love and need and want pressed in on me so hard that I had trouble taking a deep breath. Back when—
But those times were behind us. Things were different now. Half an hour ago, I had opened a bottle of Silver Oak ’95 and poured two glasses, letting it breathe just like Mel taught me. And an hour before that, I had tucked our two children into bed after reading them a story. Now I was lying in wait for her, desperate to cup her face in my palms and kiss her with all the pent-up hunger that had been gathering under my skin since our farewell embrace at the airport. My body was humming and my breaths were shallow, and under the cotton of my sweats, my tattoo ached slightly.
I smiled, thinking about how surprised she would be, and how pleased, when she finally saw it. I already wore her ring and her necklace, but this was a different kind of sign—a reminder that I belonged to her. A vow, inscribed and imprinted. A shared memory etched into my skin for her eyes alone.