We Need to Talk

by A. K. Rose

  Words are powerful when strung together by the right person. She learned from her favorite authors that the magic happens when words and emotions and life collide with creativity. Writers are not made, she always thought. They are born. The technical aspects of writing can be taught, sure. But, the ability to captivate a reader with the way words are assembled into a story is an art, and she never really knew if she possessed the gene that made her an artistic writer. Doubt always, always crept in.

  But for two days, Laura sat in her outrageously expensive, yet extremely small shared apartment, her computer monitor and notebooks full of chicken scratch enveloping the wicker table that served as their dining room table/desk/catch all, and for some reason, her creativity seemed to be ignited. She had something to write about. Her conversation with Mel at Serafina had brought up a river of emotions, of feelings she hadn’t visited in ages. Words came in a stream of consciousness flow state she hadn’t experienced since before moving to the city.

  She wrote about growing up with a single mom that worked two jobs to support them and resented her daughter as a result. She wrote about the last time she saw her dad, when she was four years old—the little she could remember of him—before he was killed in that horrific car accident. She wrote about being a social outcast in school, of her unrequited love for Michael Wilson, the fellow nerd who spoke three languages but somehow infiltrated the jock circle and didn’t know she existed. Of the respite of going away college; of her hopes and dreams and desires; of what she wanted from New York City.

  It was cathartic, a release. These words, these days, were not for anyone else. They wouldn’t make a New Yorker article, and they wouldn’t become a novel. No, these words were solely for Laura.

  After those two days of nonstop journaling, she felt . . . better. At peace. And then, she started think about the advice Mel gave her almost immediately after they met. That she was young. That she needed to experience life. That it didn’t matter what she did to pay the rent right now—that wasn’t the point. The point was to invest in herself and make the opportunities happen.

  No wonder I’m blocked. I don’t have any adult experiences to draw on. My canvas is completely and utterly blank. Hemmingway went to war. Thoreau isolated himself in the woods. What have I done that matters?

  She looked up from her computer screen and the clock on the microwave told her it was approaching 6:30 on Friday night. Two days had all but evaporated, but they had been the best two days she’d had in New York, and they had been had inside, in front of a computer screen. She had exactly thirty minutes to get dressed and meet Mel to see Rent. Plenty of time on an ordinary day, but a nervous anticipation filled her to the core, and it seemed woefully inadequate today.

  It’s just a show with a friend. Chill.

  · · ·

  When Laura arrived at the Nederland Theatre, Mel was there, leaning on the front wall of the building, talking on her cell phone, dressed elegantly in a sleeveless little black dress that really highlighted her slim, muscular physique. She was holding a black sweater and lightly waving it side to side as she spoke. Almost immediately, Mel recognized her new friend’s presence and hurried off the phone.

  “That was a client,” Mel noted, as she leaned in and kissed Laura on the cheek, the white noise of sirens blaring one or two blocks away. “You look great tonight. What have you been up to the last couple of days?”

  “Oh, thanks.” Laura’s face immediately flushed, the heat from her cheeks radiating throughout her body. Why did conversations with Mel inevitably lead to extreme blushing? Or, was it the contact from their cheeks touching that flustered her?

  She had selected a conservative pinstriped suit for the evening—as if she were going on a job interview—and immediately regretted it. “Oh, you know, the same old grind. Looking for a job, cleaning up after my selfish slob of a roommate, and, actually, this is a little different. I have been doing some serious journaling.”

  “Journaling?”

  “Yeah, I know, it sounds kinda Judy Blume meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer—teenage angsty—but, our talk the other day awakened some stuff in me I needed to get out. It has been a great two days, honestly.”

  “Have you been out of your apartment?”

  “Well, no, but it has only been two days.”

  “Well, thank God I had these tickets. Sounds like you need a little time on the town. Shall we go in?”

  As show time drew nearer, the house lights were flashed a few times to coax the audience into their seats.

  “I’m so glad you could make it to this. Rent is one of my very favorite musicals,” Mel leaned in and whispered in her guest’s ear, darkness enveloping them as the lights went down, the waft of cinnamon filling Laura’s nostrils once again. And, once again, the little hairs on her arms stood at attention.

  “Me too,” was the best reply she had at the moment, and she meant it, reaching over to grab Mel’s left hand with her right, a gesture to acknowledge her appreciation. Laura intended to squeeze and quickly let go. She didn’t let go.

  FOUR

  As they stood in line to use the ladies’ room at intermission, Mel broke the silence. She had to. This beautiful blonde before her had made it very clear from the start that they would just be friends. As much that frustrated her, as much as she thought she could swing the pendulum, she didn’t think it would swing so fast.

  “Alright, I have to say it. You are completely confusing me.”

  “I know,” Laura squeaked, her voice shaky with nervousness, her eyes focused solidly on the dingy carpet beneath her feet. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing at all to be sorry about, but, you know that you’re sending me some very mixed messages, right?”

  “Again, I know. I am honestly kind of confused myself. But, can we not talk about this here, in line, with all these other people?” Laura’s voice had shifted from a squeak to a whisper, but she mustered the courage to maintain eye contact for her request.

  “Of course,” Mel said softly, knowing she was now treading on delicate ground. “Have you eaten?”

  “Does coffee count?”

  “No, coffee very much does not count. Ordinarily, I’d say let’s go to dinner, but, perhaps it would be more comfortable out of the public eye? Let’s go to my place after the show and talk. I’ll whip together something that actually passes as sustenance.”

  Before her good sense could stop her, Laura agreed, but took things one step further than Mel could have ever imagined.

  “Yes, that would be great. But, could we go now?”

  “Now? Don’t you want to pee? Don’t you want to see the rest of the show?”

  “I know what happens in the show, and you have a bathroom, right?” Laura didn’t even recognize the person speaking. Who was this assertive woman? And, what was she getting herself into?

  For her part, Mel could not believe the speed at which the tables were turning in this pursuit. Three days? That had to be a record, even for her.

  “I’ll get us a cab.”

  · · ·

  Mel opened the front door to her apartment to expose a beautiful view of empty, yet randomly illuminated buildings, its floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city in an almost magical way. If she didn’t know better, Laura would think this view was a photograph. If not a photograph, a scene from a movie. Who had apartments like this?

  “Wow, your place is a lot different from mine. It’s gorgeous,” Laura started, as she stepped into Mel’s living room. “You live here alone?”

  Mel’s apartment didn’t hide her success, but it was warm and inviting. Her tastes were classic and understated. Colorful textiles and soft pillows rounded the hard edges of her mid-century styled furniture.

  “Well, I’m a lot older than you. I’ve had time to move up the ranks of the New York City apartment hierarchy, but don’t you worry, I know what it’s like to live in a coat closet with three other people, struggling to make rent. And yes, I live here alone. Headhunting has its f
inancial benefits, for sure. The bathroom’s around the corner, help yourself. I’ll get us some wine.”

  Laura was relieved to have access to a bathroom without fifty other women waiting for it, and without her roommate Marcie’s hair products splayed everywhere. This room, like the small bit of apartment she’d seen, was immaculate. White subway tile, white towels, a beautiful white porcelain-topped vanity. Not a thing out of place. With a moment of privacy, she took the opportunity to take stock of herself in the mirror. Nothing in her teeth, hair in place, no mascara where it shouldn’t be.

  What the hell am I doing? Right. I am having experiences.

  As she washed her hands, she plotted her next move, wondering what might happen tonight. She stepped into the kitchen and accepted her glass of wine in stride.

  “How old are you, anyway? We haven’t discussed it, you know. And, I have to know, why do you go by Mel?”

  “Ah, yes, my age. How old do you think I am?”

  “Thirty two?”

  “Close. I’m thirty five. I’ve lived in the city twenty years. We moved here when I was a sophomore in high school, when I was still ‘Melanie’ and I chased boys and later worshipped Madonna. I go by ‘Mel’ now, simply because I work in a man’s world. Melanie doesn’t get calls back. Mel does. It’s really that simple. Here, let’s go sit on the couch.”

  Like a fly into a spider web, Laura followed instructions and made her way to the black sectional in the middle of a generously-sized living room.

  “Cheers,” Mel announced, gesturing her glass with a tilt as she sat beside her guest.

  “Cheers,” Laura automatically replied, clinking her half-full wine glass against her companion’s, her confidence inexplicably rising, her gaze focused on the deep green eyes of her host for perhaps a moment too long. Those eyes were going to be the end of her. She took a sip of wine and then, before she fully swallowed, Mel placed one hand on her thigh—too high to be a friendly pat, but too low to be a sexual advance.

  Laura swallowed quickly, almost gagging in reaction to the hand on her thigh, and tried to recover.

  “Madonna, huh? I wouldn’t have guessed that one.”

  “There’s a lot about me you wouldn’t guess. But, let’s talk about what you really want to talk about. Now that we’re here, now that we left the theatre before the show was over . . . now that you held my hand in a way that I’m assuming was new for you, why don’t you tell me what’s going on with you?”

  She had it coming—hell, she asked for it—otherwise, they wouldn’t be here right now in this awkward moment, sitting on this supple leather couch, looking out at the city. Still, Laura held back, suddenly very interested in the lights illuminating the buildings that filled her immediate view. She hesitated, wondering if she was about to make a huge mistake. Her heart felt like it was beating at triple its normal speed.

  Shit, shit, shit. I’m in way over my head here. I’ll just say I made a mistake, that I’m sorry. I’ll just say I’m confused and let that be it. Or . . . not. Voices in your head are meant to be silenced.

  Without a single word, Laura put her wine glass down on the coffee table, then took Mel’s as well and placed it down in one swooping motion. It was a bold move for someone so insecure, but she did it with confidence—there was no turning back now.

  Laura took Mel’s face in both hands and gently pulled, drawing their lips together. She tasted red wine and smelled a hint of perfumed flowers that she couldn’t place. She felt a softness she didn’t expect, an electricity she had never experienced. Just as fast as she had acted, she retreated, realizing what she’d done was irreversible.

  “If that’s your version of talking about it, I think I completely misjudged you, Miss Brighton. And I know you’re not drunk, so . . .”

  “Yeah, you know, I think I misjudged myself. I don’t know what came over me. I have never even thought about kissing a woman. Never thought about holding a woman. But then, you came into my world, with your confidence and your ability to talk about literature and philosophy and travelling the world . . . and those goddamned piercing eyes, and I started questioning everything I’ve ever thought. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you walked me home the other night.”

  Mel took her cue, needing to know nothing more, and leaned back in to devour her prey. She had been here before—the experienced guide for an uncertain young woman exploring her sexuality—but this time was different. This woman was different. There was a depth to Laura she didn’t expect, and she wanted more: more time, more experiences, more intimacy.

  Laura felt Mel’s hand on the back of her head, the warmth of rushed exhales, Mel’s teeth gently pulling at her bottom lip, and completely gave in to the experience. The want of another woman had never been on her mind until a few short days ago, and now, all she wanted was to see where this went. Clothes were suddenly very confining, their seams restricting movement, their woven threads becoming unbearably suffocating.

  “Do you want to move this to the bedroom?” Mel inquired, her gravelly voice shooting daggers of desire straight into Laura’s heart.

  A simple nod was all it took to get them on their feet, leaving a stream of discarded black theatre wear along the way; a breadcrumb trail that could be traced back to the scene of the crime.

  But was it a crime? Was it so terrible to follow one’s desires, even if they were hard to justify?

  “Okay, so a small observation,” Mel asserted, as she lay Laura down softly on her king-sized bed, running a finger between the waistband of a pair of barely-there panties and Laura’s warm skin. “You are wearing incredibly sexy lingerie—I mean, a lace thong to go to the theatre with a friend? What exactly did you expect to happen tonight?”

  “I don’t really know. I really don’t. But, I think somewhere in the back of my head, in places I didn’t want to visit, I wanted this to happen. I had a breakthrough while journaling, while thinking about my life. Where I came from, where I want to go, how I want to live. That I need to have experiences and try on life in a new way.”

  “And you decided to throw men out the window that fast? You decided, ‘yeah, sex with men is not my thing. I think I’ll seduce the lesbian I met three days ago?’ I mean, if that is what you want, I am more than happy to oblige, but, you have to admit that this seems a little . . . rushed.”

  Laura sat up slowly, crossed her legs in contemplation, and wondered how much of the truth she should reveal. The moment was fading, but she could get it back on track easily, swiftly. Or, she could tell her dirty little secret. If she spilled it, the evening would have a vastly different ending, and she knew it. If she wanted a quick romantic experience, it was hers to have. But, if she wanted something real and lasting, built on honesty, she had to tell the truth. Plus, it would be obvious soon enough that she had no practical experience with what should or could happen between the sheets, with a man or a woman. She exhaled slowly, knowing there was no way around it.

  “I totally agree, it’s rushed, and I can’t explain that. But, you can’t give up on sex with men if you’ve never had sex with a man.”

  “So, you lied to me about not being gay? Why would you do that? I don’t get it.”

  “No, I told you the truth, completely. I have . . . I haven’t had sex . . . with anyone . . . ever.”

  As if on a director’s cue, the air that filled the room seemed to be sucked out, giving way to the utter silence only a vacuum can provide, erasing the white noise, eliminating the revving engines and sirens and music blaring from the nightclub across the street. Laura waited for a response, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her forefinger, biting her lower lip in anticipation.

  “I don’t. I. Wow, okay. This is a new one for me, sorry. I had no idea that was what you were going to say. You are absolutely stunning. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, salt of the Earth—the perfect American girl. Smart and charming and, in my opinion, going places. So, how is that the case?”

  “Well, I just haven’t had the opportunity,
or met someone I would want to have sex with, you know? I wasn’t lying when I said I was a bit of an outcast in high school. I went to an all-girls college. I kept my head in my books. I worked a lot so I could move to New York when I graduated. I didn’t really get out much. Then, I moved here. In six months, I haven’t really been blowing up the dating scene, so, here we are.”

  “Here we are,” Mel confirmed.

  “I understand if this information freaks you out. I would probably be freaked out too. It’s a bit crazy, isn’t it?” Laura backtracked, that damn insecurity rearing its ugly head.

  “First of all, no, not crazy at all. I actually think it’s amazing—sex can ruin your life if you’re not careful—you are going out into the world untarnished. That’s incredible. But, we can’t do this. Not now. Not today. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself,” Mel stopped, then leaned in close, enveloping Laura’s hands with her own. “You are someone that I want to get to know better, that I want to spend time with. I care too much to let your first sexual experience be something you might regret.”

  That twirl of hair around Laura’s finger was now a full-fledged knot, a physical display of the knot that now took over in her stomach.

  “But I want this. I need this. I want you to show me what I am missing.”

  “Oh honey, don’t you doubt it. I want this too. Just not this way. Why don’t you stay the night, in the guest room, and we’ll spend the day together tomorrow? I am not rejecting you, in any way, shape or form. I admit that you, in my bed, right now, is about the hottest thing I can think of, and this is incredibly hard to do. But you have to trust me—not now. Let’s get to know each other more, okay? I promised you dinner. Let’s get dressed and I’ll deliver on that.”