Part 11 (1/2)
And how about you, Andrea wanted to ask, wouldyou act on it? But dared not, not this early. Never easy, this playing the role of the initiator, but at least she was glad she had it better than a man in the same position. Most straight women weren't so h.o.m.ophobic that they got bent out of shape when propositioned by one of their own gender, but a straight man might punctuate his refusal with his fist. A pa.s.s from another woman? A reaffirmation of attractiveness. A pa.s.s from another man? An a.s.sault upon hallowed masculinity itself.
Evening became night, and night lost its bloom. Melanie insisted that she really had to be going, no more backsliding. Andrea said it was probably a wise idea. They settled up finances with Tequila Mike, who smiled and gave Andrea a discrete wink as they clumsily slung on their jackets. And when the two of them stood outside Tappers on the sidewalk, Melanie simply stopped and longingly watched the traffic.
”I don't want to go home,” she said, half declaration and half question.
”Then don't.”
”Easy for you to say.You've probably got all these friends you could stay with. I don't haveanybody . Used to, maybe I did, but not anymore, and I don't even know how that happened. Now there's n.o.body.”
”Sure there is. Or at least there is now.” Andrea paused until Melanie looked her in the eye. ”If that's what you want.”
Melanie's eyes slid closed and for a moment she swayed. ”He will really kill me for not coming home.”
”Correct me if I'm wrong. But I'll bet he's not come home himself a few times. Am I wrong?” Melanie stared, then shook her head. ”Then worry about it tomorrow.”Or the day after that, or ...
And simple as that, it was decided. They covered the six blocks to Andrea's apartment on foot. She'd not driven, had lately become accustomed to leaving the pub in poor shape to handle her car. She lived on the top floor of a roomy old Victorian, drawn and quartered into apartments, no two alike, with windows scratched at by oak and maple branches.
When Melanie sank into the sofa, her lap was immediately commandeered by a three-legged cat that Andrea introduced as Tripod. When asked about the missing back leg, Andrea explained that she'd picked him out at the animal shelter as a kitten because it was obvious no one else would, and that the cause of the leg's absence was a mystery.
Andrea put on a CD, Steve Hackett'sBay of Kings . The faintly muted solo cla.s.sical guitar floated throughout the apartment, soothing and therapeutic. Pa.s.sion and delicacy from the fingers of a master. She joined Melanie on the sofa with a bottle of wine, which they agreed was the last thing they needed but uncorked it anyway. Tripod lurched off as though sensing himself in the way.
”I appreciate this,” Melanie said. ”I'm not really very used to someone being so ... so...”
Andrea shushed her. ”It's okay.” Wondering if the hunger showed in her eyes. And if it did, if it was noticed. And if it was noticed, if it mattered. And if it mattered, if it was shared.
Melanie's head bowed much as it had when Andrea first noticed her. From behind the hair came the sounds of sniffling. ”Why do we make most of the biggest decisions in our lives when we're too young to even know what we're doing?”
Andrea scooted closer, resting one hand on Melanie's arm and with the other brus.h.i.+ng locks of hair back from her face. The move proving to be a double-edged sword, that initial contact thrilling but she hated herself a little, too, feeling no better than some reptilian pickup artist who preyed on the wounded because the pickings were easier that way.
She trailed feathery fingertips over the half-hidden bruise circling Melanie's eye, and when her hand was captured and held, leaned over to continue with her lips and wine-sweet breath.
”No,” Melanie whispered, a denial negated by her sharp intake of breath.
”You hurt,”Andrea whispered back. ”I just want to take that away.”
”I ... can't...”
”Yes. We can.”
Soon there were no more denials. Only aches and longings. They moved from the living room to the bed, followed by the gentle strains of guitar, while the stereo's repeat kept the music playing for hours, until dawn came and went, and everything looked new again.
AUTUMN MADE A great time to fall in love.
Even at home, there was far more magic during the end of Andrea's vacation than there ever could've been in Cabo. After she returned to work, everyone told her how much good that three-week trip must have done her. And still the magic endured. Walks in the park. Pizza by candlelight while camped on the floor. Sunsets watched from the windows of tiny restaurants or after plundering second-hand shops of dusty treasures. The thoroughly everyday, made enchanted by soul's alchemy.
While she didn't quite feel comfortable admitting it even to herself, it felt to Andrea that their roles of rescuer and rescued had evolved into those of teacher and pupil. She didn't want to feel that way, wanted to feel they were equals. Yet how else could you respond when an entire new dimension seemed to blossom in someone you cared deeply about, who then sought you for guidance?
Not that it wasn't pleasant. Not that it wasn't flattering. She found a pride almost decadent in introducing Melanie to the fact that love-making needn't be confined to the standard male biological sequence of arousal/plateau/o.r.g.a.s.m/snore. That the interplay could go on for hours, that they could lock into the middle half of the cycle and repeat it almost endlessly, until their bodies were too spent for anything else.
Not that it wasn't rapturous. But there remained the underlying fear. Wondering if, for Melanie, this would be a pa.s.sing fad and soon she would turn her life back toward the tried, the true, the familiar.
”I'll have to confront Bart face-to-face someday, you know that,” Melanie said. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, gray and bl.u.s.tery outside, dark and warm within. They lay in bed while raindrops spattered the window and branches sought their way in. ”The way he is, just that phone call won't do it. He'd have been over here right away if he'd known where I was.”
”Do youwant to see him?”
”No. Not really. But it seems like I owe him that much.”
Andrea s.h.i.+fted from her back to her belly, recalling fragments of Melanie's verbal portrait of her husband. Bad about retaining jobs. Worse about considering the feelings of others. Quite proud of his half-dozen tattoos. Always able to score good crystal meth. That such men could inspire loyalty had always been unfathomable.
”You don't owe him anything.”
”Plus, I still need to get the rest of my things from the house.”
”So we go back again when he's not there. Mel, you owe himnothing .”
”Suppose he changed the locks after the first time.” Melanie sighed, leaned in to nuzzle her shoulder. ”If Kim wanted ten minutes of your time, wouldn't you feel like you should give her that much?”
Silence, but for the rain.
”You can't honestly tell me no, can you?”
Andrea shut her eyes and curled in one herself. Because she would not lie, and knew when she was beat.
TAPPERS WAS DOING moderate business a few evenings later. Andrea and Melanie sat at the bar, the remnant's of the morning paper in folded disarray around them. Melanie had been making periodic forays into the crossword puzzle. Andrea fed her the name Dianaa”five-letter word for Moon G.o.ddess of the Hunta”and a corner of the puzzle was finished. They celebrated with a quick kiss.
”Son of a b.i.t.c.h. I wouldn't've believed it if I hadn't seen it.”
The voice came from behind them, a stranger's to Andrea's ear but still she had no doubt as to whom it belonged. Even before she caught the flash of guilty shock on Melanie's face.
”Bart,” she said, and swiveled around to face him. Voice neutral.
”Friend of mine tells me, *Hey man, she's gone and turned lesbo on you.' I say, *No way, not my Melly. I have it on good authority that she likes d.i.c.k.'” Bart shook his head ruefully at the floor, then looked up with a scowl. ”Making a liar out of me, that'll cost you.”
Andrea swallowed revulsion. She had never hated men by simple virtue of their gender. Did not reject their friends.h.i.+p, when genuine, just did not seek their pa.s.sion. Hating Bart, though? That was another story.
He wore mostly black, and carried a denim jacket slung over one shoulder. An arm sported a greenish tattoo of an eagle gripping a snake. His hair needed was.h.i.+ng. All of which was benign enough, on its own. But blend them with the look in his eyes, that sense of him claiming everything in sight as his to do with as he pleased, and Andrea knew: She did. Not. Like. This. Man.
”Pack it up,” he told Melanie. ”You're coming home.”
”I ... I don't think so, Bart.” If her voice held a third of the conviction of his, she was doing well.
He rolled his eyes. ”That wasn't a f.u.c.king yes or no question. That was reality, Melly. Get off the stool and walk out that door with me, and don't you make me drag you. It's time you relearn where it is you belong.”
Andrea pointed to his arm. ”Maybe she just doesn't belong with someone who walks around like a dime-store art gallery.”
”Pipe down, Butch.” He slid a longneck bottle along the bar to her. ”Here. Amuse yourself with this awhile. You might even like it.”