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Dying on the Ground.

Sometimes, she would walk around her apartment in a mad pace, picking up itinerant pieces of clothing or trying to find the back to an earring that she lost three weeks ago. More often than not, she would stand in front of her mirror in the bathroom, idly combing her hair and picking at her cuticles. Her hair was never in a mess, but after she would play with it and tousle it, the invariable result was one of mess and confusion. Random hairs screamed out of her scalp, which provided for an interesting effect.

Not an unattractive woman, but not extremely physically appealing, there still remained something about Nat which was intriguing. She possessed that kind of smouldering sensuality which one only hopes to encounter in a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel -- "She tossed her hair in defiance, and bid Todd to come to her; tonight, she was to consummate their union-" -- but in such a subtle manner that one often wondered if this woman was the same person whom they first met. "Are you dating anyone?" people would ask. She would shake her head quietly and, flashing a dazzling smile, they would often forget when their birthday was.

This particular evening, she was anxiously regarding her carpet -- as if the lotto ticket for the eight million dollar jackpot was on the floor, just under her feet -- when the phone rang.

"Hello?" she asked, nervously twisting the phone cord in her fingers.

"Uh, yes, is Jean there?" a husky voice on the other end asked.

"I, um, I'm sorry, but there's no-one here by that name. What number are you dialing?" Her honeyed tongue slid over the words.

The disembodied voice cleared its throat. "962-9921, I think ... at least, that was the number three years ago..." There was an uncomfortable pause. "Do you know if there's been any mail for anyone of that name, or of the name Julie Fricks? The only reason I ask is..."

"Actually, there *has* been," Nat replied cautiously. "Would you like to come and get it? I could meet you downstairs, outside. I know *I* would hate to miss any correspondence," she confided chattily.

The other end was silent for a second, and then: "Alright. That will be fine. This is still on, uh, 10th Street?"

"Sure it is. Number 1-3-5, down by the bookshop."

"Alright. OK. I'll meet you over there in about an hour, will that be OK with you?"

"Sure. Fine. No problem." They exchanged pleasantries, and then hung up.

-=*=-

Her hair was a mess. She smiled to herself as she passed the mirror; what was this person doing? Of course, there wasn't any mail; she could say she had accidentally discarded it, it's out in the trash, but why don't you come up for a drink? Have you had dinner yet? She traced the outline of her jaw with a finger, and regarded herself pensively. Smiling, she traipsed downstairs and out the apartment building.

The cigarette glowed faintly in the early dusk. She could make out a form approaching her, but it was not certain just who it may have been. The figure stopped, nervously looked around, and walked up to her. "Excuse me, are you waiting for a total stranger -- "

Nat laughed. "Yes, that would be me. Sorry to have made you walk over here for nothing, but -- unfortunately, the pieces of mail which I thought I had are not here." She looked plaintively at the other person.

The shadowy figure chuckled. "That's OK, I don't know anyone named Julie Fricks anyway. Looks like we both outsmarted each other."

A look of distress crossed her face. Quickly, Nat thought, come up with something -- anything -- some plausible excuse for her willingness to lie. "Well, I can make it up to you -- would you care for a drink? There's a place right around the corner..." She tried to save face whilst she still could.

"Well, funny thing is, you look like the kind of woman who keeps her cabinet full -- would you rather just stay here? I'd appreciate the chance to sit down away from noise, and crowd." The cigarette crashed to the ground, and was smashed out by a large foot. They looked at the last faint glow of the ashes, and then the stranger spoke again.

"So," she continued, blowing wisps of smoke out of the corners of her mouth, "would you care to show me inside?"

Nat was taken off guard. This was one of the rare occasions where she knew, instinctively, that her position of aggressiveness would be useless, her attempts at pulling the upper hand were already crushed, and she might as well simply allow herself to enjoy the ride. Flashing a dazzling smile, she beckoned for the woman to follow her. "I live up on the third floor. Watch the steps -- they're kinda old."

The woman smirked. "I know where you live. I've been working in this area for years -- I work at the bookshop up the street. You've come in a few times, gotten some really good novels. You must like to read, yes?"

She sighed. "I love reading philosophy books, Japanese pulp detective fiction, Chinese poetry, and sometimes a trashy novel. Ev'ry now and again I indulge, you know?" They had reached the apartment door. "You'll have to excuse the mess," she said as she scurried to pick up random objects. "Here, come into the kitchen with me. There's some wine on top the fridge -- " They sauntered into the kitchen together, the other woman taking in every detail of the room. She offered a wine glass to her guest. Silently, they poured the wine and sipped cautiously, gracefully, as if it were the most precious essence in the world. She turned away to set her glass down and felt a pair of hands on her breasts, gently rubbing them against the fabric of her shirt. She issued a small sigh, closing her eyes for a second and relishing this moment.

Her nipples began to rise, slowly; then, an electric surge of white as a tongue licked its way up her neck. She writhed, feeling heat and energy between her legs. "MmmmMmmm..." she moaned softly. The tap in the sink was running; a hand reached around the front of her and cupped some water in its palm. The hand released the water down the front of her torso, spilling some over into her mouth. She turned around to face this wonderfully adept lover, and found that she didn't care who was in control, who had the upper hand -- this was magnificently shared, orchestrated by two conductors who were virtuosos, mistresses of their own craft and design.

The woman regarded her face, and traced the outline of her jaw with her finger. "I don't even know your name," she whispered. "What is your name?"

"Call me Nat. It's Natasha, but no-one calls me that. And yours?"

The tall figure smiled. "My name is Helen. I'm my great-aunt's namesake. Wonderful, huh? If she only knew what a good name I was giving her..." Helen reached out towards Nat and pulled her mouth closer. She licked the edges of her lips, quickly darting into Nat's mouth and feeling her anxiety and passion. "Shall we move to a more -- comfortable -- venue?" she asked Nat playfully.

As response, Nat roughly grabbed Helen's shoulders and attacked her neck; licking it, kissing it, biting it in a frenzy of lust, desire, and sheer wantonness. Helen's hand reached up for a breast; she pinched Nat's nipple and laughed when she reacted with a squeal. "You want I should stop, now?" she inquired. Nat shook her head no.

They had intended on moving to the bedroom, to sprawl on the sizable bed, but instead Helen reached down and weaseled her hand into Nat's skirt, searching out her wetness with a prying finger. Nat arched her hips forward, pressing against Helen's knuckles. She couldn't believe her own desire for this woman, whom she knew not at all. Her eyes closed, for a second, and she could imagine her whole being filled with a raging peace - a vicious dampening of the soul followed immediately by a surging calm. Her body went limp. Helen's hand slid out from inside of her, and from in her skirt. Nat smiled weakly. Lips met lips, and an agreement was made.

The two mistresses silently moved into the other room and shut the door.

From the street, all one could see in the bedroom was the form of two lovers bestowing gentle kisses on each other, and the slight glow of a cigarette casting rare light on them.


kelly_garner@unc.edu
copyright kjg 1995

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