Chapter 1 - Before the show
A high, melancholic progression of strings teases out the final section of high drama, pausing, unsure whether to take the path of tragedy, or the path of reconciliation. It could follow the course of the Pathétique, the most devastating orchestral work ever created by mankind.
This is where darkness overcame me.
With my wife's passing, my life was over. I functioned. I smiled. I took my photographs. Images of love, when there would be no more for me.
A French horn intercedes, carrying with it strains of muted brass, to show that the direction has always been toward tranquility.
And then Lauren broke the hold of the dark.
Light glinting from the glass heart closer to me subtly changes hue, a soft blue sparkling in one facet. With synchronicity, not design, this aligns with the start of the final transformation of the music. The progression that follows, held by flute and bassoon, could seem anti-climactic, except for the steadily increasing involvement of all sections, maintaining their distinct identities. The deceptively simple ending chords build to a place both expected and unusual as the final fraught note resolves into completion.
Sibelius's Seventh symphony has been a favorite of mine since sixth form, but after losing Nicole I was unable to listen to it. Unable to believe that there could be joy and tranquility in my future. Now I have both. My emotions are no longer clouded by ambiguity. I am fully committed to Lauren. I love her.
The green-flecked glass heart - the one that represents my heart - takes on a red-gold aura as I stare into it. I hear the muted timpani and rising cello notes as the music restarts.
I curse to myself. Daydreaming has made me forget to check the time of the final chord, which was the whole point of playing the single movement symphony again. The start is triggered by a microswitch on the central spindle of the sculpture, and I'm concerned about the amount of slop.
But it really isn't significant if the accompanying music skips a rotation. Spending time on the piece is becoming self-indulgence, and I'm a full rotation beyond when I told Lauren I'd leave. Everything is perfect. I fasten the door into position with its recessed catch, check the illumination angle again, then turn off the lights and the sound system. Mika Fujita's "Timezones" awaits its audience.
Time doesn't heal all wounds. Nicole's loss was acute and remains chronic. Lauren helps me to accept that, every day, in ways of which she isn't even aware. Giving myself to her doesn't free me of pain, but it eases its weight in my life, allowing me to focus on hope, and love.
Standing with Lauren at Nicole's graveside, I felt my wife release me. I know that didn't happen. Not in physical reality. There are no spirits, nor any viable religious view that would allow her to be present. I also know that it happened anyway. She freed me to follow my heart - to share my life with the woman beside me.
I swipe my phone, and select my favorite contact.
"Hey, honey." Lauren's voice is soft and clear, and I hear her love in it. "Are you done?"
"I'm done," I acknowledge. "I'm just nervous."
"Come home, honey," she says. "Let me take you out for dinner. You've been so busy for so long. I miss you."
"I know, love," I say. "Okay. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
"I'll have a reservation made when you get home, and I'll choose an outfit for you so you don't have to stress about what to wear."
She understands me so well. I don't need help choosing, and I wouldn't even take long, but I'm tightly wound with the show opening on Friday, with travelling to Japan in just over a week, and with the... the other thing. The thing I can't even afford to think about right now.
I shower quickly. The outfit Lauren chose is a conservative white blouse and above-the-knee navy skirt. She even set out a simple white bra with matching knickers for me, so I don't have to balance wearing something sexy for her with something that wouldn't work with the top. When I'm ready, we still have over half an hour before our reservation.
My eyes widen when we arrive at our destination. We've visited the jazz club before, but we weren't able to be seated until late. "How did you...?"
"I may have made the reservation a few days ago, honey," Lauren says. "I may have figured you were going to need to relax."
"I love you," I say.
"I know," she replies, with a grin.
The food is great, and the company is better. Lauren is wearing a two piece dress in black with large pink flowers. She's smiling, her mood infectious. The opulent decor is from the last century, an illuminated ceiling glowing down on our table. Cool jazz fills the air, the small band adding intriguing improvisations.
The saxophone soars, notes gleaming as brightly as the shine of its brass. "I received a text today from your friend Kathryn," I say.
My partner gives me a mock scowl, but she's unable completely to hide her grin. "Mika, are you two-timing on me with my friend?"
The sax solo melds back into the main melody, to enthusiastic applause. "I might be," I say. "Please don't tell her girlfriend."
She chuckles, and I continue. "They're both going to be away for my opening. Kathryn asked if I could arrange a sneak preview. They're going to visit on Wednesday."
Lauren's beautiful face falls. "I told Mandy I'd join her for her company Christmas party. I won't be able to be there."
"Wait," I say, returning the scowl she leveled at me a moment ago. "You're accusing me of two-timing with Kathryn, and you're snogging the fairy at the bottom of the garden after all?"
It had been a running joke when Mandy moved into the outside flat while I was in Japan at the end of last year.
"I did tell you," she says. "About the party, I mean. Not the snogfest. A girl has to have some secrets."
Sighing, I recall that she did exactly that. "You're right, I had forgotten. I'm sorry. It's the only day they can make it, and honestly, I'd prefer to see your reaction at the opening, when others show. If they do, of course. Do you mind if I show them without you?"
"Of course I don't, love," she says. "I'm going to be getting drunk with my fairy friend, anyway."
Lauren isn't really a fan of jazz. She doesn't hate it, but the fact that she brought me to this place at all speaks to how much she cares, and how serious she is about giving me a relaxing evening. She orders me an Irish coffee, while she takes a regular coffee, and we spend an hour listening to the band before leaving.
We dance a little. Neither of us is good, but I enjoy the chance to hold her close.
I tip the band while she waits for her car at the valet station.
At home, Lauren tells me to wait for her on the couch while she makes us a drink. I don't want to start a movie, or even a TV show, that I'd have to pay attention to, so I start "Wish You Were Here," quietly enough to avoid driving Captain Janeway away. She's still giving me the evil eye from her favorite spot beneath the left speaker.
The sounds of clanging cookware emanate from the kitchen. I have no idea what she's making that would require pots and pans. I even hear the mixer running. It's a full ten minutes before she returns, with two large glass mugs of hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps and whipped cream. Cream whipped by her own efforts, not a squirty can.
I sit with my right arm against her left, leaning against her, drinking my chocolate left-handed, listening to Floyd and returning Janeway's glare with an occasional fond smile, which does nothing to improve her mood.
Lauren doesn't seem to notice the spot of cream on her nose. I set my mug down on the end table, then take her mug from her hands and place it beside mine. Standing briefly, I swivel to face her, before settling onto her lap, straddling her thighs. I close my lips over the wayward cream patch.
"You missed some cream," I say, when I've removed it with my tongue.
"You had to sit in my lap to fix it for me?" she asks. "You could just have said something."
"I thought you would appreciate my thoroughness," I say, "and perhaps there's more. Like here," I continue, kissing one corner of her mouth. "Or here," I add, kissing the other.
Lauren touches her finger to the center of her lips. "Maybe here?" she asks, hopefully.
Frowning, I incline my head from side to side. "I don't see anything there," I say, then add, "I suppose it doesn't do any harm to be sure." I press my lips to hers, running a finger over her hair.
Lauren responds with her gentle passion. Eyes closed, I find and open the clip that's keeping her hair in place, then unwind her updo by touch. I move back to admire her. "You get me so well, love. This is just what I need," I say. I run my hands through the freed, wavy hair, then I pick up her mug and hand it to her. We take another chocolate fix, set them back down, and kiss again. I feel a tug on my blouse, descending, as she unfastens my buttons, then fingertips explore the skin of my collar bones. When my blouse falls open, I feel her take my hips in her hands, pulling my body into hers as she shuffles forward to meet it.
She pulls my shirt down my arms. I let her take it off, still without opening my eyes, then lean forward to kiss her neck, my hands on her waist, while she takes a turn playing with my hair. She chuckles when I playfully nip at her ear.
Eventually, I draw back, then press my lips to hers again. She responds, still sweetly. Her fingers leave my hair, caressing my arms before resting on my sides, against my bra strap. She makes no attempt to remove it.
While we kiss, I seek out the zipper for her top, but fail to find it. This is a new outfit, and I've never taken it off her before. She leans back, breaking the kiss. "Are you having trouble?"
I shrug ruefully. Lauren takes pity on me, shows me where the catch is hidden, then takes it off. I would have found it after some more fumbling, I'm sure, but the moment the top is gone I don't regret Lauren's assistance. She might have chosen a conservative white bra for me, but for herself she has a lacy low-cut purple number that showcases her perfect breasts.
Lauren's hands return to my sides, drawing me closer to resume our series of light kisses. I'm enjoying the affectionate larking around. So for now I'm ignoring the lacy purple temptation before me.
She catches my tongue between her lips, following my mouth as I try to draw back, meaning that she gets to suckle my tongue for longer than I'd expected. My body responds, the rush of feeling making my heart skip, and my hope of drawing out teasing her for a long time begins to crumble. I suppose that's a downside of having a super-sexy girlfriend.
The lace against my thumbs is softer than it looks when I lower my hands to explore. The breast within is softer still, of course, but I don't touch her skin, I just caress her through the soft fabric. Her hands slide up to the back of my neck. As we kiss, she pins my face to hers, preventing me from backing away. I splay my fingers out over her bra, squeezing gently as I move them toward the center, then back, feeling the shape of her wide nipples within the lacy cloth.
The kiss is becoming intense. Lauren still has my face captured, and I'm starting to pant. My sex is tingling, and I find myself pressing into Lauren's body. She responds with pressure of her own, her thighs tensing between my legs as she lifts herself. Then she is the one who interrupts our kisses, relaxing her grip on my head so that she can move her mouth against mine. Instead of a series of light kisses, though, she's seeking more contact with each kiss, extending her tongue, then closing her lips around mine when I do the same. We're both panting now.
Her hands leave my neck, drifting south to my bum. They squeeze me to her as her hips move in a slow rhythm. I continue circling my fingers over her bra, feeling the center of each cup jutting out further than it was.
When she unfastens my skirt, I stand to let it fall, insisting that she take hers off, too, before climbing back into her lap. Then I slide my sex against her lower belly, feeling moisture against the thin cloth of my knickers. Panties, I mean. I avoid touching her bra, resting my hands on her waist.
Lauren's hips rock more firmly against me, and she's making a low-voice sound with each lift. I'm increasingly tempted to delve into the low purple treasure chambers below my chin, the valuables they contain trembling enticingly, but I can postpone my desire for now.
Surprising me, Lauren succumbs first, unsnapping my bra, then sliding the straps down my arms. As always, her pupils darken at the sight of my small tits.
Without preamble, she lifts my waist, pushing my chest back with her face so that she can fasten her lips to my breast. Her hands return to my bum and hold me to her while she bounces me in her lap, her panting turning to snuffling with her lips sealed to my breast.
My fingers are twisted into Lauren's hair, my arousal growing rapidly, the thin cotton of my plain white knickers slick enough to slide against me.
I'm on the point of reaching down to unhook her bra when she releases my breast. She fastens her mouth to mine, kissing me hard for several seconds before pushing me back far enough to allow her to lie down along the couch, neck on the armrest. When I follow her down, she shifts one leg under mine, trapping my thigh between hers, each of us with her upper thigh against the other's sex.
My body is lower than hers, my face at her collar bones, at a perfect height for kissing the upper surface of her breast, exposed by the low bra, so I bury my face between the soft mounds and play my lips and tongue over her skin.
Lauren's hands explore my back, sometimes smoothly caressing, sometimes squeezing, using her hold to slide my sex against her leg.
I've been ignoring her nipples for long enough. Peeling a purple strap down her arm, I lower the cup enough to expose her wide, crinkly, hard nipple and the swollen, wrinkled areola. I run my tongue slowly over the rough skin, then take it into my mouth, sucking lightly as I move my lips and tongue against it.
Lauren gasps sharply, then wraps her hands around my head, sounds of excitement issuing from deep within her. Her hips move her damp sex against my thigh, while I thrust more heavily against her. The movement of my body against hers intensifies the feeling thrilling my clit, and moves my face against her full breast, increasing the volume of her moans, while I'm delighted with the feel of her cushiony skin against my cheek.
Passion ignites our feelings, and suddenly we're both jamming our bodies into each other. I release her breast, stretching to reach her mouth with mine. I feel desperation in her kiss echoing my own as our lips and tongues join. My breasts press into the softness of Lauren's.
She breaks the kiss, only to part her lips further and seek a different angle on mine, gasping as they close over my chin and cheek before fastening to mine, a groan of need escaping her throat.
I'm never sure which is more exciting: the feel of her body against mine, and what she can do to me, or the strength of her reaction to my lovemaking. Not that it matters, but she's so open to me in moments like this that I can't help letting myself go, and feeling an overflow of love for her.
She crests before I do. As she cries out into the kiss, she wraps her leg further around me, and her arms around my back, dragging my sex even harder against her thigh. While she's still panting at the height of her climax, I join her, my whole body quaking with the power of my orgasm.
"Wish You Were Here" is drawing to a close, and if I don't intercept it, the playlist will roll over to "Dark Side of the Moon." Janeway will have a heart attack when the clocks chime. She's eleven now, too old for shocks like that. Lifting myself off my partner, I pick up the control and flip the sound system off. Then I grin at Lauren. "We're a right pair," I say to her. "Look at us. Making a mess of our knickers." I use the word deliberately, knowing it amuses her.
"That's fine, they can come off before we get in bed," Lauren says. She tugs her bra strap into place, then picks up her still half-full mug to carry it to the bedroom.
I glance at the clothing scattered on and around the couch. Picking it up can wait until the morning.
The gallery usually closes at six. It will stay open until eleven on Friday for the opening, but today Kelea, the owner, is going to host my friends after hours. She wanted to be here, too. Not for lack of trust, but because she wants to know everything she can about the work. She's a sharply perceptive woman in her forties, with dark, dark eyes, copper skin and a strong jaw. She wears her hair in a single braid over her left shoulder, and it's as long as mine ever was.
She's one of the few in the community that I trust. Or at least, that I trust to have integrity in her choices. I've had offers to show my work from owners or curators who want to piggy-back on my small philanthropic efforts or my current name recognition. They would let me show anything, regardless of quality. Kelea isn't like that. She's critical of what she shows. I've seen her narrowed eyes turned to several of my pieces, and she isn't afraid to say no.
If it weren't for Kelea, I would wonder if I could ever present my work. There will always be rumors of pay-to-play, and if I can't see my work being taken seriously, then I would prefer to create only for myself. I approached her, tentatively, after I had decided she wouldn't try to pull the wool over my eyes. If she'd approached me, I'd have been much more skeptical.
She raids the fridge where she's saving wine for the opening, pouring a glass for me and one for herself before Kathryn and Shannon arrive. I'm not halfway done with mine when the door opens, so she pours two more for them. They're both in heavy coats. We're into the first week of December, with chill evenings. Kelea trades their coats for wine, then leads us to the rooms she's dedicated to my work.
The outer room is very open. There are a few tables in the center for the exhibit. In the corner is the sculpture of bronze, brass and wood that I've been fixated on for the last few months. I suggest we leave this room until we've seen the rest. We're leaving for the photography section when Kathryn notices the end wall.
"Wait, that's yours? How did I not know?"
There's a large photo standing alone on the wall. It shows a short woman, in three-quarter profile, intensely focused on a black Flying V guitar. Her feet are a few inches above the ground, untidy hair streaming out behind and around her.
I'd been expecting the leap when I'd taken the shot, but I hadn't expected how perfectly it would capture. With the aperture wide open, the scantily-clad vocalist behind her had both a slight blur and a slight motion blur, while the woman with the guitar was perfectly sharp.
"Perhaps because you haven't been around much?" I offer. "Lauren says she's missed you this year. Also," I glance between Kathryn and her girlfriend, "perhaps you've been distracted."
"I guess you could say that," she replies.
"You're going to have to give me a clue," says Shannon. "I just see a girl with a guitar. Hell of a photo, but you're all acting like we should recognize it."
"You're not from around here," says Kathryn. "That's Sidney, the guitarist of 'Of Darkness.' The band used the photo for publicity, and it was picked up by local news. I guess that makes you locally famous, Mika," she adds, turning to me.
"And that's why this is the right time for the opening," I say. "Right, Kelea?"
"From my point of view, yes," the woman answers. "I think there are other reasons for you to let the community know that you're serious."
I nod in agreement, then lead the way into the photography room. Shannon continues to glance back to the photo.
"Some of these are from my student days," I tell them. "Some are from my work, some I set up, some were fortuitous. Those were staged, obviously." I nod toward a series of nudes I took in Oxford. One had the girl emerging from a pond. Another was posed in a muddy puddle, surrounded by mist. "The model made it very clear she wouldn't be 'out here freezing my tits off' if she wasn't being paid."
Shannon grinned. "It doesn't show in her expression," she says.
"It does in her gooseflesh, if you look closely," I say, "but yes, she was a good egg. I was only paying her in beer."
Shannon tilts her glass toward the right wall. "Now those are both sexy and moving," she says. "Was it luck, or did you stage them?"
She's indicating a sequence of three photos, framed as a flat triptych. The first is of two women, one in a red dress, the other in a pale yellow bridesmaid dress, giving each other meaningful looks, both faces slightly flushed.
In the second, the woman in the red dress is cupping the hands of the one in the bridesmaid dress, drinking from a glass of wine the other woman holds.
The third shows the women kissing, wine glass held carefully to the side.
There's a romantic tension to all three shots, but especially the second. A longing that says that every moment until they could be alone together would be torment.
"Neither, really," I say, "but more on the luck side. Emphatically not staged. After years as a wedding photographer, I have a sense of what might prove interesting. Those two were clearly new to their feelings for each other, and I admit to stalking them for a good shot. When they moved to have a private conversation I followed. I didn't even have to hide, they were so focused on each other. The photos were taken only a few feet away from and a few hours earlier than 'Flying S'."
An open doorframe leads into the next room. This holds drawings, mostly pencil, charcoal or both, of various sizes, watercolors in a series, and a single marble bust.
Kathryn is studying the watercolors, with a slight frown, why Shannon is looking at the marble sculpture from every angle.
"This is so real," she says. "Who is it?"
"Nicole," I say, with a jolt to my heart. I may have moved on, but I'll probably never be able to say her name without feeling an emotional response. "My wife." Shannon's eyes snapped to mine. "She passed a little over five years ago. She deserves a place here. She was always very supportive."
"I see," Shannon responds. "I'm... I'm sorry for your loss."
I give her a soft smile. "Thank you. It's okay. The fact that she still has a place in my heart doesn't mean that I'm not Laurel's, a hundred percent. She knows about Nicole, and has been understanding and patient with me."
"I saw her expression on Thanksgiving," she says. "I don't doubt what the two of you mean to each other."
"It's the falls!" Kathryn exclaims. "It's the river. Downtown!"
"It is," I say, The watercolors are styled like Japanese landscapes, featuring wooden buildings on the river banks and a few characters in traditional dress, but the geometry of the building layout and the shape of the river are local. The town, reimagined.
"Now that I know, I can see what each one is," says Kathryn. "These would make great prints. Are you planning to sell them?"
"This is a gallery," says Kelea. "And it's my source of income. We've agreed to sell these as prints."
"After the show, I'll donate these originals," I say, "and I'll create another series for Kelea to sell as originals. These will be better as prints."
After a few more minutes of exploring, with questions that show they're both interested in the work, we return to the outer room. I lead them to the sculpture, but Shannon is distracted by a sketch book, which is full of drawings of Lauren. All are nude, but none show anything more revealing than collar bones, the curve of her lower back, or the suggestion of a breast seen from behind.
"She's okay with you showing these?" Kathryn asked, looking over her girlfriend's shoulder.
"She is," I reply. "She has the ones that show a little more skin in her possession."
Shannon flips through more pages. "Are you going to leave this out, where it could be damaged or stolen?"
"I think it's good to get a sense of what drawing means to me," I say. "They're copies. I had the book made. The original is at home. Having all the drawings duplicated was expensive, and I don't want to lose it, but I wouldn't lose the work."
Shannon nods in understanding. She hands the book to Kathryn, then turns to the assembly beside her. "Is this the new sculpture you mentioned at Thanksgiving?"
A tall bronze spike rises from a wooden base. Thin copper wires hold a wide ring of bronze. Two glass hearts stand upright on the ring. They're currently on the sides of the creation. In the corner of the room, shielded lights shine on nothing in particular, their brilliance attenuated by an opaque black cloth.
Kathryn has set the book down, and is looking at the object, her hand now in Shannon's. "Is it moving?" she asks.
The soft trombone theme of Sibelius's Seventh is playing from hidden speakers. "It's titled 'Timezones,'" I say. "It rotates one full turn in twenty-four minutes, representing one day."
One of the two hearts has gold streaks throughout the glass. The other has streaks of green. They're solid and quite heavy. I created them for a project I had in mind to share with Nicole, but it never gelled. After her passing they lived as ornamental pieces in our bedroom. The gold heart is slowly circling behind the cloth, into the light.
"When I was with my family in Japan last year," I say, "it was hard to find times when Lauren and I could be together online, because of the time difference and the different mood of each part of the day."
"Tell me about it," gripes Shannon, while Kathryn nods her head in agreement, leaning against her partner.
"The best time for us was afternoon for me, her late evening. Sometimes we would be able to talk to each other alone, and sometimes I took her out exploring with me. Shopping or sightseeing. I would show her Tokyo on my phone, in the brightness of the afternoon. Where I was outdoors or in my parents' house, Lauren claimed I brought light into darkness. This is modelling that transfer of light, in twenty-four minutes."
The bronze ring has moved noticeably. The heart that has streaks of gold is beginning to catch the light behind the black cloth. Any moment now... I feel myself smile as I see a glow within the green-streaked heart. The others don't seem to have noticed yet.
"Oh." The word is soft, coming from Kathryn, as the glow builds within the green-tinged heart. It begins as blue, then shifts through the spectrum before becoming overwhelmed by white, continuing to change brightness and hue.
"There's a bundle of flexible light pipes running through the bronze ring," I say. "The light that passes through is fairly random. Prismatic effects happen within both hearts."
We watch until the gold heart passes the center of the directed lights. This is where the music ends, despair transforming into hope and triumph. Time zero represents noon for the gold heart - the one representing Lauren - while the green heart is thirteen minutes ahead, or one a.m. in Tokyo. The symphony restarts seamlessly. I don't confess that the main reason for the choice of music is that it's just shy of twenty-four minutes long. I had other reasons to consider it perfect for this, but that fact trumped all others.
The green heart begins to fade as the gold glass leaves the illuminated area. We watch the piece through the next half-cycle, the green glass heart refracting into the gold, before Kathryn and Shannon ask for their coats.
"I'm going to be thinking about this on next year's Europe trip," says Shannon.
"Hey, honey, you know you'll still bring light to my evenings this weekend," Kathryn replies, "even though we'll only be one hour apart."
Shannon turns a warm smile to her girlfriend. "Mine too, gorgeous," Shannon replies. "Though I know you secretly hate me for going to Orlando."
"Nothing secret about it," Kathryn responds, primly, then immediately turns to me. "I'd like to put my name down for a set of the watercolor prints. I know exactly where to hang them." She immediately looks at Shannon, her eyebrows furrowed. "I guess I should ask for your decorating input going forward, shouldn't I?"
"It's okay, babe, it's still your house," says Shannon. "We can work toward sharing choices. Besides, I like the prints, too."
I turn to Kelea. "Is there any reason I can't give them the originals?"
Kelea shrugs. "They're not for sale, so no. After the show ends."
"That would be awesome!" offers Kathryn. "When you're rich and famous I'm going to have to increase my insurance, aren't I?"
"Maybe so," I agree.
At home, I make myself a pot of green tea, then sit down to watch Stranger Things. I haven't caught up with the new season yet. Now that the schedule and catalog are complete, I have no excuse not to relax. It still feels wrong.
Janeway eyes me from her usual place. She might not be happy with sounds from the speaker, but she decides not to berate me for once. She stretches, then ambles over and leaps into my lap, purring as soon as my fingers touch her neck.
Of course, now, when I finish my tea, I can't leave to pour more, so I sit quietly, as her Captainship demands, and watch more TV.
When the front door opens, Janeway glares at Lauren, disdains even to look at Mandy, then lays her head back down, paws alternately twitching as she returns to purring.
I pause the show. "Hey, love, would you pour me some more tea?" I ask. "The Captain has declared a red alert, and all crew must remain on station."
"You let that cat rule you," says Lauren, with a chuckle. There's a slight slurring to her speech. The Christmas party effects remain.
"Of course I do," I say. "This is her house. You and I only live here on sufferance." I raise my tea cup and hand it to my lover.
"Just want a tea, or a G and T?" she asks, then grins at her own wordplay. "Or a tea and a G and T? G T squared?"
"I think that would only be G and T plus T, not G and T times T," I say, "but yes, please."
"Pedant," she gripes.
Mandy doesn't follow her into the kitchen, instead sitting on the far end of the couch from me. Her hair, almost grey-blonde, is pinned behind her by a comb, but with two braids descending from her forehead. With her sharp chin and narrow eyes she looks more fairy-like than usual. Except for the lack of wings, and the fact that fairies are not reputed to be over five feet tall.
Boss Janeway isn't giving me the option to find a CD, so I consider what I have on the media server. Smiling, I locate a playlist. Slow but upbeat music begins, woodwind with low strings.
Mandy frowns and asks what it is.
"Fairy music," I say. "Bax, Nympholept."
She gives me a tipsy grin. "Are you saying fairies are nymphos?"
"Not at all," I say, "it's just pastoral music. But if the toadstool cap fits..."
"Nice," she says, dryly. "I'm no nympho, just a frustrated fairy. I did like dancing with your significant other this evening. I thought about keeping her."
"Like that would ever happen," interjects Lauren from the doorway. "You lost that chance eleven years ago." She carries a tray holding three glasses and my tea cup.
"Has it been that long?" Mandy asks. She plucks her drink from the tray before Lauren sets it down. "God, it has, hasn't it?"
Lauren moves my tea and cocktail to where I can reach them without disturbing the cat. "Admit it," she says. "You were more interested in the free champagne than your best friend."
"I was mostly interested in not dancing with the creepy sales guy," Mandy says. "I know sales guys are pushy, but that was too much."
"How was your private showing?" Lauren asks me.
"It went well, I think," I say. "Kathryn wasn't aware that 'Flying S' was mine. They asked good questions. As a prep for Friday, I think it was good. They didn't hate anything. It seems they're heading in different directions this weekend. Do you think they'll make a go of this relationship? It seems that they'll be under a lot of outside stress."
"Kat seems to thrive on stress," my girlfriend counters. "She always complains about it, but she comes through. I am sure they've talked it through. Probably endlessly."
"Shannon's a blast," says Mandy. "I should invite her to the cottage, instead. Do you think Kat would mind?"
"That would be a yes," Lauren replies. "And my best friend isn't allowed to poach from my other friends, or I'll have to find a new best friend."
The playlist has moved onto Bax's Tintagel. It's more maritime than pastoral, majestic cliffs and crashing seas, but still invoking fairy. At fourteen, I took a trip to Cornwall with a friend and her family. I fell in love with the castle location and the Arthurian legends. I discovered Bax a few months later, and the tone poem became one of my favorite pieces. I should take Lauren there. I think she'd love it.
The music ends. I've been hogging the selection too much lately, but I don't want to dump the responsibility on either of them right now, while they're relaxed and chatting. I choose the playlist Lauren just downloaded for me.
Loud guitar blares through the speakers. Janeway's ears twist backward in horror, and she isn't even sitting in her place beneath them. I hold the volume down button until the sound is barely audible, then increase it until the volume is acceptable. "Sorry, sorry, " I say. "I should have expected that."
"Is that...?" Mandy begins.
"The band you saw last week?" I finish for her. "Lemure. Lauren wanted me to listen."
"Do you like it?" Mandy asks.
"There's no screaming, which is a plus," I say. "I think I can learn to tolerate it. I'm not promising more."
Lauren leans back against me, so that she doesn't have to keep her head turned to see Mandy. She reaches back for my hand, then drags it forward and around her belly, playing with my fingers as the two reminisce.
When Mandy stands, Lauren sits up. I carefully ease Janeway onto the floor. Not carefully enough, I suppose, because the cat turns her head to glare at me, then stalks off to the kitchen, her tail perfectly vertical, but twitching at the tip. I wrap a scarf around my neck. "I'm going to watch you get home," I say.
Mandy sighs, then gives Lauren a brief hug, hugging me too before I follow her out of the door. She stumbles a little in the grass as she bypasses the center table, then calls to me from her front door. "I'm back at my cottage." I continue to watch until I see the French doors open and close behind her.
Indoors, Lauren has stacked the tea cup and glasses in the sink. Janeway has crunched her cat food, and is already curling up under the speaker. Drawing my girlfriend close, I look up into eyes abounding with love. I hug her close, then lead her by the hand to our bedroom.
Minutes later, we're side by side under the sheets. The light is off, but the moon is near to full, and the curtains are lit from behind by moonlight, making the room glow more than it does with only the neighborhood lights. I lie on my side, studying the light and shadow of her skin. She turns to watch me watching her.
"Your skin is gleaming," I say. "I wish I had my camera to hand."
"I hope you never lose the wonder in your eyes that you have when you look at me," Lauren says.
"So far I haven't failed to feel it," I reply. I pause for a moment. "May I touch you?"
She smiles, tiredly. "Be my guest, but don't expect a great response. I'm wiped out."
"If you fall asleep, I will forgive you," I reply.
Settling under the sheets, I reach out to run my finger over her lips. She smiles, then gives it a quick kiss. I draw my finger down to circle a breast, her nipple soft to my touch, then proceed lower, feeling the short, soft hair of her sex.
She's dry there, so I move my finger back to my lips, moistening it before stroking her sex. She smiles at the feeling, but shows no sign of arousal. I lick my fingers again, then caress her labia, letting my finger slip inside, where it picks up a little moisture that I can use to continue to stroke the outside.
She is becoming more lubricated. I keep caressing her folds, then curl my middle finger and begin to slip it inside her, keeping my progress slow, and backing out to avoid pushing too far, but little by little, I penetrate her completely.
Her lips have formed an O, and I hear her breathing becoming heavier. I moisten my thumb against her now damp folds, then press it to her upper sex. Rubbing the front of her pussy, just below her clit, with my thumb, and the front wall of her vagina with the finger within her, I keep up a light pressure inside and out. Her breathing grows a little louder. I smile at the audible proof of the effect I'm having on her.
Lauren's face has picked up a sheen of perspiration. She pushes the sheet lower to cool herself down, and I see that her nipples have begun to swell. In this light it isn't possible to tell whether her skin is flushed, but I think it must be. Every time she breathes out she's making a soft sound.
Her belly twitches. I can feel the sudden tensing of her sex on the inside, while her hips jerk and her breasts quiver. She rolls to face me completely, drawing back her lower leg while pushing the upper one forward, her thigh heavy against my hand. Her hips lurch forward against my finger.
I moisten my thumb again, then move it to her clit, which is swollen with arousal. I circle my thumb against it, gently at first, then more firmly as her responses make it clear that she's welcoming my touch.
She's panting strongly now. Sometimes she groans out my name. Her thighs begin to thrust against my hand, hard and fast. The feeling she thought she was too tired to have has now become a need.
I don't try to tease her. I just keep working. She cries out, then gasps, "Don't stop! Mika..." As if I had any intention of freeing her from her desire for me. There's a sudden rush of moisture around my fingers as she crosses the peak, the movement of her hips and thighs suddenly becoming uncoordinated. I relax the pressure against her clit and the wall of her sex, while still caressing her until the pulses around my finger subside.
The glow of moonlight shows hair tangled over her cheek, her eyes wide, her face still shining with perspiration. She's drawn a hand up to her chest as she descends from her orgasmic high. This time I'm not going to wish for my camera. "Don't move," I order her, leaping out of bed and trotting naked to the room where I keep my gear.
The Hasselblad has no film, of course. I always unload it after an event, whether the roll is complete or not, so I tear open a new canister of high-speed film - the kind I used for "Flying S," and use for evening film shoots. The winder is still speeding the film into position as I return to the bed.
Lauren's eyes seem confused for a moment, but then soften at my obvious eagerness. "Don't move," I say again. I'm using the widest aperture and a slow shutter speed for the near-darkness. I'm usually very good at holding the camera steady, particularly the Hasselblad, which I can hold against my chest, but my heart is racing and my body is tingling with the thrill of making my partner come, so I try to be even more still than usual, and take multiple shots.
Finally, I'm satisfied. I take the camera back to its place. I'll deal with the film tomorrow. Then I return to my lover, slipping under the sheets. Lauren gives me a fond smile, then wraps herself around me.
She whispers into my ear, "Don't you dare add those to your exhibit."
I laugh, and assure her that won't happen. I will never release a photo of her, even a G-rated one, unless she gives me permission.
"Actually, I plan to sketch the scene," I say, "but I couldn't ask you to hold that pose. Even if you weren't careening toward the land of Nod."
Lauren kisses my earlobe, then snuggles closer. I caress her arms as we both drift off.