Chapter 2 - Exhibition
The gallery has been open for almost five hours, but the doors to my work won't open until three, a few minutes away. I'm sitting in the reception area outside the door, where Kelea has provided finger foods, juice and coffee. There's a single table bar that will be manned at six p.m. I'm drinking apple juice, snacking on a micro-sandwich and chatting with Kelea, who keeps assuring me that there's no cause to be nervous.
Kelea opens the doors at three, and I enter my temporary demesne. She's moved in a half-dozen chairs for anyone not able to stand. I suspect I'll be using one between visitors. There's a small stack of brochures and another of business cards on a center table.
An elderly couple who had been browsing the gallery enter a few moments after the doors open. Other than a polite smile, they don't interact with me in any way. They take their time looking at the photos. When they move into the room with the watercolors, I approach to let them know I'm available for questions if they have any. They thank me politely, then ignore me. I'm not sure if approaching visitors is really a good idea, anyway.
My in-laws, Rick and Morgan, had considered returning for the opening, but it's less than a week since they left after Thanksgiving, and it's a long drive. We wouldn't have been able to spend much time with them, given how busy we both are, with the show and preparation for our trip. When we return, we're going to fly out and drive them here before the show closes.
A pair of women arrive a little before three-fifteen. Unlike the earlier couple, they're full of questions. I'm fairly sure these two are not partners. They're clearly friends, but not more, I think. One of them returns to the outer room and asks why most of my photos are gay and lesbian couples. I follow her back as I explain, so that I can speak to both of them.
"I work as a wedding photographer," I say, "and not all photographers are comfortable with gay weddings, so I chose to specialize in them. Then, of course, word of mouth carries, and these days I find I rarely shoot a straight wedding."
"Are you a lesbian?" asks one of the women.
Nodding, I say, "I am."
"And are you married?" she asks.
I feel a sudden sharp tension in my belly. I'm not sure if it's excitement or trepidation. "Widowed," I say, "but I have a partner."
"Good for you," she says. "Can we get a card? Neither of us will be looking for a wedding photographer. We both have husbands that we're happy with..."
"For now," interrupts the other.
The first woman laughs. "For now, and I think for a long time. But I'm interested to see more of your work."
"That's good," I say, "because I'll be cutting back on the wedding photography to pursue my passion. I'll be right back."
There are more visitors when I return to the main room. Two women and a young girl. The women are studying "Timezones," while the girl has her head to one side as she stands before "Flying S." I pick up two business cards and two brochures to take to the women in the photography room. I hand them each a card and brochure, ask them to return to me if they have any questions, then move back to my observation post.
One of the two women at the sculpture, the taller one with mid-blonde hair, turns to smile at me. "Are you Mika?"
"I am," I say, with a smile, moving over to them.
The other woman turns too, and the girl abandons the photo to stand between them. The woman is brunette, slight of build, the blonde girl a few inches shorter than her, but willowy, and I think tall for her age.
"I'm Erin," says the blonde woman. "This is my wife Faye, and our daughter Zoe."
"One of their daughters," the girl corrects her. "Maeve is with my aunts. So is Conor."
I shake hands all around. The girl seems surprised by the gesture.
"You don't know us," says Erin, "but you're going to be photographing Heather's wedding, and she's one of the family." She stops as Zoe frowns at her, then continues, "Just like one of the family. We're very close, and we all attend the same church."
"Oh, yes, I know Heather," I say. "And Margot, her fiancée. They're a lovely couple. Do you know Anita and Kayla? I shot their wedding a few months ago. Some of the photos here are from that. So is the photo that Zoe was looking at." I nod toward "Flying S."
"We've met them in passing," says Faye. "They were at Heather's engagement party, but we don't know them well. Heather will be here later, and I think Anita and Kayla will be with her."
"Good, I'd like to see them all again," I say.
"Would you tell us about this piece?" asks Erin, motioning toward "Timezones," so I do. Then I give them all brochures and cards. There are other people in the area now, and some have picked up brochures. I need to ask Kelea for more.
"Do you take students?" asks Zoe. "I want to be an artist. I want to paint girls."
Her parents were taken aback by her question, then gave each other a look at her last statement. I couldn't read what was in their expression.
"I never have," I say to Zoe, "but perhaps I could? Do you paint now?"
She nods, and Faye adds more clarification. "In the last couple of years she's graduated from fridge art to some very good drawings. I'm not an artist, but I think they're quite imaginative."
"Momma Faye says my drawings are disturbing," Zoe says.
"Oh, honey!" Faye exclaims. "I hope you don't think I meant they weren't good. They're very good. Just surprising in places."
"The best art is disturbing," I say, partly to help resolve any issues between Faye and her daughter, and partly because it's a hundred percent true. "Would you all like to visit with us? You could meet my partner, Lauren, and Zoe can show us her work."
"We'd love that," says Faye.
"Please ask questions while you're here," I say. "Especially Zoe, if she wants to study art. Do you play a musical instrument, Zoe?" I ask.
She shakes her head, looking confused.
"Music is a good way to build your creativity, and to work within an established artist's guidelines," I say. "Though I'm not sure if that applies to band as much as it does to a school orchestra. We can talk about that, too."
Zoe nods with a serious expression on her face before turning to lead her moms into the next room.
There's a constant, if small, stream of visitors throughout the afternoon. I don't see much of Kelea, as she's holding court in the reception area, answering questions about my work and others.
Surprisingly, there's been some interest in the triptych. That set seems more of interest to me, for the emotion I captured, and to the couple I photographed, Allison and Natalia. I warned them of the possibility that I could sell their images when they signed the release for me to show the work, but I hadn't expected it to happen. There were requests for "Flying S," too, which is less surprising in terms of the subject, but the image can be found all over the Internet, including the band's new home page.
I'm standing with a small group observing "Timezones" when I feel eyes on me. Somehow I know Lauren just arrived. I turn to see her, my smile stretching my cheeks. She's wearing an emerald cocktail midi dress with patterned lace sleeves, the lower few inches of the dress made of the same lace. Her copper hair is unbound. My heart leaps as I move to join her, giving her a chaste kiss, while I'm certain that my eyes are telling the world how unchaste my feelings are.
"Hello, love," I say. "Do you want to explore, or would you like a guided tour?"
"I'll take the self-guided option for now," she says, "but I reserve the right to ask questions." She gives me a mischievous grin. "I won't find the photos from the other evening here, will I?"
"I told you I wouldn't. Kelea wouldn't let me change the exhibit."
"Hmm. Is that the only reason?"
"Of course not. I haven't had the chance to print them, either." I return her grin. "The negatives look good. I could send you scans..."
I don't mean that as a serious option. It wouldn't be hard, of course, but I'm surprised by Lauren's cheeks turning pink. She leans close to whisper, "Yes, please!"
There's a commotion in the reception area. Lauren heads over to watch "Timezones." She's seen it before, and probably knows as much as I do about silent motors, light guides and the difficulty of curving bronze tubes into perfect circles without narrowing the passage for light pipe bundles, but she hasn't seen the finished piece after final adjustments.
The reception area has a fresh supply of finger foods, but more significantly, there's a bartender opening the first bottle. There are people in line who must have been waiting for wine service to start before entering.
The bartender is a sandy-haired young man, wearing a sports jacket and bow tie. He twists off the wire seal, then pops the cork effortlessly. "You're the artist, right?" he asks, and though he doesn't look up from the glass he's pouring, I know his attention is on me.
"I am," I agree. "Mika."
"Austin," he says. "Pleased to meet you. You get firsties."
"Make it two glasses, and I'll bear your children," I say.
He lets out a sharp laugh. "I already have a candidate for that role," he says, pouring a second glass. "I'd like to see your work, though. I'll visit if there's a slowdown, or after Kelea closes the bar."
Taking the glass, I thank him and head back to my castle. Lauren is still standing before the sculpture. The gold-seamed heart has begun to sparkle. She doesn't look away as I step up to her, our arms brushing, taking the wine with no comment.
Her eyes seem to glitter as much as the glass. "This is exactly right," she says. "It's like you read the feelings I had during our calls.".
"I'm glad you think so," I say. I stand with her until the light begins to fade. There are people waiting in the center of the room. I've avoided my duties for as long as I can justify. "Come back to me after you've looked around," I say, stroking her arm before turning away. I return to the center and introduce myself.
I've been talking to a pretentious lady who's an art critic for local media and her equally pretentious male colleague, a local blogger. They've both explained several of my pieces to me, refusing to give me the chance to outline my own thoughts. Lauren has been standing behind them, rolling her eyes, almost costing me my composure a few times.
At the sound of a voice I think I recognize, I take my opportunity to excuse myself. It isn't like they need me for their discussion. Lauren follows me into the reception area. There's a crowd of people between the bar and the gallery entrance, headed by Anita and Kayla, whose wedding I photographed several months back. Anita is chatting with Austin while he pours. Apparently they know each other. That's interesting.
She turns, holding out her arms for a hug. That's interesting, too. The last time we met, she was a client. Now apparently she considers me a friend. So does Kayla, who hugs me in turn, while Anita hugs Lauren. The lesbian sisterhood? Or just being American?
"I see you remember my ex-girlfriend," says Kayla
The smaller woman turns to glare at her. "The word is wife, dear," she says. "Maybe future ex-wife if you keep this joke up."
She isn't able to keep a stern face, and the two dissolve into laughter.
Turning to me, Anita announces, "The Gabby's girls have arrived!" When I frown in puzzlement, she asks, "You don't know about Gabby's?"
"I don't know about Gabby's," I confirm.
"It's an LGBTQ-friendly nightclub," she says. "Most of us met there."
"Oh," I say. "Maybe I have heard of it. Eighteen-plus, right? Where you can go without worrying about being carded?"
"That's it," says Anita. "We're the previous generation, but we have the next generation represented, too." She points to a tall girl who's younger than the rest. She was one of the bridesmaids. In fact I got a good photo of her hiding behind her bouquet. Yes, the girl she was watching in that shot is holding her hand now. She's standing behind Heather and Margot, whose wedding I'll be shooting next year.
Anita and Kayla have drinks, now. "Why don't you let Lauren show you around, while I say hi to my new favourite clients?" I suggest. As soon as they cross into the exhibition space I greet Heather and Margot. Heather seems as unsure about hugging as I am, but after her tall fiancée crushes me to her pleasantly yielding chest, she's willing to take her turn. Their wedding is scheduled for spring next year, and is one of the last I've committed to. I'm not going to abandon my business. I'll probably increase it, by taking on more help, but for a while I plan to take fewer clients to focus on creation.
Of course, if this opening crashes and burns, I may put more effort into the business, not less. Kelea's cautiously optimistic with what she's seen so far, and I've made several new contacts already, some of whom could become friends, and some collaborators.
"Come talk to me inside after you've picked up your wine," I say to the remainder of the group. Heather and Margo now have glasses. Behind the young bridesmaid is the couple I've framed in the triptych, Allison and Natalia, and two more former bridesmaids whose names I don't recall, but whose faces became familiar during editing.
The young girl asks Austin for apple juice. Serving her the sparkling wine would be illegal, which I suppose highlights how important an eighteen-plus club is here. I can't imagine going through most of uni without being allowed to drink. Students were essential custom in Oxford pubs. I accompany the engaged couple into the room, where we meet up with Lauren, Anita and Kayla.
"How does everyone know the bartender?" I ask.
"His girlfriend is a good friend," says Anita. "Straight, but an ally. She works at Level Grind with Heather. Austin's a comic book artist. He likes to volunteer for art shows to meet artists and pick up ideas. He's also a very good portrait artist. If I'm not mistaken, at least two people in this very group have posed nude for him."
Heather turns bright red, while Margot smirks at her. I guess I know which two Anita means.
The rest of the "Gabby's Girls" trickle into the room by twos. I glance over at the sculpture, judging the position of the hearts. A couple of minutes until the light show. I catch Kayla's attention, and lead them over to it.
"Okay, we should watch this," Lauren says, as a faint glow begins to form in the closer heart. After it has visited various hues and become mostly white, she explains what's happening, and how it reminds her of the phone calls that inspired it. The group shows a keen interest.
When the sparkling is at its brightest, Lauren notices someone she recognizes. "Someone from work," she says. "I'll show him around and introduce him when things calm down." She gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, then strides over to meet a tall man with dark hair, in a turtleneck and sport jacket.
Kayla introduces the women whose names I've forgotten. Her niece, the young girl, is Tara, with her girlfriend Grace. Allison and Natalia I remember, of course, and Emma and Tiff complete the numbers. That's the whole wedding party except for Alex, whom Lauren and I met after the wedding. I warn Allison and Natalia that their photos have admirers, and may sell.
Allison looks incredulous. "You mean people want a photo of me on their wall?"
"Well, yeah, who wouldn't," offers Natalia. She laughs. "Six months ago you were straight. Now you could become the poster girl for lesbian romance."
I should probably get back to my station. The critics are gone, but there are others in the room. I wish the "Gabby's Girls" well, hand out business cards, and promise to invite them all over to catch up when Lauren and I return from Japan next year. That almost sparks a new conversation, but they recognize I'm slacking and let me go.
I pick up another glass of wine before returning to the tables for the people I haven't yet met. This will only be my third, and nervousness combined with constant conversations has kept the wine from going to my head, though I should have taken a break to eat more than the tiny snacks. Ten minutes later, I've made all of the greetings and answered all of the questions, when I see Mandy appear in the doorway, glass in hand.
Excusing myself, I hug Mandy. "I'm glad you came," I say. I check around for Lauren. "Listen, I need to see you sometime without Lauren around."
Mandy's eyes fill with panic. "You and Lauren aren't splitting up, are you?"
"Cripes, no. It's nothing bad. It's important, though, and it will be hard to find time without Lauren knowing," I say. "I want to ask Kathryn to meet us, too. We only have a week, so if she can't be here it would have to be virtual."
"Can you tell me what it's about?"
"I'd rather not," I reply. "Right now I can't afford even to think about it, but I promise it's nothing that will upset Lauren."
She's clearly dubious, but agrees.
"I'll text you as soon as I hear from Kathryn," I say. I squeeze her forearm. "Thank you."
"I think you're welcome," she says. She turns to walk away, but abruptly faces me. "Erm, is Rachel here?"
"Umm, I've never met Rachel. I don't think so," I say. Rachel is a co-worker of Lauren's who tried to seduce her last New Year's Eve, and whom she claims Mandy took home last weekend. She seems to be something of a playgirl.
Mandy's expression relaxes, and she begins her journey.
My throat is dry again. I don't want to risk more wine, so I head out to pick up a fizzy apple juice from Austin. He isn't there, but Kelea is behind the bar. "I told him to take a break," she says. "His girlfriend showed up. Did you see them?"
"There's been an influx of people I know," I say, "but there's more I don't. Is it usually like this?"
"Can be," she says. "You can thank your friends in the band, I think. Michelle shared the photo, with the opening details. I've seen a few with the image on their phones."
"Oh, wonderful," I say, not sure whether to be thrilled or horrified. I take my drink back inside and decide to hunt down Austin, since he's interested in what I'm doing. I find him in the watercolor room, in the company of a girl close to his height, with long, creamy blonde hair. She's wearing a sleeveless top with narrow straps, a beautifully colored tattoo taking up most of her left arm. I do recognize her from the coffee shop, though I have only seen her a few times. Austin introduces her as Dylan.
"Anita said you're a professional artist," I say.
"Mmm. I guess most of our income depends on the comic now," he says, glancing at Dylan. "Does that make us professionals?"
She nods. "He draws, I write story and dialog," she says. "Then he complains about the story, which is totally unfair, because I never complain about the art."
"What's the name of the comic?" I ask.
"War in Faerie," Dylan says. "We're wrapping up the third major arc."
I give them both an apologetic look. "I haven't heard of it, but I promise I'll check it out. You're a portrait artist too?" I direct that to Austin.
"Uh, well, yes. Maybe after the new arc is finished I'll be able to spend more time doing that."
"After we find a place to live," Dylan says. "Once the comic calms down, that will be the first order of business."
Mandy's face peering around the doorframe catches my attention. She approaches when I wave to her, glancing around apprehensively. I introduce her to the couple. She also recognizes Dylan.
"Mandy is the fairy at the bottom of my garden," I say. "Is she involved in your war?"
"Mmm." Austin studies her, his expression serious. "I don't know. If she's living here, maybe she's in exile."
Mandy, of course, has no clue what we're talking about, but it isn't her highest priority right now. "She's here!" she hisses at me.
"Who's here?" I ask.
"Rachel!" She glances around the room again. "I saw her over by the mobile thing with glass. I can't escape. She's with Lauren."
"What's going on?" I ask.
"No time!" Mandy says. "Just... hide me! Or, I know, distract her, so I can slip out."
Sighing, I say, "Okay, I'll do what I can." Then I turn to Austin and Dylan. "I'll drop a card by Austin's table later," I say to them. "Let's meet up sometime."
They bid me a polite goodbye, and I head to the main room to see what I can do. It's a slow journey. Now that there's so much conversation going on around me, the visitors seem less reticent, stopping me with questions. Mandy is still standing with Dylan, while Austin slips past me to take his place behind the wine table.
Eventually I'm back in the large room. The group standing around "Flying S" must have a small herd of cows' worth of leather between them and several ounces of precious metals in their piercings. They intercept me on the way to "Timezones" to ask whether I'm planning to become the band's photographer, or what other bands I might work with. I have no plans for any of that, but Joe, the band's manager, has asked if I'd make some publicity shots for them, so I tell them there's a possibility.
Lauren is just a few feet away from me now, with the man from her office and a tall blonde in a very attractive two-piece satin dress, which reveals a small diamond navel piercing. This must be Rachel, but she's far more elegant than the party girl I'd pictured from Lauren's description. When I finally close the distance to Lauren, I discover that she is indeed Rachel, and the dark-haired man is James.
As I'm talking to them, Mandy pokes her head around the entrance to the watercolor room. She sidles out, raising a hand to me in a thumbs-up gesture, then begins to walk gingerly to the exit, as if avoiding treading on lava.
I look back to my audience, but something must have shown in my expression. All three turn to follow where my eyes had tracked, to see Mandy ostentatiously sneaking out of the gallery. Rachel meets my eyes, a resigned expression on her face.
"Do I even want to know what's going on?" I ask.
"I'm sure I don't know," she says.
The rock fans leave, disappointed that none of the band showed up, but not unappreciative of the show. Some of them take the time to suggest that I should give Michelle, the singer, the same treatment. I don't recall her flying, just stripping down to her bra, so I'm not sure I'd be able to capture the same vitality that I did with Sydney. Still, I haven't talked further with Joe, so I tell them it's a possibility. I'll have to check the band's feed later.
The show is winding down. In fifteen minutes, Kelea will close the bar. I turn one of the chairs to face the center table and slump into it. After moving her own chair, Lauren sits beside me, and I lean against her.
Some of the Gabby's contingent join us. Austin sees the gathering, and brings an open bottle to top up our wine, earning a pursing of Kelea's lips, but no comment. Not everyone still has glasses to refill, so he suggests they return to the reception area before they stop serving.
When everyone who wants wine has it, several of the visitors find chairs. Austin and Kelea bring additional chairs from the reception room, making a large circle. The short brunette - Tiff? I think that's her name - has brought the sketchbook, and is leafing through it, sharing drawings she finds interesting with her partner.
Dylan is among the group. She's waiting for Austin, but she's clearly also part of the large friend group. The look she gives me seems oddly compassionate as she speaks. "Austin and I were looking at the bust," she says. "Is it okay if I ask about it?"
"Sure," I say. I feel slightly apprehensive at her tone, wondering what she felt needed a delicate approach.
"It's so real," she says. "Austin says that you must have spent a vast amount of time on it. Were you able to work on anything else at the same time?"
I consider the question carefully. "I did," I say, "but it wasn't lack of time that limited me. Or, well, maybe it did, but my feelings were the block. I was trying so hard to hold onto her while I worked that I pushed the despair back. And of course I couldn't let that affect my day job. So when it came to other work, that was all I had available. I have some very dark acrylics at my studio that I haven't even shown Lauren." I feel my girlfriend shift against me. "I'll show you them if you want, love," I say, "but some of them I still don't like to see."
"Will you ever show them?" Dylan asks.
"Most of them, I would," I say. "Some are lifeless. Some are abstracts that I no longer would pretend to understand. Most I'd be okay with, but this wouldn't be the right place and time."
"Will you show us?" That's Tiff, who still has the sketchbook. Again, these were clients a few months ago. Are they really suddenly friends? I glance at Lauren. I don't ask a question, but I don't need to.
"What do you think, honey?" she asks. "We could have a party when we're back from Japan. You can decide what you want to share."
The thought suddenly fills me with dread. Lauren must be able to see it in my face, because she narrows her eyes in concern, but I squeeze her hand and shake my head slightly. "Yes, it's a good idea," I say, my voice sounding rough to my ears, "but I'll need you to help me. I don't think I can face them alone."
"Of course," she says.
Tiff clears her throat. I don't think she expected the request to spook me. She brandishes the sketch book. In a tone dripping with innuendo, she says, "I take it you have a private version of this at home?"
She's clearly trying to lighten the mood. It works.
"She does," says Lauren, "and you are not getting your hands on it."
Tiff pouts, then hands the book to her partner to study.
When the event is over, Kelea shoos me away. I try to offer to help clear up, but she says no. She's paying Austin for cleanup duty, and between the two of them they'll have it finished in no time, she says.
I'm both weary and elated. The first and biggest source of stress is behind me. I think it was a success. Kelea says so, and I don't think she's putting too positive a spin on the outcome. I hold Lauren's hand as we walk to her car.
At home, I want nothing more than to get to bed and leave the day behind, but Lauren has other ideas. She claims I need to wind down before sleeping. She's probably right.
She sits me down at the kitchen table while she recreates the hot chocolate she made a few days ago. While the milk is on the stove, she presents me with a bowl of ice cream. My snacks today haven't been healthy, but they also haven't been sufficient. Quick carbs will help me relax, and besides - ice cream.
While I eat, she bustles off to the bathroom, and I hear her filling the hot tub. If she makes me soak I'm going to flake out as soon as I'm in the water. Still, I'm not going to fight her on it. If she has to carry me to bed, it's her own fault.
When the chocolate is ready, so is the water. Lauren bullies me into standing, then into traipsing into the bathroom and stripping. She won't let me have my drink until I'm in the water.
"You can be so mean," I complain.
"I'm going to be meaner still when I make you move," she says, starting to undress.
"At least there's an upside," I say, as I watch her slip out of her dress, desire tingling in my chest in spite of my weariness.
She stands naked before me, drinking her chocolate before, as threatened, she makes me slide forward so that she can sit behind me. I snuggle back against her, her full breasts cushioning my back. "Multiple upsides," I murmur.
The body wash she lathers into her hands has traces of ginger and patchouli in its fragrance. It feels warm and soft against my breasts as she runs her palms over them before running her hands over my whole body. Her fingers caress my cheeks and forehead, infusing the relaxing scent into my face before wiping it with a soft washcloth.
She continues to wash me, my body cradled against her, almost weightless in the warmth. I begin to drift toward sleep as her hands stroke my thighs, but her movements are stoking a warmth within me that has nothing to do with the heater that keeps the water at body temperature. As her fingers begin to slide up and down my labia I feel her breath on my neck, then the scratch of her teeth.
"Are you having naughty thoughts?" I ask.
"Wanting to make my lover come isn't naughty," Lauren says.
I'm still tired as hell, but excitement is tightening the skin of my chest. My arms drift in the water as I draw them inward until my fingers can flick against my nipples. That makes my breath catch. I start to rub them, feeling them harden to my touch.
The progression to climax is slow and smooth, but Lauren seems determined to succeed. One finger begins to circle my clit, while her other hand rubs my taint. My hips rock of their own volition, pushing me into her touch.
Releasing my nipples, I reach behind my head to run my hands through Lauren's hair. Her thighs push my bum higher until my sex is at the surface of the water, and I feel like I'm floating.
I'm still not feeling certain that I'll be able to come when the spiky tension of impending climax grips my sex. My arse lifts from the water as my hips twist, and I groan with the thrill of the ripples in my sex.
Lauren continues to keep me squirming in her arms until I sink back into the water, then gives me time to recover until my thighs respond to my commands.
I managed to stagger upright long enough to dry off. Only when we're both under the sheets, our bodies in contact, do I kiss her. It isn't for long enough, because I'm about to pass out, but I think she understands how much love was behind it.
Saturday is the first day in weeks where I wake without a sense that I have urgent goals to meet. We still have the trip in our very near future, but it isn't a today problem. I need to contact Lauren's friend Kathryn, but she's in Chicago and probably won't break free from her convention until this evening. I want to check social media, but that also risks poisoning my good mood and this relaxing day, so I'll swear off until this afternoon. I turned my phone off last night to help with that.
The bed is disappointingly empty, the bedsheets in good array. That's not always the case, but after last night's bath we were well-behaved. Only as I'm slipping out of bed do I notice that there's already a cup of tea on my bedside table. I smile and take a sip. Still fairly warm. Lauren hasn't been up for long. I slip on my red robe, then carry my tea through to the kitchen, pleased to see that she's wearing her blue robe with white cranes, though protected by an apron.
"Still think I need carbs?" I ask, seeing the stack of pancakes beside the stove. There's syrup, strawberries and cream on the small table. There are two slices of ham staying warm on the rear burner, and she's frying two eggs.
"Oh, no, hun," she says, turning to give me a sly smile. "These carbs are for the workout we're going to get after we've eaten."
I swear that my nipples immediately feel sensitive to the silk sliding against them, and I'm glad that I decided to slip a pair of knickers on before I came through. My cheeks heat as I watch her movements. But she's right, I do need to eat. She's only brewed tea, so I make a start on coffee, which she prefers, and I enjoy well enough, especially the kinds Lauren buys.
After she serves the food, I untie her apron before she sits, hanging it up before taking my seat. My eyes roam her body. I have so many drawings of her in this same robe now. They weren't part of the show, but I love to make them anyway. Sometimes the robe is slightly parted, revealing the delectable curves beneath; sometimes it's closed, like now, only hinting at her shape. We eat, interrupted by the need to finish making the coffee, then I collect our plates and rinse the dishes.
Lauren's still sipping her coffee when I lean down to nuzzle her neck. "You promised me a workout?" I say.
"Sure," she says. "It's a little chilly. You should get your track suit so we can run around the block."
"Oh, no, you don't," I whisper into her ear. "I want to taste you."
She shivers.
Beside the bed, I slide her robe over her shoulders, lowering it as it falls down her arms, then hanging it. We begin to kiss. Her wide nipples have already puffed out. They harden further to my touch, which is interrupted as she removes my robe. I lick my finger before stroking the soft fur of her sex, which is already slightly damp, becoming more slick as I caress it. I push her backward, then lie down on top of her, feeling her breasts against mine as we kiss.
Lauren's lust is pacing mine. I press my chest to hers, my hands wrapping around the side of full breasts flattened to my chest, while hers squeeze my bum. Her body feels like it was made to connect to mine. It always has done, even before I was ready to make that a reality.
Her sex is damp against my thigh, now, and her breathing rasps with excitement. She gasps as I slide down her body, taking her right nipple into my mouth, my lips closing on quivering softness. I suckle quickly, rubbing my tongue against the still-hardening center. My thighs are both between hers now. She wraps her ankles around the back of my legs and presses herself to me as her hips rock.
Switching to her left breast, I tease her nipple with my extended tongue, drawing it around, flicking it. Her small huffs of breath match the jerks of her belly as it shifts against me.
Wrapping my arms around her legs, I hoist them higher, then move a finger behind them to push against the lowest part of her folds, my finger slipping slightly into her. She lets out a loud groan and thrusts herself against me.
Then I break free, seeking my goal of tasting her. I keep her legs pushed back, knees high, as I part her sex with my tongue and begin to lick. Her flavor is divine, as tart and sweet as a peeled grape. She moans as I draw my tongue through her folds.
Lauren keeps her thighs drawn high as I release her, parting her slit using fingers on each side as I lick as deeply as I'm able. Her hips roll against my face, her moans becoming louder with each moment. I moisten my middle finger in her juices, then seek her clit with it, feeling its firmness within her.
She tastes even sweeter when she comes, moisture coating my lips and chin. I kiss her clit directly, making her cry out. She writhes as I lap her clit, her hands digging into my hair, holding me against her, then after a minute, gently pushing me away.
When I move back up her body, she sucks my tongue greedily, then quivers beneath me. Finally allowing me to break the kiss, she whispers, "I love you."
It's time to check socials. I slip on a tee shirt and shorts to take my notebook to the kitchen table. While I'm firing it up, Lauren appears in a loose, short tee and undies. She sets water to boil, rinses out the coffee press, then opens the cupboard where she keeps her coffee. As she reaches up, the front of her tee sways, emphasizing the way the tee hangs from her breasts.
I groan. We have just spent, quite literally, hours pleasuring each other, and I want her again. My muscles want to rest, but my libido doesn't know how. "If you don't put on some more clothes, I'm never going to get to this," I complain.
"Would it really make any difference if I did?" she asks.
I picture her standing at the counter in a tight T-shirt and jeans and shake my head. Hell, she could be wearing an overcoat and wellies and I'd still want her. "I suppose not," I say.
She's leaning slightly forward as she scoops coffee into the press. Her tee is several inches higher than the skimpy knickers, which do nothing to hide her lean torso. "You have a nice arse," I say. "Have I ever mentioned that?"
"Once or twice," she says, "though I think this may be the first time today. Now stop looking at my arse and tell me the verdict." She takes a seat at the table.
"I'm looking at Michelle's Insta," I say. "They're out on the peninsula. I found the post with the show details. Mostly just likes for the photo, but some said they were at the show. Nothing bad so far. A few comments that they want to see an action shot of Michelle, and there are a few votes for Bianca. None for Jon, I'm afraid. Bianca might be interesting. A drum kit would give more options than Michelle's bass. I wonder what the response would be if I posted, hey, thanks for the publicity, but can you play something I can listen to?"
"Don't do that," Lauren says, with a grin. She stands again to fill the press with boiling water, and I'm again distracted. "Also, they're very good."
"I know," I say, "it's just the..."
"The screaming," she completes for me. "I know." She sits again.
"Maybe I should do Jon," I suggest. "I don't want to be typecast as the pretty girl photographer."
Lauren smirks at me, but I ignore the look. "Time to face the music," I say, looking for the feeds of the critics.
Anthony's is the easier to find, since his writings are only on his own site. His reviews of my photos are quite positive, though he focused on my university efforts. "My wedding photos are unashamedly romantic," I say. "I'm sure my subjects know that romantic weddings are supposed to be shameful. Not too bad, though."
Lauren stands, pours us each a coffee, then pulls a chair closer to mine so she can see the screen. She smells of the sex we've had, and that I want to have again. I push the thought aside and angle my notebook so she can see it more easily, then take a sip of my coffee.
"The watercolors are dry and unrecognizable, though well-executed, and a unique concept," I say. "I don't think I even know what that means."
"Not recognizable because they don't look like the places they depict, or because the places they depict don't exist?" Lauren asks, "because both of those are true by design."
"Right. I don't know," I agreed. "He mentions the photo of Sydney as being overused in the area, which apparently makes it impossible to evaluate. No word about anything else. I think he spent most of his time in the main room trading interpretations with Courtney, none of which appear here. I show promise for a newcomer. Does he mean that, or is he avoiding antagonizing anyone I might influence? I suspect he might not care about that. Enemies would feed his reputation, so on the whole I think it's positive."
The coffee is still too hot to drink much, but I manage to slurp.
"So what about the woman?" Lauren asks. "Courtney?"
"The news site won't be updated yet, but I'm sure she has a blog," I say. "I'm not sure where. All the hits I'm getting are to the site."
"What's her full name?" asks Lauren, entering it as I give it to her. "Didn't she leave a card?"
"I was too overwhelmed to think of that," I reply.
"Got her," she says. "My Google-fu remains the strongest."
Laughing, I roll my eyes, then enter the URL she gives me.
"Why do lesbians have to lesbian?" I say. "That's not a promising title, is it?"
We both skim her blog entry. Full review to follow on the news site on Wednesday. I've been expecting that. She doesn't pollute the blog entry with my name, I'm just a "local artist," which seems like pointless obfuscation, since the review will appear on Wednesday. "I'm a competent, potentially masterful artist, whose skill is veiled because of the need to convey my lesbianism in every image." I read her words aloud in the first person.
"What about the male same sex wedding photos?" Lauren gripes.
"If you look closely enough, you'll even find a few straight couples," I concur. "This isn't a review, it's an agenda. You know, the news site isn't even conservative."
"'A lesbian peed in my Wheaties'," Lauren suggests, then snorts.
I sigh and read the rest. "It could be worse," I say. "My work is competent, if unoriginal. I think that's what Wednesday's review will say. If she goes on a rampage about lesbianism in the review she won't be treated well."
"What about the watercolors?" Lauren asks. "How are they lesbian propaganda?"
"Maybe she didn't make it to that room," I say. "Oh, wait, no, she must have done, because of the bust that shows I'm obsessed with my late wife. That was in the same room. My obsession includes a book of sketches of her..."
"Well, thank you for that," Lauren says, wryly. "I thought Nicole's sketches were safely in your studio."
"They are," I agree. Lauren has seen them, of course, even the private book. I saw her wiping her eyes as she studied some of those drawings. "And a mobile that celebrates her life, employing the overused concept of a light in one's life that fades with death." I shake my head. "The name of the piece is 'Timezones'."
"It sounds like she wants everything to fit her view of you as an obsessive lesbian, and whatever doesn't isn't worth considering, so it can't change her outlook," Lauren offers.
"I think so," I agree. "All in all, it could have been worse. She says my work is predictable. That's... in all honesty, it's what I wanted to present. I'd prefer to build on being an artist, even an unimaginative one. If I'd shown more of my abstracts and darker pieces I wouldn't be 'unimaginative', I'd be a 'rich dilletante'. That's a reputation I wouldn't be able to turn around. Being staid avoids traps, and eventually no one will care how adventurous I want to be."
Lauren nods slowly. After a while, she says, "I suppose it's good news, then."
"More important will be Kelea's view when the show closes," I say. "We'll know more of my future in January." In several ways, that is... but I don't voice those thoughts.
We sip our coffee for a while. It's very good, even if it isn't tea.
"Courtney's convinced me of one thing," I say.
"What's that?" Lauren asks.
"I'm going to ask Joe if I can do a photoshoot of Jon. With the band, sure, but of himself for band publicity. I think they can use it, and I can point at it and say, "See, not all lesbians." My work does tend to feature lesbians, because of word of mouth and other photographers distancing themselves from same-sex weddings, but I've never attempted to impose a lesbian agenda either on my photos or with my photos."
"Jon's a good looking guy," Lauren says. "That could be a popular project."
"Though..." I muse, a few minutes later, "It's not impossible that there's truth to Courtney's thoughts on 'Timezones'. I don't see it, but once a work leaves my hands it's no longer mine to interpret. I did originally fab the glass hearts for a project that was based on Nicole and me." I give Lauren an apologetic glance. "You already share so much of my life with Nicole. I don't want that interpretation to be true, but I can't say there's no validity."
"She's part of your life, honey," Lauren says, her eyes soft. "I see the sculpture being about each of us bringing light to the other, but if she's part of you, she's part of that, too. I'm not threatened by a critic trying to make it more about her. You would have been a different person without Nicole, and it's the you who you are now that I'm in love with. Please don't ever feel that I'm jealous or resent her presence in our life."
"I love you," I say.
As always, her grin is cheeky when she replies, "I know. Now, shall we shower and find brunch?"
"Make love to me again," I say, "and I'll do anything you want."