by Mickey Brent
Goldie began purring.
“And I’m sure she’ll like you too.” Goldie rubbed her fishy face against Sylvie’s T-shirt in agreement. Then the doorbell rang.
*****
Hélène felt better as she bounded down the stairs. Her old clothes were much more comfortable. When she entered the kitchen, she gasped at the shopping cart next to the refrigerator. Ever so cautiously, she peered into it. He actually did the shopping. She opened a brown paper bag. With vegetables!
But Hélène’s mood dampened when she entered the dining room. Her week-old daisies greeted her with drooping yellow petals. The sour stench of the water made her pinch her nose as her mind spun a few verses of poetry.
These daisies are so full of grief,
Like choirboys before an angry priest.
She held the wilted daisies. “From now on, Chaussette, Maman is going to spoil us rotten with fancy flowers. Papa won’t even notice the difference!” she declared to her kitty, shoving the flowers and old plastic vase into the trash. We’re turning over a new leaf!
Hélène arranged her new, expensive flowers with gusto—she bent their stems at the waist, just like she had seen in Japanese ikebana magazines when she was young. As she toiled with the stems, her mind drifted back to those long afternoons with her mother in the library. She had been so curious, memorizing the different ways people arranged flowers, depending on their culture. But cut flowers were so pricey then, she had never had a chance to practice what she read in those marvelous, glossy books—until now. Her fingers knew exactly where to tuck and snip.
“Voilà!” she exclaimed, contemplating her masterpiece with tears in her eyes. Why didn’t we do this earlier? Chaussette, who had fallen asleep in a dining room chair, woke and yawned.
*****
As soon as Sylvie opened the door, a syrupy scent filled the air, prompting her prominent nose to twitch. Stepping back in haste, she nearly tumbled over Goldie, who—instantly recognizing their visitor—ran for cover.
“What’s with the apron?” smirked Lydia, smothered in fur. Waving her precious Hermès scarf, she narrowed her eyes to scrutinize Sylvie’s appearance, starting with her wind-blown helmet hair. Then she scanned her muscular chest, rough-cut jeans, and fuzzy yellow slippers. Without waiting for a reply, she put her white silk pants into gear and barged into the room.
Sylvie stepped aside. Better give the buffalo some roaming space.
Lydia, oblivious to her French perfume’s ambush effect, stood smacking her chewing gum. After a few seconds of impatient chewing, she blew a large bubble at her hostess. In a huff, she wiggled out of her coat and handed it to Sylvie. “Polite as ever, I see.”
The bubble burst with a crisp pop. Lydia licked the gum off her teeth and cast a dirty look under a chair. “So it’s still here.”
“What?”
Lydia pursed her lipstick-caked lips. “That foul cat of yours.”
Sylvie felt the hairs rising on her neck, but she forced herself to remain silent. Smiling stiffly, she clutched Lydia’s fur coat, which was so cumbersome, she wondered if animal chunks still lurked inside. She headed toward the closet.
Just as she reached for a hanger, a pair of hands clasped around her hips and warm breath entered her ear. “Thanks for inviting me.”
Sylvie stiffened.
Lydia’s voice grew soft and sexy. “It’s been such a long time.”
Sylvie felt goose bumps erupting all over her body. She held her breath.
“Don’t I get a kiss?” Lydia purred.
Sylvie threw the coat on a hanger, flipped around so fast that Lydia didn’t have time to purse her lips, and fled across the living room. “You’re hungry, I suppose?”
Frowning, Lydia headed toward the sofa. “Ouais. Starving, actually.” She whipped out her cell phone. “Remember those soufflés? What’s that French caterer’s number?”
“Actually, I went shopping. I’m going to make some—”
“That’s so cute of you, ma chérie. But let’s get real here. If you want to impress me, eh bien, we both know how.” Licking her lips, Lydia wiped her hand on her brow. “Ooh, it’s getting so warm in here,” she said, squirming on the sofa. “Mon lapin, come here. I miss you already,” she groaned, forcing her knees together and dropping the phone.
“Open a window, then,” was the reply from the kitchen. “I’m busy making—”
“Get real, Sylvie! We both know you suck in the kitchen.” Lydia burst into laughter. “Get it? You suck. Ah…oui. You suck…” She drooled, caressing her own breasts. She grimaced with passion as her nipples hardened.
Sylvie came out of the kitchen sporting a scowl. Lydia reeled in her wandering fingers and tapped a cushiony spot next to her. “That was rude of me, pumpkin. Désolée. Let me make it up to you,” she pleaded in her most saccharine voice.
Sylvie contemplated the long, red nails tapping her sofa. She pressed her lips together to control her rage. Feeling a headache coming on, she inhaled to reduce the mounting tension—not only in her head but in other, more intimate parts of her body.
*****
What goes with a sumptuous, healthy supper? Hélène asked herself while slicing endless red bell peppers. Un peu de musique…She sashayed over to the radio. Cutting off an obnoxiously loud football announcer, she settled on a trendy pop song. Instantly, her bare feet ignited the linoleum while her hips twisted to the tunes. After a few minutes, she started cutting a red onion, just as a love song came on. Its gentle rhythm and poetic words brought a cascade of hot tears down her flushed cheeks. She continued slicing until she could barely see. Setting down her chopping knife, she approached the wilted daisies in the trash.
“I’m sorry, my friends. That was so insensitive of me.” Sniffing, she retrieved the faded, plastic vase. Fresh tears flooded the corners of her eyes. She brought her face to the opening of the vase. There was some fusty liquid still inside, with a yellow daisy floating on its surface. But before Hélène could rescue the tiny flower, her vision grew fuzzy. She reached for the nearest chair as her head began to spin.
*****
Sylvie wiped her hands on her apron and approached the sofa. Instead of sitting next to Lydia, however, she ducked under the coffee table. “Come to Maman, bébé.”
Goldie, normally docile, kicked at Sylvie’s arms as if her mistress were going to roast her on a spit. Chuckling, Sylvie hung the kitty—four paws dangling, claws extended—over Lydia’s fake platinum curls. “Mind watching her while I make dinner?”
Lydia yelped. “Watch out for my trousers! They’re raw silk. One hundred percent natural, from—”
“Be right back.” Sylvie dropped Goldie next to Lydia. The cat hissed at the older woman, provoking a loud yelp, then scrambled under the table.
“Tu vois, she still likes you.” Sylvie winked. “Must be your charm.”
“It’s not like I’m allergic or anything,” muttered Lydia, wiping the perspiration off her forehead. “It’s just that…I prefer dogs.” She sighed, clutching her white silk handkerchief.
“Non. You hate dogs.”
“Eh bien.” Lydia glanced at the fish bowl on the table. Two goldfish were swimming circles around each other. “D’accord. Fish, then.”
Sylvie chuckled. This is hilarious. “You hate fish too.”
As Lydia scanned the apartment, her eyebrows rose at all the plants she had never cared to notice. As if in a jungle, dozens of varieties seemed to be dangling their branches at her from assorted pots filling the room. “Eh bien, plants are—”
“Come on, Lydia. You hate plants.” Sylvie contemplated the pout on her former girlfriend’s dainty lips. She hates everything I love, thought Sylvie, stiffening. How come I never realized this before?
*****
Hélène lowered her head. Instantly, her eyelids dropped, and she began to daydream…
The two women are in the swimming pool. Sylvie’s arms grasp Hélène, who is lying facedown in the water, coordinating her breathing as
she practices the crawl. All is going smoothly until Hélène takes in a mouthful of water. Abruptly, she stands, coughing. Her face is red.
“Ca va?” asks Sylvie, tapping her on the back. Hélène nods. But as soon as she catches her breath, she flies into a rage.
“I’m never going to learn how to swim! Did you see that? I can’t even breathe without swallowing half of the pool. I’m such a loser!” She spits water out of her mouth and flings her diving mask across the pool. “I’m just wasting my time and yours too,” she gasps, flailing her hands. Sylvie shoots Hélène an encouraging look; then she takes off toward the other end of the pool. Hélène concentrates on her teacher’s legs swishing rhythmically under the surface. Marveling at how swiftly they propel Sylvie through the water, she forgets her own angst—until she loses sight of her teacher. Minutes seem to tick by, yet Sylvie remains underwater. Hélène shifts her weight from one foot to the other. The pressure mounts in her ears, pounding in unison with her heartbeat, accelerating with each passing second.
*****
Sylvie softened her gaze. Something was different about Lydia tonight; she seemed almost vulnerable. Maybe it’s the lighting? Glancing up, she noticed that one of the fluorescent bulbs was out, directly above their heads. Or maybe it’s something else? She almost seems afraid—as if the sofa were about to swallow her body and all her elegant clothes. She couldn’t be afraid of me, could she?
Sylvie smiled inwardly at this idea. Straightening her back, she shoved her hands in her pockets. “You don’t like dogs, cats, plants, or fish.” She cleared her throat. “Alors, Lydia. What do you like?”
The older blond woman wiggled uncomfortably until she spotted the bookcase behind her, which took up the entire wall. “Books?” she squeaked through pursed lips.
“You don’t even read.”
“But I do.” Lydia’s eyes scanned the wooden shelves. “I mean, I did. They’re all in the garage now.”
“You don’t have a garage.”
“So what? You’ve made your point.” Lydia’s voice sharpened. “So I’m not a literary genius like you. And I couldn’t care less about all those stupid living creatures. That is, except for…” She flashed a wicked smile and grabbed Sylvie’s thigh.
“Hey, lay off!” Sylvie swiped Lydia’s hand away.
“So you want to get rough with me, eh?” Lydia got up, unzipped her sweater, and flung it on the sofa. “Fine with me, mon lapin. Just tell me the rules.” She took a bold step forward.
Sylvie felt her ex-girlfriend’s fingers caressing her cheek, igniting a spark in her groin. She backed up slowly. Her leg hit the table. Goldie ran under a chair.
“Ah, forget the rules. We won’t stick to them anyway. N’est-ce pas, mon lapin?” Lydia squealed, lacing her arms around Sylvie’s neck and pressing her face against her strong chest.
Contemplating the delicate nose crushed between her breasts, Sylvie couldn’t decide whether to push her ex-lover away or hug her back. Within seconds, she realized she didn’t have a choice.
*****
Hélène’s daydream in the kitchen intensified.
Something shoots out of the water at Hélène’s side. It’s Sylvie. Her swim teacher shakes her head—flinging water in Hélène’s face—rips off her goggles, and gasps for air. Her muscular chest rises and falls rapidly; her mouth, still gaping, forms a weary grin as she holds up her hand triumphantly.
Hélène chokes back tears as she reaches for her mask. I’m such a coward, she decides, pursing her lips as hot tears roll down her cheeks.
Sylvie gently wraps her in her arms.
Hélène nearly collapses at the touch of Sylvie’s strong body against hers. Her warmth penetrates right through Hélène as if melting through her skin, straight to her core. Hélène’s legs seemed propped up as if on stilts. She stands wavering and whimpering like a child.
Sylvie tightens her grasp around her until she calms down. Taking her face into her hands, she whispers, “You’re not a loser, Hélène. And you’re sure not wasting your time. Nor mine. You’ve come a long way, bébé.” To seal her words, Sylvie kisses Hélène gently on both cheeks.
Hélène stops crying. She gazes into Sylvie’s glistening, toffee-colored eyes. Mon Dieu. Hélène’s eyes widen. She feels the pressure mounting until the flooded gates to her heart burst open; a torrent of emotions fills her veins. She shuts her eyes to keep them in place.
Sylvie takes this as an invitation. With a swift burst of confidence, she targets Hélène’s lips and leans in…
*****
“Aaahhhh!” cried Lydia, jerking her head back. Pressing her palms against Sylvie’s T-shirt, she pushed her away. “You’re disgusting!”
“That’s hardly polite.” Sylvie grimaced. Lydia’s words had just doused the flame in her jeans.
“But…” Lydia contorted her face. “You are. You stink!”
How could I have forgotten that unique talent of hers? That priceless lack of tact she exhibits so effortlessly? remembered Sylvie, smiling rebelliously. “How sweet of you, Lydia. Vas-y, let me have it. If insults are how you get your thrills—”
“Non, I’m not kidding. You really stink, Sylvie. Your boobs smell like…fish!”
Sylvie chuckled. This is better than a cold shower. “Sushi, actually.”
Lydia’s eyes bulged. “Sushi, my ass. Don’t try to lay that one on me.”
“Come on, Lydia.”
“You can’t stand sushi, remember? All those raw, wiggly, squishy…” She carved circles in the air with her long, red fingernails.
Sylvie’s eyes followed her ex-lover’s fingers, which she noticed were laden with even more diamonds.
“You’re right. I hate sushi.”
Lydia’s voice was squeaking. “So you didn’t eat sushi?”
“Non.” Sylvie smiled. This is starting to get fun.
“Or any kind of fish?”
“Non.”
“You bitch! You cheated on me!” Lydia pulled her hand out of orbit and aimed it at Sylvie’s face, but Sylvie ducked. Lydia began slapping Sylvie on the back.
As Sylvie took the blows, the words of her karate teacher came to mind: “Attention: your hands are weapons. Never hit anyone unless it’s in legitimate self-defense.” She wondered if this counted. All those painful months after their separation—not to mention all those painful months during their relationship—and now, all the pain Lydia was inflicting on her.
The muscles in her abdomen tightened. I can’t take this much longer…
*****
Splayed over the kitchen table, Hélène’s hair fanned over her face like bunches of wilted daisy petals. The napping position was terribly uncomfortable, but she was enjoying her daydream too much to care.
Then the phone rang. She woke with a start and stumbled her way into the living room. Her heart was still pounding from the romantic scene in the pool.
“Allô?” she grunted, plopping on the sofa. “Aaaiiee!” What the heck?
She slid her hand under her buttocks and pulled up an empty—now flattened—beer can.
“Are you all right, ma chérie?” asked a concerned voice on the phone.
Hélène smiled at the Flemish accent. “Mathilde!” she replied as she cleared crumpled newspapers and empty beer cans from the sofa.
“Je ne te dérange pas?”
“Non, you’re not interrupting anything. I was just…” In the middle of the wildest dream. Hélène rubbed her sleepy eyes. “Getting comfortable. What’s up, Mattie? Which exciting country are you in now?” Knowing how lengthy her friend’s têtes-à-têtes could get, she propped up her feet and settled in for a long conversation.
*****
Sylvie took the rainfall of punches remarkably well. In fact, she was surprised to notice her body tingling in ways that weren’t purely painful; something familiar arose—something she remembered liking. But you hate her, she told herself. She’s your enemy, remember? When the familiar warmth snuck between her thighs, however, all S
ylvie could think of was: Mon Dieu, it’s been a long time. Normally, she would have weighed the pros and cons of her actions. But tonight, her body was begging her to postpone all forms of internal discussion in this complicated situation: Who cares? I’ll worry about it later.
She proceeded to block Lydia’s subsequent blows with her favorite karate moves. In a flash, she grabbed her opponent’s forearms. Squeezing them like a vise, Sylvie fixed her eyes on Lydia’s wide, glistening pupils. Adrenaline rushed through her system, heightening her senses. Like a famished lion on a mountain summit, she mentally licked her chops while anticipating her next meal. As she moved in for the kill, nostrils flaring, she was surprised to feel less resistance from her victim. Instead, Lydia’s sudsy voice slid into her ear like a slippery bar of soap: “Ah, mon lapin. I knew you’d come around…”
*****
Mathilde sat like a queen, propped against a pile of fluffy white pillows on her luxurious, king-sized bed. With her curly black hair draped over her shoulders, her cream-colored silk blouse—tucked into a tight black miniskirt—enhanced the softness of her ebony skin.
“Which country? I’m back in boring Belgium. Enfin.” Mathilde sighed. “But what about you? What was that ‘aaaiiiee’ I just heard?” The Congolese-Belgian woman began applying a coat of cherry-colored polish to her toenails. As soon as she leaned over, her blouse’s deep neckline revealed a generous portion of bosom.
“Just a minor accident with one of Marc’s beer cans.”
Mathilde flexed her feet in panic. “What? Don’t tell me he hit you—”
“Non, not at all,” Hélène countered. “You know Marc. He always forgets to pick up after himself.”
