by Fiona Zedde
Twelve hours later, she felt betrayed. Regina had rubbed her hard edges soft, alchemized her from steel to warm toffee in those thirty-one days. And now Sinclair was softened, melted, and alone. She glared at her computer screen, trying to work past the pain. By noon she had succeeded and pushed Regina from her mind to slog through the reports and financial statements that had been piling up on her desk all week. Hours later, she barely looked up when Shelly knocked on her door to wish her a good night.
Sinclair's office darkened when the sun fled the sky, but she turned the lights on, tilted the chair to make herself more comfortable in front of the computer monitor, and continued to work. Only when Sinclair heard the vacuum cleaner just outside her door did she realize what time it was. Even then she wasn't anxious to go home. Nothing waited for her there except more solitude, more time to think about Regina. But, reluctantly, she shut her office down for the night, turning off the computer and pulling the office shades closed.
Sinclair was tired, arms heavy with the weight of sadness, face tight and pinched from thinking about Regina, then not thinking about Regina. Her stomach chewed on itself to make up for its lack of breakfast or lunch. At this rate, dinner looked like it was going to be a miss, too. She took one last look around the office before walking into the hallway. The door whispered shut behind her.
On the underground platform, the stink of trapped air and the olfactory memory of a thousand sweating bodies pushed itself into Sinclair's nose. People stared listlessly up and down the empty train tracks, waiting for that bright white light in the tunnel to tell their feet to move. Eventually, the train came in a rush of sound and wind to dump off its load of passengers and pick up some more. Sinclair sat far away from the small crowd on the train, tucking herself in a seat under the railroad map and an ad for pheromone-laced perfume.
She didn't notice the man until the train jerked to an abrupt stop, forcing her to grab the beam in front of her and look up. He was dirty and bearded and had a red bandanna tied around his neck. His eyes were fastened on her. Sinclair looked away, but not before noticing his gaping fly and the hand he had shoved into the hole, massaging himself as he stared. She glanced quickly around the train. Heads bobbed over open newspapers and paperback novels, all intentionally angled away from her and her new admirer.
Sinclair looked away, but just below the steady rhythm of the train, she could hear the slap of the closed fist against flesh. Her face burned. She turned away, trying to tune in to the conversations of other passengers, to her pain, anything. When that didn't work, she took out her book and tried to read. The words lay flat on the page, making little sense to her twitching eyes. She still heard him. A smell rose from him, like rotten oranges and bay rum. Vomit darted up in her throat and she gagged. As the train lurched to its next stop she rushed through the doors, pushing past the crowd on the platform and up the stairs. Sinclair barely made it to the warm air and warmer-still piss smell of the surface street before she vomited into the gutter in a bitter, pale arc. People backed away from her, careful not to come too close as her stomach heaved until there was nothing left. When she could finally take a breath without gagging, Sinclair stumbled to the corner to hail a taxi for home.
At home she didn't know what to do with herself. She tried to make something to eat, but by the time the microwave beeped to get her attention, Sinclair's interest in the bowl of nuked ravioli had already cooled. The processed tomato paste with its thin layer of grease made the meal a chore even her iron stomach couldn't complete. Losing Regina had locked up her throat, allowing in only the barest amount of oxygen. Her dinner ended up in the trash.
Sinclair stood staring in the garbage then choked on the lone sob that rose up in her throat. She shouldn't be taking it this hard. After all, she was used to people leaving her to wallow in the pain of their absence. Sinclair closed the garbage can and went to pick a new book from the shelf.
A taxi picked Sinclair up from her apartment at seven o'clock the next morning. By eight, she was in her office working on spreadsheets that weren't due for another three months. Shelly buzzed her at ten minutes to nine to let her know that she was in.
"'Morning, boss lady."
"Good morning, Shelly." Her voice sounded tired, even to her own ears.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just didn't get enough sleep last night."
"OK." Sinclair heard the shuffling of papers. "You have a meeting at nine thirty. The reports you need for that are at the top of your in-box in the green folder."
"Thanks. Just give me a ten-minute warning for that, please."
"Sure thing."
Sinclair scratched and clawed her way through the rest of the day, trying to make it all the way to five o'clock without walking out. At five on the nose, Shelly walked into her office.
"You look like shit," her secretary said. She sat on the edge of Sinclair's desk and dropped a bottle of scotch in her boss's direct line of sight. Glenfiddich. The deep green bottle was only three-quarters full.
"What's going on with you?" Shelly asked.
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." Sinclair turned to her secretary, annoyed. "Aren't you still on the clock?"
"Nope. My slave duties for Volk ended"-she glanced down at her neon pink watch-"two minutes ago."
Sinclair blew out a harsh breath and gave in. "I have glasses and ice over there." She waved to her mini fridge.
"I know. I was just waiting for you to offer." Shelly retrieved the glasses and poured her scotch neat, but dropped three ice cubes in Sinclair's glass before filling it nearly to the brim. "Here you go."
Sinclair drank it in two quick gulps. Ice tinkled against the crystal as she put the tumbler back on the desk. "Don't you have a boyfriend or something to go home to?" Shelly seemed like the kind of girl to do the domesticity thing.
"If you don't want me here, all you have to do is say so and I'm gone." Shelly refilled Sinclair's glass.
Sinclair lingered over the comment, watching Shelly through the sweating tumbler. Finally she sighed again. "Women are really fucked up, Shelly."
"Especially the one who just screwed you over?"
"Are you talking about that Velasquez woman?"
"Yeah, that one."
Sinclair didn't bother pretending surprise. Regina had visited her often in the past month, leaving too many smiles on her face for her to be "just a friend."
"The screwing wasn't a problem. Apparently that was all she wanted me for."
"You're that good?"
"If I had been any good then maybe she would have stayed. But she got all the material she could use already." She finished off her scotch. "On to the next gullible bitch."
"I heard through the grapevine that she was a good lay. Is that true?"
"I thought you were trying to make me feel better?"
"Yeah, but I might as well get some juicy info, too."
Sinclair laughed bitterly and held out her glass for more. "If you're in the market for a month of the best sex you've ever had, then give her a call. But don't expect to get any more than that. She's got a misses or mister at home."
"A girl could get off a lot in thirty days." Shelly looked like she was thinking about it.
Sinclair leaned back in her chair, already taking on the lazy slouch of the pleasantly inebriated. "She was amazing. She made me feel like I had a golden pussy and she couldn't get enough. This is going to be hard as hell to get through."
"But you'll make it, boss lady. You better. That bitch is not worth the breakdown."
"You're right." Sinclair sounded utterly unconvinced.
"Maybe you should use another woman to bury your troubles in." Shelly raised her thin eyebrows and did a fair imitation of an old man's lecherous leer.
Find someone else? This was the worst thing that had hap pened to Sinclair in a long time. She couldn't compare this to her grandmother's death five years ago. That was the only thing that had shaken her harder, made her question living. Today made her wo
nder why, after all these years of successfully protecting her feelings, had Regina slipped inside her so easily? Because she was a woman, stupid. Your first. It had never been like this with men. Never.
"You definitely need a break," Shelly said. She dangled her feet over the edge of Sinclair's desk.
"This little pep talk and drinking session are doing wonders for me, thanks." There wasn't an ounce of sarcasm in Sinclair's voice.
"But what about tomorrow or the next day? You can't drink your unhappiness away. Don't become another dyke statistic. That's so not sexy."
The woman was right again. This was going to have to be her last glass. It wouldn't be smart to get on the subway stumbling down drunk, no matter how appealing the relief would be. At least she would be able to fall asleep quickly tonight with no more than an hour or two of tossing and turning.
"Tell me about yourself, Shelly. Tell me anything that will make this shit disappear for a little while."
"What do you want to know?" Shelly's voice was soft.
"Anything. Tell me anything."
I'm screwed, Sinclair thought with a bitter smile as she sat in a taxi crawling toward home in rush-hour traffic. But worse than that, Regina had changed her. Now she knew what fulfilling sex was like. She knew what happened when her body was satisfied and her mind at rest, not wondering if she was normal for not wanting to be close to the person who she was supposed to be with. Sinclair finally understood that she loved women-even this woman-more than she'd ever loved any of her boyfriends. And Regina made her pay for that knowledge.
If she had told her in the beginning that all it was and could ever be between them was a fling, a monthlong diversion, then there would have been less letting go on Sinclair's part, less trust. She felt duped. After the night that Regina took her to the Burning Rose, after she'd apologized and touched Sinclair like she meant something, Sinclair had started to believe that they were going somewhere together. That was the worst betrayal, making her believe that she had a chance to be with her. Maybe Sinclair was being punished for leading Yuen on. Yuen. She hadn't thought of him in a long time. He swore that she would come back to him, back to men. But Sinclair would rather hunt down Regina and beg on bloodied hands and knees to be taken back.
When she walked into her apartment, she picked up the phone and dialed Yuen's number.
"Sinclair." There was no smugness when he answered the phone, just the familiar upward lilt to his voice when she surprised him with a call or visit. Sinclair was grateful for that.
"How have you been?"
"Good." He cleared his throat. "How about you?"
"I've been great up until recently."
"Which is why you called, right?"
Her mouth twisted into a crooked smile. He always knew how to cut to the heart of things. She took a breath. "I called to apologize. I didn't do well by you a month ago. You didn't deserve to be treated like that."
"Is that all?" He hesitated. "Are you all right?"
She imagined him leaning against his kitchen counter like she'd seen him do a hundred times, his bare ankles crossed as he watched the river ripple and flash beyond the window.
"Yes. I'm fine. I just wanted to call now that my head isn't so far up her ass anymore."
"What did she do to you, besides the usual, that is?"
Very funny. "Nothing that I shouldn't have seen coming." As Sinclair spoke she realized that she was reaching out to him in friendship, reaching out for the type of relationship that she'd always imagined with him, one not based on sex but on all the things they had in common. But as she silently asked for that very thing, she knew that she could never have it. Not with him.
"She left you for a man?" Yuen asked.
"No. She just left."
There was a hard, pointed silence, an "I told you so" without words.
"Anyway, that was the main reason that I called, so I'm going to go now."
"You can come over if you want. I'm not doing anything tonight."
"That's all right, I have some work that I need to catch up on. I'll talk to you later."
"Sure. Just call me if you need anything."
Sinclair made some more goodbye noises before hanging up the phone. Well, that was a disappointment. Not that she knew exactly why she had called him in the first place. Absolution from her stupidity? She made a rude noise.
With nothing better to do she began to look through the pile of mail she'd just picked up from the mailbox. Under the usual pile of junk mail and bills, she unearthed a square envelope with a Jamaica return address. She smiled. It was from her father. Was it her birthday already? She checked the date on her watch. April 8. No, he was just early this year. By three weeks. Sinclair tossed the bills and junk mail in their basket in the kitchen to be sorted out later and sat down to read her birthday card.
Happy 33rd, it said. Come down and celebrate your birthday with us. There's always a place for you here. She put away the letter he'd enclosed in the card to read later and leafed through the photographs. Her father looked thin but happy with his very young wife and their four-year-old boy, Xavier.
They posed on an oversized beach blanket. Around them, coconut trees pregnant with fruit waved in the island breeze. Xavier stared into the camera with wide, gorgeous eyes. His smile was blinding.
Sinclair looked out at the gray fog beyond her window. Although they hadn't seen each other for some twenty years, her father had always been there for her, sending birthday cards, short letters, the occasional package with current photographs of him and his new family. In turn, Sinclair remembered his birthday and wedding anniversary, sending appropriate cards, money, and gifts when her electronic calendar reminded her to. She'd never sent any pictures of her own.
Every birthday he invited her down to Jamaica to stay with him and his family. Every year she refused. Work was always her handy excuse. Sinclair looked around her. The apartment, a product of her tireless work, was beautiful but cold, especially without her grandmother to share it with. Once a week a cleaning woman came by and did something to it. There was never enough of a life being lived in the apartment to get it dirty. With Regina's betrayal so fresh, she couldn't help but feel that there was nothing here for her. Not really. If now wasn't the perfect time to escape....
At the bottom of the card, as always, was her father's phone number. Before she could change her mind, she called it. The phone rang four times before the machine picked up. A child's voice told any brave caller to leave a message.
"Hi, Papa and Nikki. This is Sinclair. Thank you both for the card. It's beautiful. I'm thinking of taking you up on that offer to come down and visit." Her voice faltered. "Give me a call at home or at work when you get this message."
She left her numbers and wished them both a polite good evening. For the rest of the night she worried that all the in vitations-all twenty years of them-had been for politeness' sake alone and no one would return her call. She fell asleep earlier than usual thinking about coconut trees and smiling children.
The next day Shelly was in the office before her. Sinclair stopped at her secretary's desk.
"You're in early."
"I didn't want to give you the chance to avoid me again." She grinned, looking not at all like someone who'd knocked back half a bottle of whiskey the night before.
Today she was in head-to-toe pink, like an extra from that Audrey Hepburn movie, Funny Face. Knee-hugging pink skirt, matching jacket, pale pink blouse and high-heeled pink shoes. A pale pink pillbox hat sat on top of her French-twisted hair.
"You're not funny," Sinclair muttered to her earlier comment. "But you do look lovely today."
"Thank you, boss lady," she said to Sinclair's retreating back.
Sinclair was just putting her briefcase and purse away when Shelly buzzed her.
"Your father is calling for you," Shelly said.
"Thanks." Sinclair took a deep breath. "Hello?"
"Sinclair!" His voice came hearty and loud over the phone line. "What a
surprise to get your call last night."
"I hope it wasn't an unpleasant surprise."
"No, no. Don't be crazy." He laughed. "So, after all these years you're coming to visit your old man?"
"If I'm still invited, yes."
"If you're still invited ... daughter, please. When are you coming?"
"When's best for you?"
"Any time you want to come is fine. I'm not going anywhere off this island anytime soon."
"How about next month? How long can you stand to have me?"
"Next month is fine. If the burden of your company gets too much I can always ship you off to a family friend." He laughed long and hard at his own joke.
"How about four weeks?"
"That's fine. Just try to get a flight coming in after three in the afternoon and let me know when to come get you from the airport."
"All right. Um ..." Sinclair glanced at her desk calendar. "Let's say four weeks starting the eighteenth of next month." She scribbled down a note to herself to buy the plane tickets. "I'll call you when I know exactly when my plane lands."
"Sounds good. Nikki and Xavier are glad they will finally get the chance to meet you. Especially since you didn't send any pictures." He tut-tutted, then laughed again. "Seeing you in person will be better than a hundred photographs."
"Don't talk too soon. You may not like what you see." She wasn't entirely joking.
"There you go talking crazy again." He didn't laugh this time. "I know that you're at work and everything so I won't take up too much more of your time."
"That's all right."
"Sure it is. Just call me later on."
"I will. Talk to you soon." She disconnected the line, then rang Shelly.
"Shelly, could you put in four weeks of vacation down on the company calendar for me, please? Beginning May eighteenth."
"A month?"
"Yes." A trace of impatience touched her voice.
"Are the big bosses going to allow that? You're not exactly dispensable here, you know."
"Use your sweet talk to make it happen, Shell." Sinclair's mouth twitched with amusement. "Bryony and Steven can handle my workload until I get back. And don't worry, I'll leave plenty of work for you to do while I'm gone."
