Claire of the Moon

by Nicole Conn

  “Hmmmm...romance to the second power,” Claire interjected.

  Maggie grinned. Claire had a way with her spicy bon mots. She threw them in when the others weren’t looking. She looked quite Noelish tonight, Maggie ruminated, in her black jeans, black turtleneck and cream blazer. Striking.

  Maggie watched Lynn, who looked baffled and frustrated. No wonder. The poor thing had felt obligated to wear the tie-dyed body shirt Shilo had gifted her with, and under her mint plaid culottes, besides. Hell, it would mess with anyone’s mind. But there was something about her. Underneath all the layers of social right-wing conditioning, there was a spirit, begging to see the light of day.

  “You...you always have to do this...you have to tear everything apart,” Lynn despaired.

  Maggie leaned down to her and said, not unkindly, “It’s the only way to get there darlin’.”

  “We’re still being inculturated as women who long to bond...to mate.” Noel addressed the group but her target was Tara. “Regardless of our sexual orientation.”

  Now there was a switch. Maggie watched the ease with which Noel moved in blue jeans and an old black-woolen sweater. Her shoulders were even less postured, less guarded in this relaxed attire. As if somehow she and Claire had stumbled into each other’s closets. It worked.

  “But straight women are better at boundaries,” Tara pouted.

  “You’re right. However, it isn’t a matter of choice. The boundaries are imposed.”

  “Which is what makes them so friggin’ uptight and rigid,” Maggie baited Tara.

  “Well, I certainly am not.” Tara was indignant. “I wouldn’t write the kind of novels I do if I were uptight and rigid.”

  “Then get up, darlin’.”

  “What?”

  “Get up,” Maggie ordered.

  Tara rose uncertainly. Maggie noticed her own knees were a little wobbly as she moved to Lynn, put a hand to her elbow. “And you.” Lynn started to protest then evidently saw something in Maggie’s eyes.

  Maggie ran a hand through her wild hair as she studied them. She cleared her throat. “You two are sorority sisters, who were best friends five years ago. You’ve just run into each other at Kennedy airport. It takes a minute to get your bearings. But then you realize, here’s the woman that stayed up all night with you while you were huggin’ big white with your first kamikaze hangover.” Maggie interrupted her narrative to smoothly pick up the shot of bourbon, steal a sip. “You stare at each other. Then big shit-eating grins break out and you go to hug one another.” Maggie waited. “Well hug!”

  Tara and Lynn hesitated then moved towards each other. Their contact was akin to distant relatives at a family reunion.

  “Hell! You were best friends for Christ’s sake!”

  Claire watched Tara bristle with pride. She leaned in to hug Lynn with more emphasis. Their faces barely wisped by one another, their shoulders grazed slightly as their elbows awkwardly poked out to the side. They parted quickly.

  Maggie’s smirk, Claire thought, was reminiscent of Alice Kramden on The Honeymooners.

  “Let’s give them a hand, folks. Yep! The ol’ Hug-O-Meter reads one point five. Skin contact, twenty percent.” Maggie shook her head condescendingly. “Now. Scenario two. BJ and I...”

  Maggie went to BJ’s chair, offered a hand to help her up. “We’re two lesbians who have met for the first time at a potluck. We’ve spent the entire evening discussing Martina’s utter brilliance, and whether she would have won her tenth Wimbledon title if Judy’s timing hadn’t been so goddamn premeditated. And now...it’s time to bid adieu.” Maggie pulled BJ to her.

  Claire felt their heat as they enjoyed a full body hug.

  While they embraced, Maggie addressed Tara and Lynn. “This, ladies, is Huggus Completus. Note the full body contact.” Maggie freed a hand and motioned the length of their bodies. “The fit of our legs.”

  Claire was riveted by Maggie and BJ’s bodies pressed into each other’s. As Maggie’s words continued, Claire’s focus wandered from them to Noel, who was watching Maggie’s performance with some amusement.

  Maggie’s voice was husky as she continued. “We feel one another—the softness, the warmth, the roundness and loving.”

  Noel caught Claire’s glance. She seemed confused by Claire’s directness, and Claire, herself, did not understand her desperate desire to maintain contact.

  “When we hug it is not something we must quickly repel ourselves from. We fall into it like a down pillow.”

  Noel shifted her gaze. Claire felt edgy, nervous. “And they just met at a potluck?” Tara would not be the object of humiliation.

  Maggie extricated herself from BJ, turned full on Tara who leaned against the hearth. “Now if straight women are so goddamn open and uninhibited, I want to know why they hug like opposite ends of a magnet.”

  “You’ve made your point,” Tara conceded testily. “Can we get back to the original issue?”

  “Yes...please.” Lynn was completely rattled.

  “What?” Maggie bellowed. “The semantics of romance in literature? Or that throbbing bullshit you write to alienate women from themselves?”

  “Maggie!” BJ cautioned.

  “No,” said Tara. “I’m all for the first amendment. Seems lesbians love to attack my work. I think it’s just fascinatin’.”

  “I am s...sure you do,” Maggie stuttered.

  Claire recognized that Maggie had stumbled over the fine line between intoxication and drunkenness.

  Maggie’s eyes took on an unearthly glare as she continued, “It’ll probably end up in one of your doorstops, only in reverse, where the straight heroine will convert the poor confused dyke who’s been following her on a cross-country rendezvous with some muscle-bound pirate named Blake Swashbuckle.”

  Tara’s lips tightened, but she accepted the lashing gracefully. “There is nothin’ wrong with women losin’ their dull and unfulfilled lives for a couple of hours in one of my books.”

  Noel intervened. “Nothing...except themselves.”

  “We don’t want to lose our sense of humor, now do we?” Claire asked them all but her eyes were on Noel. As Noel turned to her, Claire said. “Fantasy’s healthy. Right, Doc?”

  “If we know where to draw the line—”

  “Damn right!” Maggie drunkenly reiterated this point. “Draw the line!” She weaved towards Tara. “Tryin’ to clean it up don’t change the way it is. Never has. Never will.”

  BJ caught Maggie as she misstepped and tumbled to her knees close to the fire. Her drunken face highlighted by the dancing flames, she imparted an ancient truth in the inimitable style and graceful verbiage that was Maggie: “If ya eat pussy...Ya eat pussy.”

  ****

  Noel was just behind Claire as they entered the cabin. Ever since yesterday afternoon Claire had been acting strange. Distant. Not rude, but different. Diffident almost.

  She was wondering about what had caused this shift when Claire stubbed her foot. As she turned to catch her balance, she fell into Noel, right on her heels. They stopped dead in their tracks, so close that Noel could feel Claire’s breath. Noel flipped the light on and quickly removed herself from their physical contact.

  “She’s so charming when she’s ripped,” Claire offered.

  “Yes...” Noel responded, discouraged.

  “What?”

  “Why is she so angry?”

  “Hmmm.” Noel reflected. “She’s fought a long battle. Women today look at someone like Maggie and they don’t get it. Her masculinity...her cantankerous arguing... her need to stand apart.”

  “She reminds me of the old movement days.”

  “I wasn’t aware you were around then.”

  “I’ve done my homework.”

  Noel moved to close the door. Claire slid between her and it and leaned it shut for her. “Don’t you think I know anything about the movement?”

  “Doesn’t seem like your cup of tea.”

  “Inequality is nobody’s
cup of tea.” Claire felt defensive now. How did this woman always manage to turn it around?

  “You don’t seem like the bra-burning type.” Noel seemed defensive herself. “So how were you involved?”

  “On the periphery.”

  “Well, Maggie isn’t a periphery kind of gal. She was in it with both sleeves rolled up, fighting the fight, not just for us, but for straight women as well, and probably every other goddamn cause there ever was.” Noel’s voice brimmed with admiration. “The Maggies of this world may be a pain in the ass, but without them we wouldn’t be where we are today. None of us.”

  Noel stopped. “I’m sorry. I guess I sort of got carried away.” She smiled, embarrassed.

  “Do you think it’s true?”

  Noel was confused.

  “What she said...”

  “About?”

  “The way straight women hug.”

  “Perhaps an over-generalization.” Noel shrugged lightly and walked past her towards her room.

  Claire turned off the light, but instead of going to her bedroom, moved to the window. She could barely distinguish the crests of waves breaking on the shore.

  “I think it’s true,” she whispered.

  Two days passed before Noel saw Claire again. She recognized a distinct pattern. If they shared something intimate or too real, Claire would make herself absent. Whatever she did, wherever she went, it seemed to be required distancing and when she returned she was again the original Claire, hardened and cynical.

  Noel walked in as Claire shuffled through the mail on the kitchen counter at Maggie’s cabin. They shared the briefest of glances as Noel moved to the opposite side of the counter and repeated Claire’s motion. They were both about to leave when they heard stifled giggling.

  In silent complicity they followed the sounds of spontaneous mirth to a back bedroom. Full-fledged laughter bubbled up from the other side of the wall. Claire turned to Noel, then indicated the door, slightly ajar. Noel gently pushed it farther open.

  They remained very still and close to each other as they spied on Tara and Adrienne awkwardly shadow-boxing. But then it became clear they were attempting a body-to-body hug. They apprehensively moved into each other’s arms, held each other close. It was a sweet vision, Tara, short and delicately plump, melded with Adrienne, reed-tall, their incongruous bodies warming to each other’s. They moved in concert, weaving in the deliciousness of this new experience. Their faces turned ever so slightly so that Adrienne’s lips were very close to Tara’s closed eyes.

  Noel and Claire were as caught up in their moment as they were so that when Tara broke away, Claire stepped backward into Noel, who almost squealed out loud. Adrienne became all business and Tara cleared her throat. Claire and Noel retreated, desperate not to reveal themselves or the laughter floating dangerously to the surface of their throats.

  ****

  Claire counted the seconds it took for the pulpy blood-orange sphere to be sucked into the horizon, so that no trace remained. Several moments after the sky lit up a brilliant violet hue against the darkening blue, Claire realized that she was increasingly bored these days. And restless. Tense. That was the other thing she always was these days.

  She wandered through the cabin, picked up a book, set it back down. She leafed through a magazine. She wondered where Noel was. She reminded herself how precious these moments of solitude were, and that she should be enjoying her time alone. Well, she was. She was that kind of person. Liked to be alone. It nagged at her but the single thread persisted: several different scenarios of Noel returning to the cabin. And then what? Trying to escape her thoughts, Claire went to her bedroom.

  She sat at the dresser, inspected herself in the reflection of a large mirrored armoire. She slowly unbound her braid, rotely ran a hand through her freed hair, then stopped. She inspected herself. Closely. She ran a hand back through her hair, feeling the sensual softness of it, letting it caress her as it fell about her collarbone. Her fingers gently touched an eyebrow, traveled her cheekbone to her lips, then trailed slowly down her neck to her chest. She unbuttoned her silk blouse, opened it to reveal her breasts. Captivated, she trailed the graceful narrowed curve between her breasts down her ribcage.

  Hearing a sound, she knew she was caught. She swiftly rebuttoned her shirt and composed herself as Noel entered the room. But Noel didn’t seem to notice Claire’s predicament as she approached, rubbing her temples.

  Claire saw the pain in her tightened jaws. “Headache?”

  “Impossible.”

  Claire considered a moment. “Here.” She got up, indicating for Noel to sit in her place, but Noel was apprehensive.

  “I don’t bite.” Claire persuaded her to take a seat.

  Noel’s shoulders were tight, the knots in them holding her at attention. “Relax,” Claire soothed her.

  Noel twisted her neck, trying to get comfortable.

  Claire hesitated, then began to massage Noel’s shoulders. She kneaded the spasmed muscles beneath the fabric of Noel’s shirt then moved her hands to Noel’s temples. Her palms were hot. Her fingers found a life of their own as they gently traveled through Noel’s softly cropped hair. Claire swayed, her hands soft and electric, mesmerized. Her breathing quickened as her hands continued to explore. She caught Noel’s image in the mirror, eyes shut. Claire’s were sweetly veiled with the memory of Noel in her dream, taking down her hair, their lips, barely touching then, with urgency, savagely possessing, Claire entranced, swaying with desire.

  It happened at the same time. Claire backed off as Noel’s eyes flew open, her shoulders more tense than before.

  “Better?” Claire’s voice was still ragged.

  “Yes.” Noel cleared her throat. “Much.”

  Claire removed herself from the proximity and walked to a window. “I’m bored.”

  “Yes. I’m stuck myself.” Noel adjusted her clothing and began to walk to the door.

  “Got any ideas?” There was a quiver to Claire’s voice.

  Noel turned, but they both simply stared out the window.

  ****

  “Two and two.” Noel victoriously stacked the last of her marble disks into the home spot on the backgammon board.

  “How about three out of five?”

  “Sure.”

  “Only let’s make this more interesting.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “How about a friendly wager?” Claire’s eyes teased. Noel raised her eyebrows. “The winner gets to drink a shot of Tequila, and the loser...” Claire’s voice dropped to a seductive level, “...has to part with a fantasy.”

  “You’re on.”

  Several games and drinks later Claire and Noel lounged comfortably with each other, playful and giddy. Noel rolled the dice and went in.

  “Shit.” Claire poured a shot glass of Tequila, handed Noel a lemon, sprinkled some salt on it. Noel downed it, twisted her mouth in bitter response.

  “So much for the winner.” Noel waited expectantly as Claire hedged. “OK. Out with it. And not some run-of-the-mill housewife masturbation fantasy, either.”

  Claire mused. Noel watched her retrieve memories and secret thoughts. She was very laid-back in jeans and a soft paisley corduroy shirt, which appeared to be well-worn, a favorite. It was buttoned low to reveal her bronzed chest and what one might desire to imagine. Noel wouldn’t let her eyes wander there.

  Claire’s head fell back as she searched. Her arched neck took Noel’s breath away, a perfect blend of sensual and aesthetic. If Claire were stripped of her cynicism she would be, quite simply, beautiful. Shit, Noel told herself, you’re just drunk.

  She paid attention then, as Claire’s green eyes sparkled, and her voice became seductive to suit the story. “OK...It’s in a bar. Dark. Smoky. Sweaty... after a day of intense heat...the kind where dirt clods explode when you step on them in the deep of summer...the end of a dancing night.”

  Claire glanced at Noel, then simply removed herself and visited her own fa
ntasy. “He’s standing by the bar. I can’t see his face, but I can see him from twenty paces. The soul of a trumpet floats in the background...lazy, melancholy, a lamentation. His white cotton shirt drapes over him like a wrung out dishrag. He’s hot. Very hot and...” Claire paused, “...hard. The faded shadow in his jeans swells...I walk over...very very slowly, very Grace Kelly, and all I do is cup him. His thighs tense as I feel him straining against the material...the heat in my palm is almost unbearable. I caress, I fondle...gently...sweetly like I was patting powder on a baby’s bottom...and before he can say a word, I walk away...”

  Noel’s eyes were lost inside Claire’s. When Noel turned away from her she shifted uncomfortably. Claire swallowed. “Gimme those dice!”

  ****

  “If you’re the winner—why am I so drunk?” Noel questioned.

  “Ye-es!!” Claire shivered from the taste, let out a rebel yell, then very demurely handed Noel the dice. “Your turn.”

  Noel was cute when she was tipsy. Not a word one would apply easily to the staid and contained Dr. Benedict. But she was. Cute. She had let go of the need to be utterly in control, and Claire liked it. She was actually quite funny. Claire studied her intently, in that semi-intoxication that allows one to feel without boundary. Noel was incredibly handsome. If Claire were a man she wondered whether she would be attracted to the androgynous enigma, which in one moment made Noel appear strong and assured and in the next soft and female. Would that schizophrenia threaten a man? A woman? Did it threaten her? Or did she find it unusually attractive to have all those components wrapped up in this singularly fascinating woman?

  “OK,” Noel conceded. “It’s in a restaurant... grocery store...a public place. It’s the eyes first.” Her voice grew husky. “Always the eyes. Something weaves between you...but convention would deny it. You dine with your companion or act like you’re reading one of those awful tabloids at the checkout stand...but every time you look up, the eyes are there. On you. Yours on hers. Burning through you. The prickly, almost nauseous feeling of excitement in the pit of your stomach...the welling intrusion…that inexplicable flush of engorgement between your legs.”