I’m sure he knows; his beady eyes follow me out. I think
everyone must know, aside from Vee herself. I don’t even know if
Vee is a lesbian.
I can only hope. If she isn’t, I think my heart will
shatter.
I’d trudge onwards and find myself another store. I
wouldn’t be able to face her again, knowing that body under its
fishnets and paint wouldn’t be mine. The humiliation of having
tried and lost would be too much.
Before you start to judge, or tell me to get over
it, just wait. It’s not like I didn’t get over Lucie. I did. I went
to the therapist the counsellor at NYU recommended; I said all the
right things and tried to believe the platitudes. I even tried to
date others, but I had no taste for the femmes with their made-up
faces, their high heels and their hair blown in a poor rendition of
Farrah Fawcett. I had even less liking for the occasional butch
lesbians I’d meet out bar-hopping.
When I went back to CBGB’s, I kept looking for Lucie
and none of the women there could measure up. They lacked her
confidence, her joie de vivre, the surprising delicacy under the
punk face she showed to the world. I wanted her.
The bell over the door jangles and I look up from my
coffee and my memories to see Vee walk in. She’s changed from her
plain work uniform to a spectacularly short mini-dress. On anyone
else the combination of blue hair, mini-dress and combat boots
would be comical, but she wears it with a brash confidence I find
utterly alluring.
She slides into the chair across from me, her bare
knee with its ripped fishnets brushing mine, the toe of her boot
crushing my toes in their thin high-heeled leather boot. The slight
pain is like a tiny orgasm and I struggle not to let it show.
“You made it,” I say to cover my
relief. If she hadn’t come, I really would have been lost. I take
my wallet from my purse along with a worn notebook, kin to the new
ones in their shiny plastic.
Vee takes the money with a smile that just quirks
the corner of her mouth. “Of course I came.” She goes to buy a
drink and I watch her saunter up to the counter. She flirts with
the young woman who makes her coffee, and I look away, down to the
notebook.
I find what I’m looking for, flipping through the
weathered pages to a short story I wrote. It’s about the punk scene
of the 70s, a nostalgic piece I’d meant to submit to any number of
erotic anthologies. I had to write about Lucie, but I just couldn’t
part with it in the end. It felt too intimate to let go, but it
would be perfect for Vee’s first taste of me. Despite my age, she’d
see a kindred spirit.
I doubted she’d fall into bed with me after one
story. After several, perhaps. I could show her the pieces of my
soul I’d put down on paper.
I place the notebook face down before the other
spot, my fingers lingering on the worn cover. The matte black is
creased, worn in some spots almost to white. I can see some finger
marks, a larger crease where I’d held open the cover.
Vee returns with her coffee and settles in across
from me. She sucks up some of the foam, licking her top lip. Her
eyes light on the notebook.
“Is this it?” She reaches for it,
flips it over, her gaze skimming my words, deciphering my
handwriting. I hate writing straight to my computer screen. My mind
gets slow, distracted. Better to sit with a pen and paper as I
always have.
I watch Vee as she begins to read. She’s the only
other person to touch that notebook, the only one to read those
words. I’d like to think there’s an intimacy in that, one as great
as a relationship.
Her thumb absently strokes the cover as she reads.
What would her hands feel like on me? I’d rather her thumb stroked
the curve of my breast or the hollow of my inner thigh, or the bud
between my legs. I shift noiselessly in my chair.
Vee licks her lips again. She has forgotten her
coffee. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. Her
foot in its combat boot brushes mine and stays. I wonder
everyone must know, aside from Vee herself. I don’t even know if
Vee is a lesbian.
I can only hope. If she isn’t, I think my heart will
shatter.
I’d trudge onwards and find myself another store. I
wouldn’t be able to face her again, knowing that body under its
fishnets and paint wouldn’t be mine. The humiliation of having
tried and lost would be too much.
Before you start to judge, or tell me to get over
it, just wait. It’s not like I didn’t get over Lucie. I did. I went
to the therapist the counsellor at NYU recommended; I said all the
right things and tried to believe the platitudes. I even tried to
date others, but I had no taste for the femmes with their made-up
faces, their high heels and their hair blown in a poor rendition of
Farrah Fawcett. I had even less liking for the occasional butch
lesbians I’d meet out bar-hopping.
When I went back to CBGB’s, I kept looking for Lucie
and none of the women there could measure up. They lacked her
confidence, her joie de vivre, the surprising delicacy under the
punk face she showed to the world. I wanted her.
The bell over the door jangles and I look up from my
coffee and my memories to see Vee walk in. She’s changed from her
plain work uniform to a spectacularly short mini-dress. On anyone
else the combination of blue hair, mini-dress and combat boots
would be comical, but she wears it with a brash confidence I find
utterly alluring.
She slides into the chair across from me, her bare
knee with its ripped fishnets brushing mine, the toe of her boot
crushing my toes in their thin high-heeled leather boot. The slight
pain is like a tiny orgasm and I struggle not to let it show.
“You made it,” I say to cover my
relief. If she hadn’t come, I really would have been lost. I take
my wallet from my purse along with a worn notebook, kin to the new
ones in their shiny plastic.
Vee takes the money with a smile that just quirks
the corner of her mouth. “Of course I came.” She goes to buy a
drink and I watch her saunter up to the counter. She flirts with
the young woman who makes her coffee, and I look away, down to the
notebook.
I find what I’m looking for, flipping through the
weathered pages to a short story I wrote. It’s about the punk scene
of the 70s, a nostalgic piece I’d meant to submit to any number of
erotic anthologies. I had to write about Lucie, but I just couldn’t
part with it in the end. It felt too intimate to let go, but it
would be perfect for Vee’s first taste of me. Despite my age, she’d
see a kindred spirit.
I doubted she’d fall into bed with me after one
story. After several, perhaps. I could show her the pieces of my
soul I’d put down on paper.
I place the notebook face down before the other
spot, my fingers lingering on the worn cover. The matte black is
creased, worn in some spots almost to white. I can see some finger
marks, a larger crease where I’d held open the cover.
Vee returns with her coffee and settles in across
from me. She sucks up some of the foam, licking her top lip. Her
eyes light on the notebook.
“Is this it?” She reaches for it,
flips it over, her gaze skimming my words, deciphering my
handwriting. I hate writing straight to my computer screen. My mind
gets slow, distracted. Better to sit with a pen and paper as I
always have.
I watch Vee as she begins to read. She’s the only
other person to touch that notebook, the only one to read those
words. I’d like to think there’s an intimacy in that, one as great
as a relationship.
Her thumb absently strokes the cover as she reads.
What would her hands feel like on me? I’d rather her thumb stroked
the curve of my breast or the hollow of my inner thigh, or the bud
between my legs. I shift noiselessly in my chair.
Vee licks her lips again. She has forgotten her
coffee. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. Her
foot in its combat boot brushes mine and stays. I wonder
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