Fast and Bright and Hurtful

 
Lorna wore smoked glasses despite the night and kept taking them off only to put them back on. “It’s funny how old grapes make you feel. All warm and gooey.” She twisted the radio’s knob until a popular boy band came on. She adored Ricky Martin, ‘N Sync too. Marlene’s tastes ran the other way. Lorna giggled, then threw her hands above her head and swayed. The loose rhythm of her hips beneath rigid shoulders and slender neck gave her the appearance of a waddling duck. She wore shorts and liked beads, the kind that clattered against her body like carnival prizes.
 
Marlene was the type who watched a person’s face when they danced. At first, she only watched. Then she stood. Her hands flirted at the hip, the elbow, the shoulder, the cheek. Marlene finished her drink. The clatter of beads stopped.
 
Rain began outside. It carried the smell of the street. A quick thunderstorm, then it was over.
 
Afterwards, Marlene sat at the end of the bed. Her cigarettes had fallen to the floor. She took them and walked up and down the room in her underwear, smoking. She thought there ought to be a word for what had happened. Something more than lust. Something quieter than love. But she didn’t know it.
 
Marlene looked from Lorna’s face to her shoulders, the way they hunched, to her legs with their thin calves, up to her breasts, which curled out like small ‘J’s, then back to her face. Lorna’s face was handsome and impudent. She had wild green eyes and would tell Marlene they meant she was someone special. She was twenty-three. Marlene was older.
 
Marlene bent to the ground, brushing fallen ash off the hem of Lorna’s shorts. She was still thinking. What words she knew were too small, or too big.

*

Late one morning, they sat on the kitchen floor where the sun came in. The kettle whistled. Lorna rose and made instant coffee. Down the hall, a neighbour’s phone rang. Lorna listened awhile, then laughed in that awkward way like she’d misheard the joke or as if she had been caught eavesdropping on other people’s lives. She brought the coffee over. She didn’t hand the mug to Marlene, just stood there on her toes the way she did.
 
Marlene smiled and offered a slice of pomelo. Lorna shook her head. Marlene smiled anyway, as though someday she might change her mind. She smiled like that now, a little too easily.
 
Lorna handed her the mug, then sat, head down. “Silly thing it is to keep a memory of someone, like you own it.” Lorna had been describing her loves, all the Davids, Michaels, and Colins. “I have a terrible memory anyway. They were my everything. Then they were gone.”
 
Marlene lit a cigarette. She sucked at the filter, tasting dried leaves and gunpowder, such things that could burn you down. She waited. Lorna didn’t look up. Marlene picked a leaf of tobacco from her lip and ran a finger over her gum where a tooth had started to give. 
 
“I mean, love seems so loud, doesn’t it?” Lorna leaned back on her hands, ankles crossed. “But for me it’s been fleeting. It comes, then slips away. Then comes again.” She wrinkled her nose and tugged at her necklace. “I don’t know. I could never pin it down. Love.” A bead snapped and fell to the floor between them. “The moment. The feeling. One thing slipped into the next and I could never tell them apart.” She flicked the bead across the floor. It rolled near Marlene’s foot. “Ever been in love?”
 
Marlene pressed the mug to her face. The steam made her skin glow. She reached down slowly, so as not to be noticed, her fingers finding the cool roundness of the bead. “Once.” Floor shadows flickered as a breeze caught the blinds. She recalled bright moments. Then the losses, the betrayals, the long dawns alone. The bead slipped into her lap as she stared into her coffee. “You should tell me.”
 
“What?” Lorna giggled as she rocked.
 
“What love is?” Marlene wanted to kiss her. Then she did.
 
“You can’t distract me.” Lorna brushed a stray hair from her eyes. “Maybe my love isn’t your love.” She wiggled her toes seductively at Marlene as she pulled back. The pale sunlight fell across them. The moment passed.
 
Marlene bent to lick Lorna’s hand. Quick, impulsive.
 
Lorna snatched her hand. “Don’t tease.” Then softer, “I hear how you say my name when you’re tired. How you lean in to smell my hair. That’s something.” She tossed her hair forward over her shoulder, teasing. Why do we need anyone else? she seemed to say. Marlene brought her face forward but hesitated. Then she lunged and breathed deep into Lorna’s hair.
 
“You like photos?” Lorna pulled her camera from the end table. “Photography? Pictures?”
 
“No.” Marlene shook her hair out. She moved a handful of hair from her forehead, pulled the ashtray close and tapped her cigarette twice against its rim.
 
“Everyone likes pictures.”
 
“Photographs always make me look dead.” The cigarette bobbed in her mouth. Lorna brought the camera to her eye. She scanned the room, peering through the viewfinder. Marlene covered her face. “No, really,” she said. “Don’t.”
 
Lorna clicked the shutter, then laughed. “No film.” From a folder on the bookcase, she pulled out some prints. Mostly men posing. Lorna too. In some, a man’s forearm was draped across her shoulder. “They take a piece with you,” Lorna said, pushing the prints into Marlene’s hands. “They hold it there, forever.”
 

*

 
Lorna begged Marlene to take her someplace. Before leaving, they drank. They played their music loud. They shared clothes. While Lorna was distracted, Marlene picked up her beads. She ran each bead individually through her fingers like some forgotten rosary, before dropping them into an old jelly jar beside the thrift store mirror on the dresser. When Lorna hurried her from the door, Marlene paused at the mirror, practicing that careless hair flick she’d seen younger women do.
 
The phone rang. Marlene grabbed it. A man’s voice answered. He was drunk. “Bud,” the voice said. “I’m looking for Bud.” Marlene hung up.
 
They ate down the road at their corner bar. Chicken with chips. Beer then wine. Date food. Lorna’s hands moved when she talked, her fingers at her necklace, worrying it between sentences. Marlene nodded, picturing Lorna in a garden back in Pasadena, under the shade of jacarandas. The purple on her. She forgot her cigarette in the ashtray, its smoke curling off, thin and wasted. Lorna kept the talk going. Names, stories, chatter that goes late. Marlene said little but watched the candle between them. The flame wavered. Marlene leaned in.
 
They ended up at some low-key spot in the back streets by the wharves. A place with booths pushed to the walls. A pool table with torn felt in the corner. These places always had Christmas lights up. Red, yellow, and blue. Orange and green. Lorna laughed at the lights. Marlene watched her face.
 
“We should move our beds together,” Lorna slurred afterwards. They pressed their lips together, tasting stale beer and cabernet. Marlene stumbled turning on the lamp, then swayed as she wrestled her bed close to Lorna’s. One foot of the bed dragged, leaving a pale mark. And, while Lorna slept, Marlene wandered the rooms of their apartment, the last of the cabernet in her hand, telling herself that, yes, everything would be alright.

*

The stranger called back the next morning, sober now. “Bud?” he said. Just that. Marlene could hear his breath rattle over the line.
 
“Stop calling here.” Marlene hung up.
 
A faucet ran. “Who was it?” Lorna called from the bathroom. Marlene’s hand lingered on the receiver.
 
A car door slammed outside. “They’re early!” Lorna screamed. She rushed around the bedroom, throwing clothes into the closet and under the bed.
 
Lorna’s parents didn’t stay long. They sniped at her choices and left. “You really should return to school. Come home anytime.” The last word stayed.
 
“My parents don’t love each other,” Lorna said as though Marlene was supposed to know. Lorna breathed in, sharp, then continued. “They got too familiar. Before, the maid would call my father ‘Mister.’ Then she started calling him by his name. Mother noticed.” Lorna continued, “People aren’t any one thing for too long, don’t you know?”
 
After a while, she reached to hold Marlene. “I just can’t see myself growing old and drooling the little days away with someone. I imagine love to be fast and bright and hurtful— so much so that when it’s over, you go to sleep. That’s it.” Then she said, “I need a bath.”
 
The bathroom door stood ajar the whole time. Marlene listened but didn’t hear splashing. She opened the fridge. She stared at leftovers and half a chicken, each presented like evidence. She called to Lorna that they were out of food, feeling the weight of the door as she listened. Then she left.
 
Her shoes clicked against the pavement as she walked west to the bodega. She checked price tags, paid, and carried the groceries in her arms. They were out of pomelos. She began to close the apartment door when a knock interrupted. A man in a gray blazer and penny loafers stood on their doorstep.
 
He held out a map. “Is this 88 King Street? I’m looking for a friend.” The voice sounded familiar. The man leaned forward. Marlene stepped back.
 
“Name’s Nelson Ottley.” He offered his hand. Nelson was a short man with large shoulders and a high, pale forehead. Marlene didn’t take it. When she asked where he was from, he said, “Around.”
 
Lorna appeared and opened the door wide. She looked drowned. Her robe hung open and her hair was still dripping. She was crying. “Hi, Nellie.”
 

*

 
The food was gone, but the plates stayed. Marlene used one as an ashtray, cigarette butts half-consumed and crushed. The day turned dark. Nelson—Nellie—had slipped his shoes off. One sock had a hole in the toe. He rubbed his feet into the carpet. His big hands wound and unwound as he spoke. He kept looking around the room like he was counting exits.
 
Marlene lit another cigarette, smoking quickly, until a purple-gray haze hung above her head. Lorna plucked a loose thread coming off the cuff of her oversized sweater. No one noticed the rain start slowly against the skylight.
 
“So, I was telling myself, I’ve gotta look up my little Rosebud.” Nelson picked at his teeth. “Been a few years. Strange not to look up my wife.”
 
“Married?” Marlene looked to Lorna, unaware of the weight of her hand as it crept toward the pocket of her jeans.
 
Nelson nodded. He coughed.    
 
Marlene rested her cigarette against the rim of the plate. She thumbed a small bead from within her pocket, rolling it over without looking, then palming it, noticing its arrival with surprise.  
 
Nelson Ottley raised his glass in a toast. No one moved. He ran a finger over his nose, then drained his drink. He hung his head. From there, he seemed to observe them through this new perspective.
 
Lorna kept at her sweater. Her fingers unraveled the threads until the cuff came undone. Even from across the table, Marlene could hear her breath coming in and out through her nose with the rasp of a saw. Marlene finished her cigarette and immediately lit another. Her thumbnail found a place to press into her palm. They both were pale. At least they had that in common.
 
“Hooked up in high school. Whirlwind stuff. You know—eighteen, seventeen. Safer to be married than pregnant.” He shot Lorna a wink that said they’d certainly tried.
 
Marlene stared at Nelson. Outside, a streetlight flickered in the rain and Marlene caught the finer details of the strangers sitting beside her. Nelson avoided her eyes. He helped himself to more of their wine, clearing his throat as he raised the glass to his lips. He looked around the room again.
 
Lorna began to rock quietly. Then she folded into her chair. Marlene could tell she had stopped listening. “Where are you staying?” Marlene crossed her arms. Her cigarette was half done. Nelson’s hands wound and unwound. She wondered if he was violent. She counted his drinks.
 
“Not far. Won’t expect to stay here. Looks cramped enough.” He got up. He took small steps, wall to wall. She didn’t like the way he fondled everything, like he owned them.
 
He leaned over and put a big hand on Lorna’s shoulder. It lingered. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, babe. Probably kill myself.” He didn’t look at her; he looked forward to Marlene. “Knew a guy who killed himself over a woman. Made a mess of it too.” 
 
Lorna spoke. “Be sure to call if you ever want to come by. I’m going to bed.” The three stood awkwardly, exchanging handshakes and saying things. Nelson leaned to kiss Lorna’s cheek. Marlene shut the door on him. The light came on in the bedroom. The plates lay unbothered on the table.
 
Lorna climbed into bed, fully dressed. Marlene sat beside her. “Say something,” Marlene begged. She’d abandoned her lighter at the dinner table but found a box of matches, striking one before tossing it into the big ashtray that was always by her side of the bed. Cigarette smoke rose in curling verticals.
 
Lorna was silent, eyelids closed. Then she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
 
Marlene woke with a hangover sometime before dawn. She listened for Lorna’s usual heavy breathing. The room was quiet. Somewhere beyond the bedroom door, the phone rang. Marlene waited. She traced the shadows across the ceiling in that early morning grey as the room held its silence between rings. The phone rang two more times. Marlene gripped the covers when Lorna answered.
 

*

 
Lorna was making breakfast when Marlene got up. The radio played low. Then the kettle whistled. Lorna took it off quickly.
 
“What’s this?”
 
Lorna stiffened. “I didn’t see you there. I made this for you.” She was barefoot and walked to Marlene on her toes, offering an attempt at an omelet with both hands. “Breakfast?”
 
Marlene bent forward with her lips. Before she closed her eyes, she caught sight of their plastic tablecloth, the one with the yellow ducks. She held that image and waited.
 
“I’m having second thoughts about us,” Lorna said.
 
“You mean Nelson?”
 
“Everything.”
 
Marlene clicked her lighter three times, then smacked it against her palm before it lit. “Is he even a good guy?”
 
“He always had trouble. After his brother … That made him cruel in ways. It’s part of why we didn’t talk. He’s here now. Says he’s changed.” She scrubbed hard at a pan. “God, I so want to believe he’s one inch from being a good guy.” She grabbed a towel and wiped her eyes.
 
“What happened to not growing old and drooling the little days away?” Marlene bit her tongue, feeling the tooth shift and sending a jolt of pain up behind her eyes. “How do you know he’s not a real jerk?” She said it flat.
 
“Does it make a difference? We’re wedded. It’s my duty.”
 
“Like some dog who barks when their master comes home? You let this happen.”
 
“I let my whole life happen. Everyone seemed to want what was best for me. I thought that was safer than choosing.” She began to cry.
 
“What does this mean for us? Hey, stop crying a minute.” The cigarette jumped in Marlene’s hand. Ash piled at its end. Marlene focussed on Lorna. The ash fell to the floor.
 
Lorna’s hands found Marlene’s face. “Kiss me.”
 
“No.”
 
“Kiss me.”
 
Marlene took Lorna’s hands, held them, palms up, remembering where those palms had traveled. She set them back at Lorna’s side, before turning and walking into the kitchen. Her hand found the countertop and she lingered, letting her fingers brush along its edge. She moved them across the back of a chair, then across the fridge. She wasn’t trying to capture anything, just letting her thoughts collect. Something rolled under her heel. She saw another bead there, small and blue. She left it.
 
The camera was on the end table. Marlene ran her hand across its surface, feeling rough metallic edges and hard plastics. “You said a picture takes a piece with you forever.” She picked it up and held it, adjusting its weight in her hands. She looked over her shoulder at Lorna. “I want to go with you. Forever.”
 
She handed Lorna the camera and moved back. “Forever, like this.”
 
She opened her shirt. A fine trail of blonde hair across her stomach caught the morning’s sun. She walked toward the bedroom. Lorna followed.
 
Traffic sounds in the street ripped through the thin glass of the windows and spilled into their living space, all of which they ignored. At the door, Marlene hooked her thumbs into her belt loops, slipped her jeans, and walked into the bedroom. 
 
Sunlight crept across the floor. It fell in stripes through the blinds. Marlene moved to the bed. Maybe Lorna misunderstood?  Her bare feet clenched. Maybe I misunderstood? She sat. She placed her hands at her side. Then in her lap. Then back again.
 
Lorna entered. She adjusted the camera’s aperture. It made a faint continuous click, small, like a watch winding. Lorna looked through the camera.
 
“Wait.” Marlene rose. She walked to Lorna and placed her hands on her shoulders. “I need …”
 
 Lorna shushed. She took off her shirt. Then her jeans. Lorna folded nothing, letting the pieces fall to the floor. She smiled, then said Marlene’s name. It was after this they got down on the bed.
 
Lorna told her where to lie and where to place her hands. Lorna spoke gently and firmly like things were meaningful. She would move a limb just so, and when her fingers grazed thin skin, Marlene would laugh in surprise and Lorna would laugh at her laughter.
 
Lorna smiled. “I think I’m done.” The camera dropped to her side. She left it on the windowsill opposite the bed.
 
Marlene held her pose. 
 
They lay there, shoulders touching, thighs too. Marlene let her fingers find the grooves in Lorna’s arm. “I really love you, Lorna,” Marlene said. She paused, letting her hand rest. “I love the tenderness in your touch. The tease in your fingertips. I love how you see me. Or maybe it’s how you don’t.” Marlene paused. “I love your feet when they walk you to me. How unrestrained you are. I wish I could be as near to wild as you.” The words caught in her throat. “I would have loved you until we had diminished each other.” She listened as Lorna let out her breath. “I need you. Need me.”
 
Lorna sat up, tucking her knees under her, bouncing slightly as she did. A strand of hair fell across her face and she tossed it over her shoulder with a grin. “You were enough,” she said. She looked at her hands. “It was fun.”
 
Love didn’t leave Marlene all at once. It left like snow melting into dirty water. Then it was gone.  
 
Sunlight on the stained timber cast an aura the colour of jacaranda flowers, framed by the shadows beyond the windows. Marlene imagined the smell of cut pomelo and knew it was time to leave. Instead, she rolled over and kissed Lorna’s cheek. “Then there’s nothing more to say.” They lay like that until one of them got up.