A/N: Dedicated to my good friend, Lydia.
He kisses me goodbye, leaving me warmed with two thin cloths draped over my naked body. The front door swings open. I scream a reminder of our anniversary and to get off by five. It will take him at least an hour to get home, but as long as we can have the three hours from six to nine, everything would be fine.
My eyes call for me to sleep. I could not drop a wink last night and I could not imagine why. The sex was affirming and pleasurable and deeply tiring. Drawing a sweater and sweatpants over my body, I make up for the lost warmth that had kept my skin hot. Maybe the night was just a little too warm or I missed the pleasure a little too much after the act was over.
When I wake again, it was by morning sunlight breaking over gray-tinted, cottony cumulus clouds. I had only slept for a scant twenty minutes.
Ugh, I think as I move out of the bed. My vagina feels sore. I did not felt it while I was awake in bed, even as I count the city lights while lying still. My somewhat upfront, lesbian gynecologist told me that the physical act of sex should never feel sore. But my vagina has always been like this. My whole body, in fact, had never really liked being physical. It is what it is, I suppose. The soreness, at least, is neither stinging, pounding, nor coursing. It is just stiff, like muscles after having slept for twelve hours, like my body preferred sedentary activity.
Grabbing cocoa soy milk from the kitchen fridge, I check the magnet calendar to make sure it is the nineteenth. A Monday. I can sleep from my desk job at the New Leaf Times. Or, actually, I need to complete my beauty column before the deadline tomorrow morning. The work never fails to unnerve me; my eloquence had always been thanks to a kind speech writer and my true forte was in mobilizing with a map, not a readership. But there was no way I could enter a managerial position after moving incognito into the economic hustle of the densest city in the world, nameless and without contacts. My partner and I simply had no speakable work history. It was the cost of living a new, clean life away from the complex courts.
Still, we were very lucky to have found a place we can afford while we tried to make a living. It really goes to show, that as long as we were together, we can make it through even the worst of days.
Replacing the milk, I need to start making lunch for myself and a dinner later for two. My partner forgot to bring the leftover duck confit to work. His loss, my gain.
I place the duck on the counter plus scallions, an onion, two stalks of celery, and a jar of alfredo cream. The stove sparks a blue flame, water is heating, and the linguini is at the ready. Grabbing the flavourings, I find the red wine empty. I could have sworn we did not drink last night which meant we forgot to toss the bottle.
Turning off the stove, and with a reusable bag slung over my shoulder, I make sure to lock the apartment as I leave, and check that my wallet and pepper spray is in the bag. At Phillips Grocery Store, I mull over their selection. The cheapest one is about a thousand five a pop but it can last for a good while. Taking the bottle with me, I encounter a striking man in a suit, a mustache that seems too trimmed, and glasses that are obviously not prescription. He has no cart or basket, so he is not a shopper. Who is he?
"Ari," he calls me and I think I should not wait and find out. I draw for my pepper spray when he says, "Remember the Ides of March."
"Ne-ne?" I cry in disbelief as I turn. There was only one person who could say that to me. My former speech writer strips the corner of his mustache and it really is him! I draw my arms around him and flush. The day I revoked royalty, he was with me in the parliamentary chamber, signing the papers. He told me that I didn't have to sign it if I do not want to. After all, he had said, how can I be sure that my partner was the man of my life, that he was meant for me and that that would never change? That was four years ago and I had told him that my partner was willing and did everything to save my life and if that was not love, I would have no idea what it was.
"Want to talk over brunch?" he says, offering to take my bag. We relocate to an outdoor cafe a block away, with picnic tablecloths and sunflowers in glass vases. I let him order for me when he offers to foot the bill.
"It's President Ne-ne now, right. That's one heck of a demotion from Emperor," I say with a giggle.
"Yeah, I kinda hated the job," he says, reluctantly and a little disappointed. "After a while, you really can't tell who likes you and who hates you. Politics. I thought turning to democracy would let me leave gracefully. Make it someone else's problem. And then they elected me."
We laugh at that. "It's only for another six years, right? Any idea what you will do then? Sky-diving? A memoir? Bake apple pies in the autumn?" I swirl the straw in my lemonade with my index finger, thinking.
"I don't know. Everything has been so demanding that all I could think about is the next day. Ruling is a daily battle, really, and eating becomes a chore. It is all a little too structured." I raise a playful eyebrow at him. Back then, he was the one who structured my life, the puppeteer to an always tired empress. "What I will do afterwards depends...," he continues, "depends on whether I find a place where I belong."
"If I can find him, then you can too." I smile, touching his hand. The food comes. Sandwiches for him and an artisan pizza with olives and prosciutto ham for me. We discuss math, philanthropy, boys, baking, cheesecakes around the world, experiences, birds, pizza, appearances, kabuki masks, and, finally, the weather. He also asks if I ever thought of returning to the courts, and that he had thought of a convincing announcement to the press if I had wanted to.
"Well, I do miss parts of it. The galas. The king-sized bed. Gifts." And I sneer as I say, "Gold flakes in my flame-broiled sandwiches."
"I still don't get how you can eat that."
"It was a phase, not a very healthy one, but we were young back then, and life was to be enjoyed. But now I am with the love of my life and when you have that, you have everything in the world." I twirl the straw again. "It's not everything I imagined, but it's enough."
Ne-ne scrunches his lips, teasing me. "What did you imagined it was going to be like?"
"What lovers think when they're the only two people in the world, I guess. A house in the woods. Apple pie at the window. Loving each other everyday... Pregnancy. Twins." I sip the lemonade. "I worked at a daycare before and let me tell you, kids are filthy. Poop inside a desk."
"I'm eating you know."
"Oh, grow up."
After the brunch, he writes me an e-mail. "It's private, so you can always reach me," he says.
"Isn't having your very own private e-mail a little...scandalous these days?"
He shrugs. "I have multiple. And I'm discreet so if anyone finds it, I can deny it. I'll be fine."
"Okay, I hope. Good luck. Thanks for visiting." We hug each other goodbye. As he goes off, I am already missing the company. I cannot believe I miss someone who had only demanded and commanded me for a good chunk of my adolescence. He was older than me, sure, but still young and relatable, and he took it for himself to be a stern parent and loving brother. He's such a wonderful person. I hope he will find someone who can love him everyday and forever.
As I make my way home, wine in my bag, I imagine the surprise for my partner and our anniversary. Candles? We're not exactly newly weds. Flowers? Oh, he's not one for girl things. Either way, I will need a nice tablecloth. Maybe I can make pasta for dinner and put on my disposable lingerie, although we already did it last night. Or maybe just dinner and TV and spending the night cuddling on the sofa. That sounds like a good plan.
Once I put the key into my apartment door, I could have sworn that I had it locked. "Oh, Aria, you're home!" I hear my partner call from the kitchen. I smell fried garlic as I enter the kitchen and see the sizzle and toss of noodles in a hot, slick pan. "Surprise! I asked for the day off from the boss lady and she let me. She said I was working like two people this past week so I can get today and tomorrow off. How does a movie at Central Park sound? Oh, yeah, I didn't know what you were making so I'm making some chow mein right now. I-."
I close my arms around his waist. "I love you," I say into his ear, putting my cheek on the plumpness of his strong back.
While I am as sleepless as I was the night before, I look at the shimmering lights trying to pierce through our bedroom curtains. He is in the dark, sleeping, blanket over him. But I see him clearly because I know every part of him, his perfect skin, his perfect lips. Love is a lot like riding on a feather, actually. I am always floating and always along the wind.
A week later, exactly two hours before the plane leaves, I remember to write a letter for him. I weigh it down with my keys and leave them next to a pot of spaghetti. I wonder whether the letter explained enough.
My watch says 1:03. My suitcases are packed. It is time for me to go.
A/N: For Smart Lydia, who had always been perfect and remained fierce even after she had to leave her partner of eight years. If I was your type, I would flatter you in his place *wink*.
Review if you'd like. I know my fics are hard to respond to, but appreciating a writer's effort (this took 6 hours of writing and editing, while I'm living in post-grad poverty myself) means everything. This writer, herself, expects little but the thought that her words had connected with someone, for better or worse.