Tactile Deflection
4. Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you've counted the space between her breaths and are certain she's asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering.
It's the silence that frustrates her more than anything—not counting the fact that she'd purposely left out the wash without segregating the whites from her own filthy miscellaneous bits and pieces, or the fact that she'd made breakfast this morning without asking her if she'd like a plate as well.
Naomi hisses a curse, wishes they'd stop acting like such children.
It doesn't take her long to sort the laundry; she managed to bundle everything conveniently into two bags, hastily tying them together with plastic packing straw. She feels around the corners of her trouser pocket, fingering loose bits of change and wondering if they're enough to pull her through a bus ride and a doughnut from the bakery across the Laundromat. She decides against the latter, then, after thumbing through her quid and peeling off a fiver stuck to the back of her phone. Naomi chews on her lip for a moment, decides to fix herself a sandwich instead, to eat on the way down to the station.
The cheese is missing from the fridge—she rummages through the chiller and through the cupboard shelves before mentally accusing her of taking it, just to spite her. She settles for a granola bar instead, relishes the sound of the packing foil crinkling delicately in the quiet of their tiny kitchen when she peels it off. She takes a bite before crumbling it unceremoniously into tiny, sticky pieces, pulling it apart with her fingers and scattering them across the slices of rye along the counter top.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Emily sounds almost horrified, and Naomi has to bite down on her tongue to keep her default scathing comments at bay. They'd do nothing to help them both, at this point. Emily realizes her mistake a beat later—they're not supposed to be speaking to each other, she'd forgotten—and steps past her into their living room. The telly flicks on a little later, and the tell-tale sounds of Jeopardy's opening theme floats into the room. Naomi sticks her sandwich into a paper bag before slinging the laundry bags across her back.
She leaves through the back door without saying good-bye; can't stand to be in the same room with her without touching, speaking.
She's afraid she'd give in, first.
By the time she's finished, Bristol's pouring down with a vengeance to rival that of the Great Deluge. The rain scares her a little; she'd forgotten to bring an umbrella. When it lets out a little—the sky overhead a deep, dull grey; thunder rolling in at irregular, lengthy intervals—she hefts the bags over her head and makes a mad dash for the station shed, two blocks down. She ignores the cat-calls and jeers of the drunken gits from the pub across the street, and the way the mud puddles are seeping into her ballet flats. The rain starts up again as soon as she rounds the first corner; she swears out loud when she slips against the pavement, her hand shooting forward instinctively to brace her fall. The curb slices the heel of her palm, leaving a lengthy cut just below her thumb. She staggers to her feet quickly, the rain pouring down harder than ever.
By the time she makes it to the bus station, she's completely soaked through. She whimpers a little when she lifts her hand to the light to examine it: it's a filthy, bloody mess. She presses her hand against her cotton parka to stem the flow, winces when the fabric chafes against her raw skin.
She doesn't realize she's fallen asleep until she feels herself shaken awake. She jolts back into consciousness and instinctively elbows her assailant roughly in the stomach, thoughts of getting accosted and harassed by chauvinist bastards sailing through her mind. They'd probably thought she was a call-girl; who else would be forward enough to fall asleep all alone by the bloody bus stop?
"Fuck," her attacker groans, gripping her tightly by the shoulder. She flinches at the contact before peering up at him—her—more closely.
"Emily?" she asks incredulously. She pushes back the hoodie of the winter coat to reveal her lover's face, grimacing in pain at her. "Oh, Jesus, Ems. I thought you were going to mug me, or something." She pulls on Emily's collar and tugs her forward, wrapping her tightly in an embrace, her relief nearly substantial in its intensity.
Emily groans at the contact, pushes herself closer, arms sliding around Naomi's neck for comfort. "I think you ruptured my guts," she mumbles breathlessly against her shoulder. Naomi chuckles, presses a kiss to her ear before realizing they shouldn't even be touching—
"I ran out to look for you when it started to rain, because you'd left the umbrella at home. I stopped by the Laundromat, but you weren't there anymore. I figured you'd be here," Emily says lightly, gesturing behind her. Naomi cranes her head to the side a little, notices their second-hand Ford Fiesta parked by the curb.
"Emily—" she says, softly.
"I'm still mad at you," Emily cuts her off pointedly, but she says it with a suppressed tenderness that makes Naomi thinks that perhaps, maybe, not as much as she was earlier. Emily glances down, sees her wounded hand. Sighs. "Let's get you fixed up," she says resolutely, wrapping an arm around Naomi's waist and tugging the laundry bags along with the other.
"Let's get you home."
They're molded together perfectly on the couch—connected everywhere, touching everywhere—fully clothed. Naomi pulls Emily impossibly closer to her, presses her face against the skin of her neck, legs around her waist. Emily sighs contentedly, hands gripping onto her shoulders, her arms.
"Oh," Emily moans softly when Naomi starts to graze her ear with her teeth; whimpers when she kisses the skin beneath her ear.
"I said I was sorry," Naomi whispers, presses her lips against the pulse at Emily's throat.
"I know," Emily gasps, leaning back to give her better access.
"But, you still won't forgive me," Naomi says, almost sadly. Brushes her lips against her collar.
"I'm still so fucking angry at you," Emily breathes, not without difficulty, glancing down to watch Naomi take the zipper of her coat between her teeth. Groans when she feels it drag down, agonizingly slow.
"I didn't mean to laugh," Naomi mumbles, presses her cheek against Emily's stomach. "I thought you were joking."
"Photography is a valid profession—it's not a fucking—not, a fucking—not, a fucking joke," Emily whimpers, her breath hitching in short, staccato gasps, watching through half-closed lids as Naomi takes the edge of her shirt between her teeth and pulls upwards, exposing her bare stomach.
"I know it isn't. I'm sorry," Naomi kisses her there, just beneath her ribs. She twines their fingers together, tugs her upwards to kiss her.
"I promise I'll forgive you tomorrow," Emily murmurs against her lips, slips her tongue inside her mouth.
"I think I can hold out a little longer," Naomi laughs, kisses her cheek.
She's fairly sure she's asleep—she's taken to counting the space between her breaths, releases a sigh of relief when they've evened out in lengthy, evenly spaced intervals.
She chances a glance at the wall clock across the room, above the mantelpiece. In the dim light, she can make out the digital analog beneath the minute hand: 2:52 a.m.
"I love you," she whispers softly, sincerely. She tucks her chin beneath the blanket and shivers. Naomi shifts towards her, peers at her curiously, sleepily, for a beat.
"You say something, Ems?"
Perfidia
5. Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. When time seems to freeze, hastily tack on "in that shirt" or "when you make your award-winning meatballs" or, if you are feeling particularly brave, "when we do this." Resume dancing and pretend you don't feel her eyes on you the rest of the night.
The look on her face when you hand her the mustache is so perfect, it's priceless. It'll be one of your greatest regrets in the years that follow, not taking a photo of that moment—imprinting the image of her dubiety on cold paper for posterity.
"What the fuck is this for?" she isn't exactly the paragon of articulacy—particularly when she's had a fair amount to drink—but you forgive her indiscretions because the slur in her voice becomes more pronounced with every swig of your cocktail mix, and the look of wonder and awe on her face is more than enough, really.
"You put in it on your face, Em," you lean forward to pry it from her grip, but she yanks it back so swiftly her arm collides with the edge of the counter top. She hisses a curse when her shot glass crashes to the floor, but she makes no move to clean it up. You make a mental note to sweep the shards up later, before Emily decides the kitchen floor would be a wonderful place to sleep in for the night, which—given her current state—seems like a growing possibility.
"I know what it's for," she giggles, reaching for the tail of your shirt. She leans up to kiss you and you taste the bittersweet tang of the mixer on her tongue. She swivels away until her back collides with the edge of the counter. "Are you planning to leave me any time soon?" she banters, raises a brow in mock apprehension. You attempt to look properly distressed at her insinuations, feign indignation and hurt, but the curl of her smile sends you into a hysterical fit of giggles instead. She is not amused.
"I knew it!" she cries, leaps to her feet, prods you roughly in the stomach. "There's something," she drags the last syllables out with difficulty. "Something about you and men with fucking facial hair. I can't fucking compete with that."
"You know what they say, Em," you push yourself off the counter and saunter over to her, let your gaze drag all over her body. She bites her lip when she notices the look in your eye and you just know she's already so, so wet. (To Emily, alcohol is a miracle worker, in more ways than one: as an icebreaker; as a stress-reliever; as an aphrodisiac.) You curl your fingers around her wrist gently, pry the offending costume piece from her weak grip. She looks up at you with doleful eyes when you stick it unceremoniously onto the skin above her lip. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, and all that."
She wrinkles her nose, scrunches her brows together. Looks up at you with something that remotely resembles a frown, or at least, a piss-poor parody of one. Takes you by the cuff of your collar, pulls you down for a kiss. It takes your breath away, when she does that; kissing for the sake of kissing, relishing the feel of your skin against hers; seeking constant reassurance of your existence, her sanity confirmed by your tangibility. She brushes her lips against yours, once, twice. You giggle when you feel the fine hairs of the felt stache tickle the tip of your nose.
"Fuck you," she whispers tenderly, reaches up to sweep the sombrero off your head. You watch amusedly as she sets it at a jaunty angle on her own, the wide brim hanging low across her brow. "Te gusta?" she ducks her chin, looks up at you coyly through her lashes.
"Mucho," you say seriously, your accent comically thick and cloying. "Muy bonita." She squeaks in surprise when you hoist her up onto the counter top. Her elbow sinks into the guacamole-and-bean dip you both made earlier in lieu of the failed-salsa attempts weeks prior. She doesn't mind, though. Not when your hand slides up to stroke up her spine. She shivers against you and wraps her legs around your waist.
The sombrero slips off her head and onto the floor, forgotten.
The kitchen walls thrum with the wild, staccato beats native to Swedish rap music—Petter? Fronda? Afasi & Filthy? It sends a buzz through your system: the sensual, rhythmic flow of guttural Dutch flowing through your veins, straight to your head, providing a better high than the sixth mouthful of tequila you've downed in the last three minutes. Emily's thrashing about in your arms, fists pumping the air without a care in the world. She mouths the lyrics to the song, though you seriously doubt she understands a word. She jumps about, lands on the soles of her feet, pirouettes away from you, twirls on the balls of her feet, stumbles, laughs, throws her arms in the air during the machine-gun-esque riffs of the final chorus, takes another swig of tequila, starts a slow head-bang in tune to the gradual fade-out of the last few bars.
You are both breathless by the time the song ends, for completely different reasons; she, because you've never seen someone dance through an entire song with a beat that fast; you, because Emily, well. Emily. Emily is Emily Fitch, and she affects you in a way only she can; in a way she reserves especially for Naomi Campbell.
You pull her towards you, tug her forward by the elbow. She spins about, turns in your arms, and laces her fingers behind your neck. She smiles when she looks up at you—looks so properly fucking bashful it's adorable—giggles, a bit hysterically, when you brush your lips against her cheek. "Oh, I love this one," she sighs. The minuscule stereo on the shelf above the stove-top starts playing a slow, soft ballad you immediately recognize. Emily hums along softly and sways.
"Come on, Naoms," she chastises, grins ridiculously wide. "You know this one." She lets a hand trail down your shoulder, traces a path from your elbow to your wrist until she reaches your hand. She promptly laces your fingers together and leans forward to tuck her chin against the crook of your neck. "You know this one," she whispers softly, her other hand reaching up to loop through your other arm, the one around her waist. If you're going to be completely honest, really, you do. You do know this song. Have it seared into you through an unfortunate accident involving your mother's records, a bag of saltwater taffy, and a Walkman.
"What makes you so sure?" you ask anyway, smirking against her hair. She presses herself closer, you feel her sigh contentedly against your shoulder.
"You sang it to me on Nan's porch when we visited last. She set up the gramophone and made you pick out a record. This was the first song that played, and you sang along to it," you blink, then, because you do not remember that. (Though, you do remember Emily's Nan—recall her buttered cornbread and pot roast all too well. You wouldn't eat for a day afterward, didn't want to forget the culinary orgasmic bliss that was her grandmother's cooking.)
"Oh," you splutter anyway. "Well." Then, you remember something else.
You cough awkwardly to alleviate the sudden tension coiling in your gut, whisper a prayer of supplication to all the deities above that Emily doesn't sense your stiffness.
She doesn't.
She continues to hum along, starts swaying you both to the melody. Neither of you say anything after that. You concentrate on shifting your weight from foot-to-foot, tilting forward to keep Emily on her feet, twirling her with a hand when the song melds out into the bridge. She is lost in her bliss, in this romantic moment with you; you are preoccupied at the moment with little else other than that which caused you to spring a spontaneous night of home-ground debauchery in the first place. You'd hoped to forget, for a while.
Your throat burns. The corners of your eyes sting.
You try not to think about how much you want a cigarette.
The poncho is a bit too big on Emily. She shrugs it on without much difficulty and does a little twirl for your appraisal. The woven patterns contrast beautifully with her hair. You tell her so.
"Why, thank you," she kisses you carefully, attempts to avoid the felt stache on your own lip. Fails. Laughs. You shimmy into your own poncho a moment later, while she fiddles with the dial on your stereo. "They had some great tunes here, the other day. Dad always turns up this station at the gym."
"His jam?" you smirk and cross your arms. "Can't really imagine why anyone would want to work out to, like, La Isla Bonita, or something." You wrinkle your nose in distaste. She mutters under her breath, flicks the frequency switch back and forth in an attempt to locate it.
"I'll have you know," Emily continues in an off-hand sort of voice, her gaze never leaving the yellow light of the analog dial. "Madonna was not only a fashion icon, she was also—"
"Accused of bestiality with a boa constrictor? A sex-icon for sexually confused teenage girls in the nineteen-eighties?"
"A pioneer in the world of dance music," she finishes, exasperated. The seemingly sober texture of the conversation at hand is surprising, given the fact that you've both just polished off half a bottle of tequila. "Aha!" she squeaks delightedly. Suddenly, the tell-tale rattling of maracas floods the room. Vocals follow soon after, foreign—Mexican? Spanish.—and unfamiliar. It sounds exactly like—
"A mariachi band?" you cry incredulously. "You have got to be fucking kidding me, Em. There is no way in hell I—"
She pushes her fingers against your lips excitedly to silence you. She cocks her head to the side, listens to the opening strings, until the lead male vocalist peters out into a long, drawn out Indian-esque war cry. She mimics him, throws her head back, and makes a trilling noise at the back of her roll your eyes because, really. This is so incredibly ridiculous. But Emily looks so bleeding eager that, for a moment, you feel like singing along to the insanely preposterous excuse for music that is a Mexican mariachi band.
She doffs off her sombrero and starts throwing it in the air, catching it deftly with the tips of her fingers. She misses once or twice and nearly falls over when she stoops down to get it. "Oh, come on, Naoms," she rolls her eyes at you—it is a surprisingly brilliant impression of your own bad habit that you think briefly, we imperceptibly become each other, in the end; there is no salvation— and pulls you forward by the ends of your poncho. She throws her arms around your neck and you have to crouch a bit for balance when she wraps both her legs around your waist, laughing madly.
"Fucking dance with me."
It does not occur to you to consider otherwise, so you do.
In the next thirty or so minutes, you manage to—upset your mother's Tibetan vase; upend the waste basket in the far corner of your relatively tiny kitchen; set your arm on fire; make Emily come twice against the table, fully clothed; down another bottle of tequila; drop your phone in the empty margarita pitcher; lose your shoes; throw up once.
The spectacular-quality of the evening is ethereal in its intensity. You don't recall ever being this happy.
"No!" she nearly screams, laughs so hard she nearly cries. "You spin the other fucking way, like—" she nudges your left foot behind you with her own and you stumble forward clumsily, trip on her feet, instead. She roars with laughter when you push her backward accidentally. She pushes you back, pulls on your hands by her stomach and swivels you about in time to the beat blasting from the stereo's sorry-excuse-for-a-speaker.
The world spins before you, a blur of sound and color, and for a fleeting moment you're afraid you might just toss all over Emily. But, before you do, the world is right-side up again and she's holding you against her tightly, laughing for all she's worth.
"I love you," you mumble breathlessly, turn your head upward to press a kiss against her throat. "I love you so much, when we do this."
And then, it hits you.
The song that you'd both slow-danced to earlier plays up again, and instead of eliciting a spark of delight similar to Emily's, it incites a low, throbbing, painful, gut-wrenching sensation beneath your ribs. Because, now, you remember where you'd heard it before—and it was not with Emily and her Nan, that one summer evening. You feel your stomach contract and all too soon, bile rises up your throat. You push Emily away abruptly and stumble on your feet. You barely make it to the sink before tossing. It burns your throat and it makes you cry, and not for the reasons either of you would like to think.
She holds your hair back concernedly and rubs soothing patterns up and down your back. "It's alright, hon. It's okay," she coos, and you shake your head in vehement protest because no, it is not okay. It will never be okay. I cannot justify what I did.
You grip the tiling of the counter with your fingers tightly until your knuckles stand out white in contrast to your already pale skin. She turns the knob on the faucet and fills a glass with cold water, hands it to you wordlessly. You throw your head back and try to rinse all traces of acid from your mouth away, but it burns, still. It retains the bitterness. Emily reaches up and wipes your mouth with the corner of her poncho; pulls you closer, tighter; kisses your ear; tells you she loves you; tells you it's okay, tells you you'll be okay.
And, it hurts. It hurts so much. The memories too fresh: her pressed up against the wall, your leg between hers, your hand down her trousers, her gasps heavy in your ears. You remember now: it was the song that played when you fucked her, turned up the knob on the volume to drown out her moans in a futile attempt to pretend that it wasn't her you'd pinned down.
The pain is substantial in its intensity, pressing down your chest, constricting the air from your lungs. You pull her even harder against you and sob, press your face against her neck and bathe it with tears.
"I'm sorry," you gasp over and over again. "I'm so sorry."
She pulls back, then, her brows creased together in concern and—there, clear as day in her forced sobriety—fear. She studies your face for a second, a minute, an hour, her gaze flitting across your face, trying to decipher your distress. Whether she should have cause for distress. You feel bile rising up in your throat again when you wonder what if, maybe, maybe, she knows. She knows.
Her face relaxes after a while and she sighs in relief—she trusts you, knows there's nothing, no reason for her to even consider your possible shortcomings. She throws her arms around your neck and kisses your mouth, hard and frantic. Desperate. "It's okay," she hisses between nips. Her teeth are gritted together. "It's okay."
Only, it isn't. You know it isn't. You know she knows it isn't. But, for now, it will do. So, you kiss her back, and pretend that it is.
Your phone rattles inside the glass pitcher, a sad parody of a crystal bell. She fishes it out and glances at the screen. "Cook," she announces evenly, twines your fingers together. You accept the call and press the phone to your ear with trembling fingers. She kisses down your neck, nips the skin at the hollow of your throat; it distracts you, but not quite. You end the call with a soft noise of assent and sigh.
She glances up at you expectantly and traces the line of your jaw with a finger. You catch her hand and kiss her wrist, "At Effy's. The whole crew. Let's?" You force an eager smile and raise a curious brow. She smiles up at you, reaches forward to pull you down. Nuzzles her nose against yours. Closes her eyes.
"I love you," she says simply and it sounds like reassurance, more than anything. She opens them again and grins wide.
"Let's go get shit-faced."
Because love isn't always about chocolates and roses.
Let this be a balm, though. After all the shit I made you wade through in Broken.
Let me know you dropped by!