Last Time
"Now I will tell you what I've done for you
Fifty thousand tears I've cried
Screaming, deceiving and bleeding for you
And you still won't hear me, going under
Don't want your hand this time, I'll save myself
Maybe I'll wake up for once
Not tormented daily, defeated by you
Just when I thought, I reached the bottom
I'm dying again, I'm going under
Drowning in you, I'm falling forever
I've got to break through, I'm going under"
June 2011
Pierre rails at the thought of buying a table from IKEA, spends hours cajoling Andy and pleading with her that it is easier to have a ready made hand crafted table delivered, that he is too busy to put it together, this and that. He gives in and sulks as they walk the aisles until Andy spots the perfect one. Lugging the box up the stairs, he complains with every step until Andy has to tell him that unless he pipes down she will kick him out until it's done. His Gallic pride reasserting itself he huffs and glares at her through the 40 minute exercise of reading almost incomprehensible instructions, assembling pieces of wood, screwing, tightening, until – voila – one burnished mahogany table stands in the centre of the room. Andy grins, feeling a sense of achievement; Pierre mutters as he walks round looking for imperfections.
"Hah!" His exclamation interrupts Andy's warm glow of accomplishment. She turns to see him triumphantly holding up a screw like it's the mythical cup of Christ. "And this is?"
Damned if Andy knows. She is certain she followed the instructions, she checks every place, every setting. No missing screws. She shrugs, "An extra?"
Pierre snorts, "A De Bournais would not come with an extra… anything." He makes a face which clearly conveys his disgust, the screw now hanging between his fingertips as if a poisonous snake. Andy responds by throwing a cushion at his head. He growls; she laughs. A pillow fight ensues and ends in the pillows being used for something other than fighting.
Andy never does find a place for the offending screw.
They never visit IKEA again.
As she lies there underneath the thrusts she knows now is not the time for such a memory, and yet strangely it is the perfect time. Pierre makes her feel like the De Bournais – elegant, polished, and refined. No extras there, no flaws, no imperfections; Andy knows exactly what to expect. Miranda, ah Miranda, she would probably kill Andy were she to mention her and IKEA in the same breath. But that is what she is when she is with this woman – the IKEA table being constructed by Miranda's clever hand. Piece by piece she assembles Andy together and on the rare occasions all the pieces fit. Like that night in Paris, after they had finished, when Andy knew for certain that Miranda was the one. But more often than not, just as it's bound to happen today, they finish and Andy knows that something's missing. For the table, it's the screw; for Andy – each screw represents a part of her: her heart, her soul, perhaps even her body. For on nights like this, whilst they dress together afterwards, Andy quite literally feels diminished.
She can feel the orgasm building now, a train gathering speed: no control, no brakes, no driver; a crash the only sure-fire way to stop. She resists it, she didn't used to, but now it has become something to fear as much as it is something to enjoy. Another mark, another piece missing, another way Miranda will assert control. Andy remembers writing an essay on why it is better to be loved than feared, the fact that she is scared to ask speaks volumes about whether Miranda prefers to be feared rather than loved. Funny how school never prepares you for reality: that mostly things are - end up being a curious mix of both.
The beam of the train's lights is blinding, cuts across any errant thought. She's been thinking too much recently when they are together, does Miranda even notice? Not that it matters, no thought is ever enough. The train – orgasm - slams into her with an incredible force, her back arches; it feels like she is tossed up into the air. Crashing back down, her heart skips a beat, she momentarily loses breath; wonders if it's really possible that each time the momentum is stronger, the time between her heartbeats longer. What if one day she never regains breath, her heart just stops? Her smile is bittersweet – too easy, too pleasurable a way to go. And she is sure Miranda would find some way to bring her back.
Probably just to do it all over again.
Miranda's grip tightens, her nails dig into Andy's thighs. Andy winces, glances down to where Miranda's head rests between her legs. Their gazes meet and not for the first time, something flashes in Miranda's eyes, something Andy cannot decipher. She longs, craves, needs to understand what this woman feels but there has always been a surface between them – a door, a window, a wall – an impenetrable barrier that Andy has never been able to breach. All she can read is the lingering satisfaction, triumph, sometimes outright gloating; Miranda is always so pleased with herself. Andy no longer looks into her eyes when she is about to come, she cannot take it – Miranda's arrogance brings tears to her eyes. And above all else Miranda hates tears, so Andy has schooled herself to never cry, at least not in front of this woman. When she's alone there are copious tears – for them, for Pierre, quite often for Andy herself.
A grey sheen steals over the blue, Miranda's stare now more intense; Andy resists the urge to close her eyes, to hide. The barrier is exclusive to Miranda – a one way looking glass; to Miranda, Andy has always been an open book. Whatever she sees in Andy's eyes tonight does not appear to please the older woman. She purses her lips, rises in one fluid motion; bites out, "I have a busy schedule tomorrow." That's as much of an explanation as Andy ever gets, well, sometimes there is more – mostly just orders, Andy often bites her tongue so as not to caustically remind Miranda that she no longer works for her.
"This is the last time," Andy's words are quiet. Miranda merely laughs. It is a sharp, harsh sound; in Andy's fanciful imagination it often appears to resemble a broken sob. "I mean it," this time her voice is barely above a whisper, to her own ears her conviction not as strong.
"You always say that, Andrea, but both of us are well aware you'll be back." This time the laughter is sardonic and the arrogance is evident again: in Miranda's posture, in her face, but most of all it is reflected in her eyes. Mixed in with that is a hint of something else – a challenge, some gauntlet that's always thrown down; another thing that Andy fails to understand.
"I - I," before she can complete the sentence, there is a sharp rap on the door. Miranda freezes, all motion stilled; all of her registering surprise as she gazes at the door. They are in a hotel room in New York, each one checked in anonymously – no-one should know where or who they are. Miranda hastily throws on a bathrobe, Andy burrowing a little deeper under the covers of the bed. The knocking suddenly stops, they both release a breath, then just as abruptly it resumes. Miranda huffs – a sigh of utter impatience, then as though having made a decision, in a few confident strides she reaches the door. Flinging it open, she barks out, "What?" then takes a step back – nothing like her usual confident self – a short and nervous tread.
On her heels into the room stumbles Pierre, a keycard poised for use in his left hand. It takes but a mere second for him to survey the room; take in the revealing landscape, inhale the smell of sex that lingers on the sheets. He laughs and it almost sounds like Miranda's laughter – a mocking hollow broken sound. He grimaces, throws the keycard on the bed, and turns to Miranda with a look of venom, "Deep down I've always known, but like a fool, I managed to delude myself. You see I believed in her, I believed in what we had - what I thought we had, but it was all a lie. Amazing, isn't it, Miranda, how much we are capable of fooling ourselves. Into believing that what we want is the only thing that matters, that our desires should be fulfilled at anyone's expense. But then again, we are all rather selfish creatures underneath and I suppose that no-one should know more about that than you yourself." Not waiting for Miranda's comeback, Pierre glances down at Andy dismissively, his tone terse, "Andrea, get dressed, my car is out front." Having said his piece, he throws one last contemptuous glance Miranda's way, then exits, leaving behind a silence long unbroken by a word or any sound.
Eventually, Andrea rises; dresses. There's really nothing left to say. Throughout her routine she feels the burning on her back, in her chest; resists the urge to rub each spot where she can feel Miranda's stare. Her make up, clothes – façade – assembled, she traces Pierre's path to the door. Her hand on the handle, she turns to give a parting look to Miranda and is weighed down by the contemplation in the deep grey of her gaze.
"Why?" At last Miranda breaks the silence, her entire demeanour curiously empty of any condemnation, almost faintly tinged with what sounds like pride.
"It's over," Andy breathes; the truth of what she's saying causing goosebumps to break out along her skin.
"Good," Miranda nearly smiles then suppresses it as she has what looks like second thoughts. "Of course –"
"It's over," Andy repeats herself, her palm now flat against the door. She knows precisely the moment her meaning sinks in. "There won't be any more lies."
Miranda swallows, taps her bottom lip with the pad of her forefinger and smiles, "Oh Andrea, do you really think I'll stop just because he knows? Did you truly hope that I would be consumed by guilt; that perhaps his suffering would weigh down my conscience?" Her tone changes, gentles; becomes introspective, "No." Almost in a soliloquy she continues, "At times I feel that I could fuck you were he to be in the very same room." Almost ruefully she follows up, "Silly me, I forget, I already have." A darkness creeps into her eyes – an ugliness – and Andy understands Miranda doesn't actually feel regret. Not for that act, their affair, for any of it; but then of course Andy had always known, envisaged that. Miranda's accountability for her deeds was just a futile hope though not the most hopeless; after all, that award is levied on something else entirely unattainable – Miranda's recognition, respect and love.
"I did it for him."
"Don't kid yourself, Andrea. We both know that you did it for yourself."
"You are right," Andrea turns to face, her back resting fully on the door. Her nails dig into the wood, she needs the courage, "but you are also very wrong. He is much more than you are, he's better than I am; out of all of us he is the strongest – it's why I needed him to see."
"You are hoping that he'll leave you."
"No, it's only for you that I reserve such uncertainties as hope." A flare of deep blue pierces the grey. "With him, there are no mights, perhapses or maybes; with Pierre, I always just know."
"Yet perfect Pierre isn't enough though, is he, Andrea?" Miranda's sneer distorts her features, "Or you wouldn't come running when I call. Tell me, do you see his image when I fuck you, or is the truth that with his every thrust you picture me?"
Andy says nothing, swallows bile; standing across the room Miranda swallows a smirk.
In a hoarse voice, Andy finally whispers, "This isn't love - it can't be. Miranda, this thing between us is wrong, fucked up beyond belief. Why can't you let me go? Why can't you - please." She should feel embarrassment to be pleading so openly but all she can focus on is locking her trembling knees.
"No," the quiet response is absolute. Now it takes everything not just to keep standing but not to give in to the urge to cry.
Andy hangs her head, takes a deep breath, swallows convulsively and nods. "You won't hear from me again, Miranda." On legs much steadier than she thought they'd be she turns around and slowly opens the door.
"I'll be here, Andrea, waiting for your call."
The sting of tears sears her eyes but she is no longer facing her beloved demon so she does not hold back, resting her head against the wood as the tiny splashes of liquid start to fall. I am stronger than you. I have to be. She doesn't voice it, simply inhales with a shudder, without a final look walking out of the door.