Radclyffe & Stacia Seaman - Romantic Interludes 2 - Secrets Read online

  I find myself watching you as you deal with the others here. Would you be as kind and considerate to me as you are with your colleagues when they need assistance, or would you be passionate and forceful, as I’ve heard that you are in the boardroom as you drive a point home?

  “Which would you prefer?” Danya asked as if someone might answer.

  I would want all of you. Every facet, every emotion. I want to be a part of everything you see and feel and experience. And I would give you the same—all of me. I want you to see me.

  “I want to see you too,” Danya whispered longingly, desperate for more messages, savoring the connection with this invisible someone more than any of the relationships she had blundered through recently. She’d tried so hard to find someone who saw her. And that someone had been here, in this office, all along.

  I want us to get to know each other. I feel I know so much of you already. Everyone here admires you. They share their confidences with you, turn to you for a kind word and support. Do you need a shoulder you can lean on, someone who will take your confidences and keep them tucked away in their heart for safekeeping? I would hold you when you need to be held and let you go when you needed to be free, safe in the knowledge you’d come back to me.

  “I’m tired of being free,” Danya sighed, resting her chin in her hand. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  I wonder if you know who I am? Are you as aware of me as I am of you? I think you are. I catch you sometimes looking at me and it’s all I can do not to race to your side and do whatever you wish from me. Do you miss me when I don’t come into work? I find myself pining for you in your absence and then, when you return, all seems right with my world again.

  Danya found her admirer’s honesty and sweetness irresistible.

  I have noticed that whatever your mood, it’s reflected in your clothing. When you are ready to do battle, you wear the black pinstripe suit with the white lacy shirt. The darkness gives you a projection of power while the lace shows that you are still decidedly feminine in this male-dominated office. When you are happy, you wear the vibrant blue dress that complements your bronze hair and sends my pulse soaring because it fits your curves so beautifully. It’s strange how, when you are happy, it lifts my day too.

  Why haven’t you come to me sooner, Danya thought, astonished by the insights. She did indeed wear her pinstripe to try to look somber and severe when going up against the good old boys of the business. And a friend had pushed her into buying the summery blue dress, saying it complemented her unusual coloring and hugged her in all the right places.

  What would you see in me, though? I am all dark clothes for business, and I’m not the least bit gregarious like your friends seem to be. I come in, do my work, and then go home alone. My work used to be everything—all I had in my life. I wanted nothing else.

  Danya waited. The chime was oddly quiet and for a long, endless minute she feared the writer had gone. She stole a look out of her office and saw that Brynn was still in her seat, head bowed before the computer.

  And then I saw you.

  Danya sighed, torn between getting up to search the office for the writer or staying put because each word was a treasure.

  You make me breathe the air anew. You cause my heart to soar when I hear your laughter. There has truly never been a more beautiful sound. I want to make you happy just to hear that sound directed at me. I want your hands on me, bringing me peace and love and hope. Delivering me to you.

  Danya leaned closer and closer to her screen, trying to get closer to the person behind the words. When she realized what she was doing, she purposely pushed back.

  I’m taking the coward’s way out telling you how much I adore you this way when really I should just get up from my seat and come to you. I should walk right into your office now, shut the door behind me, close the blinds against prying eyes, and push you away from that desk you appear to be chained to. Then I would sink to my knees, resting my body between your legs, spread apart your thighs with my hands, push your panties aside, and…

  The words struck Danya like a caress. Her insides clenched at the bold and blunt words, her body all but ready to explode from the visions that slammed through her head. She let out a strangled gasp, her arm jerked across the desk, and she spilled her coffee all over the keyboard. Crying out as the liquid soaked her desktop, she just managed to push herself away before being splashed.

  Everyone in the work area turned to see what the commotion was. Cassie hurried toward Danya’s office, but Brynn appeared out of nowhere, cut her off, and entered the office first.

  Danya’s face burned with embarrassment. “Sorry, everyone, I just spilled my coffee everywhere.”

  Brynn pulled tissues from a box to mop up the spillage, then said over her shoulder to the gathering throng, “Nothing to see here, people, just another christening of a keyboard because you lot will keep drinks on your desk.”

  Suitably chastised, everyone began to drift back to their own seats.

  “Have you burnt yourself?” Bryn asked quietly once they were alone.

  “No, the coffee wasn’t all that hot. I’m fine, but my keyboard is swimming in mocha.” Danya realized that from where Brynn was standing she could easily read the pop-up message still open on her screen and hastily hit the Control-Alt-Delete keys to lock her screen.

  “Secret admirer?” Brynn asked softly as she went about the business of detaching the ruined piece of equipment from the computer.

  “Hopefully not so secret for much longer,” Danya said honestly, watching as Brynn took her keyboard aside and carefully tipped it over the large leafed plant that stood in a corner of the room.

  “Not sure if your plant will appreciate the caffeine fix, but hopefully it won’t be too wired.” Brynn met Danya’s gaze steadily. “I’ll get you a new keyboard.”

  Danya nodded then decided, secret admirer or not, she was going to do something bold for once. “Would you care to join me in a cup of coffee away from my desk?”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  Brynn’s shy smile gave her courage. “Are you free now?” She gestured to her desk. “I have a good excuse to be away from that computer for once.”

  Brynn nodded. “Just let me go take this back to my desk, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Danya’s heart lifted as she watched Brynn walk away with her ruined keyboard in hand. She gazed at her screen, the instant messages hidden by the company screensaver.

  I should walk right into your office now, shut the door behind me…

  “I hope my heart is right,” Danya said softly, “because the only one I want closing my door is the one who just walked through it.”

  *

  Brynn leaned the soaked keyboard against her chair and swiftly keyed in her password to exit the program that had been running and to lock down her own computer screen.

  “Geez, Brynn, I’ve never seen you move so fast!” Jeff, a tech seated nearby, grinned at her.

  “Coffee in the keyboard, it’s a nasty business.” She handed him the item in question. “Here, you can dry it out.”

  He whined pitifully. “Why do I have to do it?”

  Brynn shrugged while reaching into her desk for the twelfth long-stemmed rose she’d hidden there. She slipped it into a folded newspaper and casually put them both under her arm.

  “Because I have a date…for coffee.”

  Lesléa Newman is the author of fifty-seven books for adults and children, including the novel The Reluctant Daughter, the poetry collections Nobody’s Mother and Signs Of Love, the short story collection A Letter To Harvey Milk, and the children’s books Heather Has Two Mommies, A Fire Engine For Ruthie, and Mommy, Mama, And Me. Her literary awards include creative writing fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Massachusetts Artists Foundation. Nine of her books have been Lambda Literary Award finalists. She is happily (and legally!) married to Mary Newman Vazquez and lives in Massachusetts. www.lesleanewman.com. />
  A True Story (Whether You Believe It or Not)

  Lesléa Newman

  This is a true story and it happened to me, Zoey B. Jackson, on the twelfth of May, whether you believe it or not. And to tell you the truth, it’s kind of hard for me to believe it myself. It’s the sort of thing someone would make up to impress a girl they just met at a party or something. But believe me, I could never make this up. I could never even imagine such a thing happening and least of all, happening to me. But it did, sure as I’m standing here telling about it.

  Well there I was, in the Famous Deli (which isn’t famous for much except maybe its slow service) waiting for Larry, the kid behind the counter, to make me two BLTs on rye. I was just standing there minding my own business, studying the different cheeses in the deli case wondering how they make one cheese taste different from the next and why do they bother? I mean, cheese is cheese as far as I can tell. Cheddar, Muenster, Monterey Jack, do they use different kinds of cows for different kinds of cheeses or what?

  I guess my mind was a little fuzzy, sort of like a TV that’s out of focus. I had just spent two hours trying to get a cat down from a tree and I wasn’t in the greatest mood of my entire life. When I joined the fire department two years ago, cats stuck up in trees wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I wanted to be a fireman ever since I was a little girl, only my mama said I couldn’t—little girls don’t grow up to be firemen or policemen or businessmen or garbage men or any other kind of men at all.

  But I didn’t care what my mama said. I used to dream about riding in a fire truck with all the lights flashing and the sirens screaming, wearing a big red hat and racing through town with a black and white dog wagging its tail on the back. I got a piggy bank shaped like a fire truck for my birthday once and I used to sleep with the thing. Still have it too.

  So when I turned forty, two years ago, I decided to come work for the FD as a present to myself. I didn’t want fame or glory or anything, but I did have visions of myself on the front page of the Tri-Town Tribune, all dirty and sweaty, having worked all night putting out a fire and saving a couple of lives. I was in the paper, actually, but not for any heroic deeds or anything, but because of my size. I don’t know whether it’s something to be proud about or something to be ashamed about, but I’m the smallest person in the history of the whole state to ever join the fire department and only the second woman. Probably the first lesbian too, but you know they didn’t put that in the paper. I’m just about five feet tall when I’m not slouching, and I weigh about a hundred pounds soaking wet, but it’s all solid muscle. I can whip that hose around like nobody’s business when I have to.

  But that night I didn’t have to do anything fancy. I mean, whose idea was it to call the fire department to get a cat down out of a tree anyway? People watch way too many cartoons, that’s what I think. When we got there (we meaning me and Al) old Mrs. Lawrence was standing under that tree crying and carrying on like it was her husband or one of her kids up there instead of her stupid old cat Matilda. She had Matilda’s dish out there full of food and all her favorite toys—a wiffle ball, a sock full of catnip, and a tangle of yarn, and she was practically on her knees begging that animal to please, please come down. Mrs. Lawrence was promising her all sorts of things; she’d feed Matilda fresh fish every day, and she’d let her sleep in bed with her and she wouldn’t yell anymore when Matilda sharpened her claws on the living room furniture if only Matilda would just get down.

  I guess old Matilda had been up there for most of the day yowling and by this time it was ten at night and the neighbors were trying to get some sleep. Half of them were out there in their pj’s in Mrs. Lawrence’s yard trying to figure out what to do. It was probably the most exciting thing that’s happened in that part of town for about ten years.

  So me and Al made a big show of getting the ladder out and climbing up there and getting Matilda down. Ornery thing she was too—sank her claws deep into that branch, fluffed out her tail until it was fat as a coon’s, and hissed at Al fiercer than a rattlesnake. He finally grabbed her, getting his face scratched in the process, tucked her under his arm, and climbed down the ladder with everybody cheering except poor Mrs. Lawrence, who couldn’t even bring herself to look.

  Once Matilda was safe in Mrs. Lawrence’s arms, everyone went back home to bed, and me and Al got into the fire truck to come back to the station and make out a report. We stopped at the deli first though, for something to eat like we usually do. For some reason, most food tastes better at midnight than it does in the middle of the day. We usually get sandwiches, sometimes coffee and a piece of pie. Al likes strawberry, I go for apple or banana cream.

  So Al was sitting in the truck outside waiting, and I was standing by the counter inside waiting, and I was beginning to think Larry was standing behind the counter waiting too, for the bacon to be delivered maybe, or for the pig to grow old enough to be slaughtered or something, it was taking so goddamned long. But then in walked this woman and all of a sudden I didn’t care if those sandwiches didn’t get made until half past next July.

  She sure was pretty. More than pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. A real looker. Awesome, like the kids on Mrs. Lawrence’s block would say. I knew she was a stranger around here because I know every woman in this town—those who do, those who don’t, and those who might. This one would, I was sure of it.

  She was wearing jeans that fit her just right—tight enough to give a good idea of what was under them, but loose enough to keep you guessing just a little bit. She had on this red shirt that was cut straight across the shoulders so that her collarbones were peeking out a little bit. And I could just see the edge of her bra strap, which was black and lacy. She had on these little red shoes that damn near broke my heart and a mess of silver bracelets on her right arm that made a heck of a noise sliding down her wrist and all crashing into each other when she reached into her purse for her wallet. There must have been fifty of them or more. Her pocketbook was red too, and so were her nails and lipstick. Not too red though—not cheap red or flashy red. There’s red and there’s red, you know what I mean, and this red looked real good. She had silver hoops in her ears, to match the bracelets maybe, and she was a big woman, which suited me just fine. I like my women big, you know, like those old painters like Renoir used to paint. None of this Twiggy stuff for me. I like a woman you can hold on to. A woman you’re not afraid you’re going to break if you squeeze too tight. A woman with a little meat on her bones.

  Well, I took all of this in in about two seconds flat and then I looked away because I didn’t want her to think I was being impolite. I know my manners. My mama taught me it’s real rude to stare but I just couldn’t help it and before I knew it, I found myself looking at her again. Mind your manners, I said to my eyeballs, but they just wouldn’t. I watched her unzip her little blue change purse and take out four quarters for a soda, and then before I could say boo she was looking right at me with her deep brown eyes the color of a Hershey’s Special Dark which happens to be my favorite candy bar. She smiled at me slow, a real sexy smile like she knew she was looking good and I knew she was looking good and she knew that I knew that she was looking good and that made her look even better.

  “Hey, Zoey, here’s your chow.”

  Wouldn’t you know it? Just when things were starting to get interesting, Larry got my order done. I took my sandwiches, paid for them, and would have tipped my hat but I’d left it out in the truck with Al. I just kind of nodded my head at her or made some such gesture that was meant to be gallant but probably looked foolish. I walked past her, catching a whiff of perfume that almost made me dizzy, and left the deli with another vision to add to my fantasy life, which is about the only action there is around here for an old bulldyke like me. I don’t know why I stay in this town giving all the PTA ladies something to gossip about. I could tell them a thing or two myself, but that’s another story.

  Well, we weren’t back in the fire house for more than ten minutes when the phone
rang. I let Al get it since my mouth was full of sandwich and he had downed his in about three seconds flat.

  “It’s for you,” Al said and I don’t know who was more surprised, him or me. I never get calls at work. We’re not supposed to tie up the phone in case there’s a fire or another cat stuck up a tree or something, and anyway, I keep my personal life, what little there’s left of it, pretty much a secret though it’s crystal clear I’m queer as a three-dollar bill even if I don’t wear purple on Thursdays. I think it was the first phone call I got in the whole two years I’d worked there. I wiped the mayo off my chin with the back of my sleeve, took the phone, and spoke in my most official-sounding voice. “Hello?”

  “Hello. Is this Zoey?”

  I knew it was her. I couldn’t believe it, yet I wasn’t surprised. A little startled, a little shook up, even shocked maybe, but not surprised. She sounded like she looked. Good. Sassy. Sure of herself. And hot.

  “Yeah, this is me.” God, what a dumb thing to say.

  “My name is Natalie and I was just in the deli a little while ago. I don’t know if you noticed me or not”—yeah, right—“but I noticed you and I was wondering if you’d like to go out and have a cup of coffee with me sometime.”

  How about right this second, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. Get a grip, Zoey old girl, I said to myself. Don’t rush into anything now.

  “Uh yeah, sure, that’d be great,” I said, sounding about thirteen.

  “How about tomorrow then, around four?”