I walk down Sunset faking poise I don’t feel. I’m embarassed at my reaction and the intensity of my emotions. The shame of ten years ago bleeds through into this moment and when I get to the corner I stop. I can walk to my car and leave, or I can wait at the cafe. I remember the promise she made me. That look could have meant a number of things. She looked pained as she stared at my mother’s portrait. Maybe it was just painful memories. I hover there on the edge of a decision for a long minute. I should at least try. I choose the cafe. Shane is two minutes early. She stands in the doorway and looks at me with an expression much like the one she had for my mom’s portrait. “You came,” she says. I realize that she was afraid I wouldn’t. “Yeah. Take me somewhere.” “Okay.” We get in her red vintage Mustang and go. It isn’t until the wind is singing in my hair that I realize I’m not sure who bought the painting of my mother. Please, god, don’t let it be her. “So I see you purchased one of my paintings.” “I’d like to put it in the salon, if that’s cool with you.” “Are you serious?” “Yeah. You’re so beautiful, Clea. Tell me, why did you call it Reflection?” I close my eyes with gratitude. “That’s a funny story, actually. Maybe I’ll tell you one day.” . She takes me to her loft, which is done in shades of blue and red and purple. It is rock and roll but still warm and cozy, sleek but kitschy, bits of chrome and elegance, warm light shining through a parchment wall. “Wow,” I say, looking around. “Did you decorate it yourself?” “Mostly.” She tosses her keys on the counter. “I had a little help from some very talented homos.” “It’s amazing. I’ve never seen ecclectic done in a way that reflects a personality so well.” “Thanks. Want a drink?” “Sure.” My cell phone rings. It’s the gallery. “Hello?” “Clea, sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to give you some news. The Hewalt gallery in San Fran would like to do a show of your work, and I just found out that someone from Art Monthly is going to give you a rave.” “Oh my god. Steve, that’s great!” I watch Shane at the other end of the loft, mixing drinks for us. “You did good, kid.” “Hey, question for you: who bought the portrait of my mother?” I whisper it. “Um… Patricia Pierce.” “Who?” “She’s a collector based in San Diego. Anyway, just wanted to give you the good news before you went out to party.” Shane returns with two clear fizzy drinks. She offers one and I take it. “Thanks, Steve. Have a good night.” “You too, doll.” I turn my phone off and tuck it into my purse. “Thanks,” I say, sipping my drink. Vodka tonic. “You’re welcome.” She sits on the violet sofa opposite me, crosses her legs and reaches down to slowly undo the straps on her heels. She looks up at me through her eyelashes and the messy hair falling in her face. She has no clue what that does to me. I force myself to look at the decor instead. “I just love this place.” “Me too.” “How long have you had it?” “About three years.” “They’re doing a lot with this area.” “Yeah. It’s a little too gentrified for my tastes but I loved the loft.” She crosses her legs and undoes the other shoe. I try not to whimper. “Clee, are you afraid of me?” she asks softly. Honey depth in her voice. Her eyes don’t move from mine. “Yes.” “Why?” “Because I think I’m halfway in love with you.” I’d rather spit it out now and have her reject me than get any further. She kicks off her other shoe and leans back on the sofa. Her feet are manicured, toenails painted sleek black. For a second her hair obscures her face, and then I see that she is smiling. A lot. Actually, grinning like an idiot might be a better term. “That doesn’t have to be scary.” she says. “No, doesn’t have to.” I am more frightened than ever. “It is, though. I’m scared, too.” Is she saying that… “I wanna tell you what I was thinking when you found me looking at your mom’s portrait.” “Shane-” “Listen to me.” “I… okay. Fine.” She gets up, and sits next to me. Looks up at me earnestly through her eyelashes and I feel so powerless and terrified. “Remember when we were in the park and I told you I was seeing someone else? You asked me if I was in love with her. And I said yes?” “Yes.” I struggle to keep my voice neutral. She takes my hands in hers and holds them. Her skin is warm and soft. “I thought I was, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t in love with anyone. I thought that all the stupid ***** would complete me. Validate my miserable existence. But it wasn’t real. I cared for her, but it wasn’t…” I nod. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because. I want you to know what I was thinking when you saw me looking at the painting.” “Which was?” “How everything I thought I felt for her, I feel for you. There’s no… politically correct way to say that. I’m damned if I do or I don’t. I’m not trying to insult your mother.” I nod, and swallow. My chest feels like it’s tethered to a million helium balloons, and it wants to rise. “Are you saying you’re in love with me?” I ask it, I can’t help it. Can’t help my incredulity. “Yeah. I guess I am.” “Why?” I regret it the instant it’s out of my mouth. “Because. Because you’ve grown up in to this amazing, beautiful woman. Because you cared about me, way back then, even though you knew a lot of the ***** about my life.” “You’re serious.” “I’m ***** serious, Clea. Very.” Her eyes are glittering, she’s so very earnest. In this light she is beautiful, this pale wide-eyed creature with endless lips and legs and her voice is so deep and rich like honey or hot fudge… And I see on her face something that surprises me: vulnerability. She looks down and her hair falls in dark disarray around her face, and I realize that I have power. “Somebody bought your painting.” I don’t know why I say it now. Then the soft spot seems to disappear, she tosses her head back and smiles. “It’s your painting. I didn’t do squat. You’re the artist.” “You’re the muse.” She smiles. “My brain’s a little… dizzy right now,” I say, “but I have to ask you, why are you not kissing me?” She grins, and looks, of all the things in the world, a bit sheepish. So she kisses me. Her lips are the stuff of my wet dreams, of waking in throes of wanting and frustration. How strange to feel them moving over my own, real as day, to feel her hand moving up my arm, to be able to touch her. It’s too heady for existence. She pulls away, and I breathe out heavily. “Shane…” “What?” “Nothing. ***** kiss me.” I meet her eyes briefly and see darkly serious passion there, and this time our kiss is far less chaste. I dig my fingers into her messy hair and pull her to me roughly. We kiss until we are out of breath. “Oh, my god, Clea…” “Hmm,” I sigh, unable to resist her lips again. “Hey, I wanna show you something. Come here.” She stands up and lifts me to my feet. She pulls me down the hall, past the parchment divider. She leads me up the half-flight of steps revealing an elevated bedroom, a modern bed neatly made with a cream-colored bedpread, and to the right there is a door. “Check this out.” She bumps the door with her hip and the door opens. I smell chlorine. It is an enclosed round space, with a hot tub in the center. The walls are of some kind of translucent plastic, letting a little light in from outside. Then she flicks a switch, and the tub lights up from within. I look up at the light reflecting on the walls. I feel like I’m in some sort of futuristic nest or cocoon. The effect is incredibly cool. “This is ***** cool as *****.” I grin. “Isn’t it?” “Is this where you bring all the girls,” I joke. “No, it was just installed three months ago.” “Ah.” So stupid. Why did I ask that? I want so much to trust her. I’m still so full of niggling doubts. What if this is the routine she gives everybody? Not that I think she has it in her, but… I’m thinking too much. I move my hands to the buttons on my dress. She stands and watches as I begin to undo them. She steps closer, her feet bare on the cement floor. She takes my hands, and pulls them away, to the side. I let them fall and just stand there as she undresses me, mouth open as she parts the front of the dress and reaches for my nipple, soothing the skin there and then leaning in to suckle me. Her lush lips are like fire on my body. When I cry out it echoes round and round the enclosed space. I arch my back into her ministering hands and mouth, and feel her pushing the dress down from my hips. She leaves me in my gold shoes, and I pull her by the front of her skirt, drag her into my arms. Somewhat surprised by my forcefulness, she seems a bit unsure of what to do with her lanky arms. Then she wraps them around me. I can’t get over how thin and frail her body seems, the warm skin under my fingers covering tiny bones, how dear she feels to me. Her entire body is pressed to mine and the intimacy of it is staggering. At first the kisses are gentle and between them, when she pulls away I see tentative fear in her eyes. I actually have power over her, I realize. I actually have her heart in my hand, and the thought blows my mind. Soon I slide her clothes from her body and we are both together, legs and arms and lips pressed tight, constantly moving, constantly rising. She bends over and I feel her tug the buckle of one shoe, then the other. Something is so sweetly erotic in the way she does divests me of my shoes. Then she stands. I step out of my heels and we are the exact same height. “Let’s go in the water.” She smiles as she says it, wiping a stray wisp of hair from between her eyes. She takes my hand and leads me toward the water. Stepping into it feels like I’m dissolving into my natural place. The inner core of me is already wet for her, the lapping of the bubbles seems like an extension of that. The heat of it is shocking for a second. I drift backward in the water, looking up at the aquatic reflections on the podlike enclosure, then at the glint of the same light in her eyes. I drift until I hit the edge of the tub and wind up sitting there. I pull one leg up, holding the knee to my chest. I feel ***** as I bite my lip and watch her remove her top. Beautiful thin body, tiny pert *****. She pushes the skirt down over her hips. No panties. I watch her step down into the tub, too slowly for my taste. “Shane. Here. Now.” Her eyes narrow and when she smiles I see tiny laugh lines at the corners. I think for the millionth time in the space of a month that she is exquisitely, wildly beautiful. She wades over to me slowly. She stands in front of me and I lick my lips. I pull her close, pressing my lips to her waist, her flat stomach. I taste her. She moans and tilts her head back, and the sheer femininity of the stance, startling on her, stokes a hot restless desperation inside me. “Sit on my lap,” I whisper. “Facing me.” She does, parts her legs and lowers herself onto me, and in the frothing water, she barely weighs a thing. Her legs go around my back and squeeze me tightly. “Clea… You’re so ***** gorgeous.” She leans back but I put my arms around her to keep her from falling. The way she kisses me is shocking in its sweetness. She touches my face with one hand and slowly, leisurely explores my mouth. I stroke her back and shoulders and nipples, all the while being careful not to let her fall. She looks over her shoulder at the bubbling water. She is afraid of falling. I can tell she wants to take control and ***** me roughly, just as I want to take her, but we stay like that for what seems like hours, hovering breath to breath, touching with slow, reverent reciprocity. The completeness with which we have disarmed each other is novel and staggering, and we know without speaking a word that we linger in it, each awed by its terrifying power. Her heart in my hand, I think with awe, and make love to her. Sensation and time and emotion seem to become as liquid as the water around us as we kiss and whimper and shudder. I reach down over the curve of her thigh, treasuring the thin fragility of her legs that are wrapped around me. I reach to the juncture of her thighs and coddle, tease, and penetrate her sweet *****, leaning back enough so I can see every sensation displayed on her face. I watch her lips part as her breath hitches, and her teeth are very white and straight, and I want to kiss her so violently she bleeds. “Clea… I’m dizzy. I’m so… Don’t think I can take it any more.” “Yes you can. I have you.” I enter her slowly with two fingers, then reach to rub over her ***** with my thumb. Her heart in my hand, and mine cradled in hers. She cries out loudly, a sweet deep guttural sound that quickens my blood. “Shane… honey.” I kiss her lips and she kisses dizzily back. “You are so damn beautiful that I could come just from looking at you. I want to watch you when you come. I won’t let you fall.” Her face, neck and shoulders flush a bright pink. Sweat clings to her face and I wish I had a free hand so I could wipe it off. She is shaking and tensing and quivering around me, her legs wriggling to hold on to me. She is pressing her sweet little hips into my fingers and making the most exquisite sounds I’ve ever heard. “Do you feel good?” I ask, unsure where I learned to be so masterful. “Yeah.” Her eyebrows knit together. “Oooh! Fuckyeah!” “Will you come for me?” “Ohgod. Yes! Clea, baby, just a little more, please…” She leans back, her head falling back as she quivers faster, hair falling into the water to swirl over my arm which holds her steady. To see those eyes, closed with ecstasy, those lips, parted with lust for me, is so intense. She starts to make a high keening noise, as high as her deep voice can be, anyway, and I feel her explode and pulsate in concentric waves around me. The visual of her face as she winces and shudders, almost as if it hurts, giving me something better than anything I could ever ask, is something I want to paint, to capture, to remember, to own, as long as I live. And to my shock, even better than that is the way she clings to me after, clings and holds me close and shudders like a child. “Love you,” I whisper hotly into her neck, into her ear, into the hollow of her collarbone. Some remaining adolescent part of me marvels at the way I’ve reduced the mighty sapphic goddess to this, to clinging, trembling need. An even greater part, though, doesn’t care as much about that as soothing her soul, holding her close. She breathes, winded, chilling the wet curve of my ear. “Ohgod. Oh honey. Clea… *****.” I hold her until the shudders stop, until her weak legs stop trembling, soothe back her wet hair, hold her close. She meets my eyes and gives me a smile that toggles the power all over to her, just like that, then she reaches down to touch me. Her touch is gentle, teasing, but I am already so close that it nearly sends me over the edge. I arch my back up and start heaving enough to churn the water in the tub. “Ohgod. Soclose. Don’tstop!” I open my eyes, curious to see if her reaction to my imminent ***** is as potent as mine was. She smiles, and her eyes light up, and her fingers curl and flicker inside of me but beautiful as she is I can’t keep my eyes open to save my life, because my ***** is tearing through me, her hand rubbing my *****, and the water is swirling over every inch of me, and the power has come full circle, giving us each a trust that is enormous. I come and shriek and shake and hold her so close she probably can’t breathe. All the tension comes pouring out of me then, and I burst into tears. All the stress of the show, all the emotional conflict of ten years ago, all of L.A. in flames, and my fear and her love and all of it comes out. And she holds me. And I sob like a damn baby. I can’t stop. “Hey,” she whispers, her voice so husky. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing. S’good. I’m good.” We stay like that, barely moving, chest to chest, arms wrapped around each other. The intimacy of it is acute. . We fall to her bed and lie side by side, lips and faces and bodies hovering close. “Holy *****,” she whispers, awed. “I really do love you.” She blinks rapidly, and I realize that her eyes are full of tears, and for the first time, I completely, utterly, trust her intentions. The exhaustion of the show and the emotions and the lovemaking catches up with me, because I fall so quickly to sleep.