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The rain is pelting against the window, bullets of silver. Monday. Lisa opens the window and says Good morning softly, because she needs to wake Beth but at the same time Lisa hates making people angry. Like something that makes her jerk back violently, on an emotional level, puppet girl. She tries again, half heartedly brushing her hand on Beth’s temple, and frowns when she doesn’t even snore or stir or make any sign that she felt her cool palm. It’s not like she needs to be awake now, it’s just that unproductiveness bugs her. How does Lisa know Beth won’t sleep for the whole day, only waking an hour before she comes home?
She leaves for work before Beth wakes.
By the time it is twelve in the afternoon Beth is in her pyjamas eating cereal with the blue smoke of a cigarette making everything a slow burn. As soon as she bought the apartment she quit her job, she’s as lazy as she can afford to be, and asked Lisa if she wanted to live with her. Best friends. Lisa is the dedicated people-pleaser, can’t remember the last time someone yelled at her because she did something wrong and if they did it was a joke, something little like forgetting to shut the door one time or buying the wrong flavour of ice cream that no one minded the next second. Not a big deal.
Beth, she gets all wound up in brain sheets when she’s alone in her apartment. It happens a lot (The being alone in the apartment, the jitters) so she plays cavernous trip-hop and closes her eyes and imagines what it would be like if she was in Lisa’s position: Having no choice but to work, not having rich and lenient parents and being popular without realising it, without letting it get to your head. Wandering Star roams through Beth’s bedroom and fills in the pockets of silence.
It is still raining when Lisa comes home. She leans on the door frame watching Beth channel surf with the heater on. She forgot her umbrella, her thin white shirt is soaked, and the fronts of her black slacks are heavy with water. Lisa looks down at them forlornly.
“You should get a job,”
Beth gives her a sideways look, eyes idly regarding her. Smiles hello and I don’t need one right now. It’s no use arguing with this point, because it’s true. On the television a BBC guy talks about racism and Lisa sits lightly on the sofa, her back curved gently. Her hands hang between her thighs. She gives Beth a look. She can’t hate her; she’s never begun to try. She turns her attention back to the BBC racism guy.
Beth gazes at her wet shirt and her mind strays. She can see her electric blue bra underneath and she wonders, to herself, at what point did I fall in love with my best friend?
Lisa gets up and smiles again at Beth. As she leaves she says “I’m going to have a shower, I’m all wet,”
Beth tries not to think of the hazy distracting combination of wet, shower, bra and Lisa. She blinks, firmly, and turns off the TV. At twenty two she has never entertained the idea she might be a lesbian. She just suddenly started to see Lisa in a different way, where everything about her was alluring and made a yawning need in her and she was enough to keep Beth up at night, flushed and contemplating the concept of their lips crushed together. Lisa started having nightmares a while ago and every time they came, she would go to Beth with a pillow in her arms and ask if she can sleep in her bed. Beth would say Sure all the time, and Lisa would gratefully fall into her sheets and say Thanks, maybe sling an arm over her waist and sigh happily.
But, now, Beth hesitates. When Lisa asks is she can move to her bed she pauses and suggests watching TV for a little bit, having a glass of water but, please, please try these things before getting in here, I’m having trouble sleeping, sorry. She feels like a cheat, thinking about Lisa in all sorts of non-friend ways without her knowing. If Lisa comes into her bedroom with her eyes wet and frightened, that’s all the persuasion she needs but Beth will hold her breath and stiffen as she feels the bed depress with Lisa’s weight, feels her warm gasp of air on her neck and will invariably think of kissing her as she hears her say Thanks, I hate these stupid nightmares. When Lisa is like this she is especially grateful: She would kiss Beth’s cheek and tearfully say something unbearably sweet like You’re the best or Sorry I’m such a fuck up, I can’t help these nightmares, sorry.
When did Beth fall so damn hard. It was like a cold hit in the face, waking up one morning and seeing Lisa say Good morning with a piece of orange and wanting nothing more than to skim a hand underneath her shirt and feel her warm skin, make her gasp and not want to go to work. Beth could never say anything about it but, knowing Lisa, she’d let Beth have her way with her, and then not talk about it the next day if Beth asked her not to. Popular people pleaser. Besides, girls experiment with each other all the time, right?
Fuck, Hell, this is more than experimenting. The only reason a straight girl would make out with another girl is because men think all that girl-on-girl action is hot. Beth does not want Lisa in this way. She just needs Lisa and her big bed and her hands and her mouth, no horny guys watching, jacking off, and cheapening it.
Three months later
On a Saturday they are invited to a party, some guy who had a birthday. Everything about Beth screams NOT INTERESTED but guys come up to her anyway, asking for a dance, or a cigarette outside, or if she wants to go to that pub down the road for some drinks on them. Maybe it’s the hard-to-get thing. At parties Beth loves to dance, but now she just can’t bring herself to do it. Instead she watches Lisa as subtly as she can, seeing her laugh and grind and slow dance with a handsome gay guy who is their mutual friend, and wishes that she was him for a few minutes. Sometimes Lisa can feel Beth’s eyes on her and her stare would whip towards her, sitting with her legs crossed on a plastic chair and an air of sullenness, and she would smile at her kindly, maybe ask her to dance with a jerk of her head.
Beth’s inability to lie to people well will kill her someday.
Dancing means dancing with Lisa, dancing with Lisa means getting really close to her, getting really close to a dancing Lisa means getting really uncomfortable and nervous, because Lisa looks beautiful when she dances, more beautiful than other times. Getting really uncomfortable and nervous means Lisa being concerned and asking what’s wrong and Lisa being concerned means, ultimately, Beth spilling her guts out to her, on the floor. Because if there is one thing Beth cannot do it is lie through her teeth to her best friend and primary masturbatory material. Fuck.
So, no dancing.
Lisa is accommodating, but she knows what she doesn’t want. As Beth watches her Lisa civilly brushes off boys advances. She just wants to dance, have fun, and forget about work and forgetting her umbrella when it is raining. Classic Lisa.
As Beth sighs inwardly and aches for Lisa, the music wails I'm worn out, thinking of why. Another random jerk sidles up next to her, either drunk or feeling brave, he brushes his chapped lips against Beth’s throat and says “You’re nice looking,” and Beth can only think of how those lips don’t feel like Lisa’s lips: Static and buzzing and supple and affectionate and the only thing that Beth can think about, all the fucking time.
Lisa comes home before Beth, comfortably tipsy at four in the morning. It is strange for Lisa to be in an empty apartment and more and more she wishes Beth would hurry up and arrive, occupy the spaces that are hers. A Beth shaped space on her beanbag and bed. Her shelf in the fridge.
You hear Beth before you see her. Tall steps from long legs alert Lisa to Beth about to put the key in the lock, shoulder the door open while shielding her head because it is raining. Again.
Beth stands on the welcome mat frowning. Lisa mirrors it. Beth sighs. Lisa grins.
“I thought you were going home with that guy,” Lisa
“No, he was cute, but I wasn’t in the mood,” Beth
What Beth really wants to say is something clever and sharp that reveals her feelings all in one line. Something like Yeah, I could have gone home with him but he could have been giving me the best lay in a long time and all I would have thought about was you. This is true. It’s happened before.
There’s nothing much to say. Lisa shrugs. Beth stares intently at the beauty spot on her neck and lights up a cigarette.
“You’re as sober as a lark,” Lisa murmurs. The sober comes out all drawn out and charming. Sssoberrrrr.
In the middle of the night, maybe a few hours from it, Beth wakes up with a mind unaffected by sleep. Sharp. Her bedroom door is opened and the soft glow of the fridge light tiptoes tentatively onto her bedspread. She walks into the kitchen, bare feet slapping on tile and sees Lisa blinking slowly with a slice of barely eaten cantaloupe. Eyes half closed. She turns and sees Beth.
Lisa is definitely not a night person. “Hungry…” She whispers groggily, a little hoarse. She pushes her forehead lightly against the cool fridge door, takes another bite of cantaloupe and chews slowly. Her breath turns to fog with the inside of the fridge.
Everything about Lisa is so yielding. Beth takes a step closer to Lisa, and she just offers her a bite of her cantaloupe. Beth moves closer until her ear is next to her jaw, and she can hear Lisa’s bones sliding under smooth skin as they eat fruit.
“Beth…?”
She stops chewing and stays silent for a few seconds. As Lisa blinks Beth kisses her neck and it is as she imagined: Warm, soft and everything she dreamed about. She pulls at the material of her pajamas, kisses her shoulder and sighs against her skin. Lisa’s grogginess can’t keep her from this. She shifts underneath her mouth and a fridge magnet digs into her back. She can feel Beth’s eyelashes flutter against her ear. Just like Beth thought Lisa doesn’t protest. Instead, she gently holds Beth’s shoulders and keeps her motionless, for a moment.
“We both know you could have simply asked, and I would let you in an instant,” Lisa. Still groggy, says this to the ceiling. She folds her bangs into her hair with shaking hands, and the cantaloupe on the kitchen counter is forgotten.
Beth says, with her lips at her collarbone and a hand under her pyjama flannel, on Lisa’s hip, “Yeah, sure,” She clears her throat. Lisa squeezes her eyes shut and gasps when Beth skims her hand on the right spot. Her fingers fumble at Beth’s back.
Beth would give up all the good parties and dancing and cigarettes for Lisa like this, every night. As Beth thinks this Lisa pulls her face towards her and presses her mouth against Beth’s, and the fridge buzzes, unaware.
