Burning Bridges

This is my first Lesbian story. I would be very grateful to receive feedback.

If you are looking for explicit sex this story may not be for you, I am more concerned with the erotic and sensual in my story telling.

Thank you for reading, please do not forget to vote.

In the early grey light of dawn, my eyes travel over her as she sleeps, wispy strands of hair trace patterns on her cheek, a damp spot on the pillow, the saliva of slumber, freckled shoulders naked as the breaking day. We passed the point of turning back; hands held we crossed a bridge, felt its heat as it burnt in the darkness of the night lighting our future.

I felt I had known her for years, in a silly way that was true, though it paled beside the truth she uncovered of herself, and me. My mind wanders down the path of our discovery, replaying encounters, wondering just when it was that she entered my soul, bestowing a sense of fulfillment that I had never before had the courage to accept.

We take the same train into the city as we have done for many years, eight, possibly nine; each day we lined up on the platform with the rest of the cattle, squeezed into the generally late train, rejoiced at the rarity of finding a seat and tried to ensure the decorous parts of our anatomy are steered away from prying hands and eyes. In the true English tradition, each traveller erects a personal barricade pretended the others are elsewhere. Books and magazines the favourite refuge, newspapers having long since become unmanageable in the confines of our transport.

Travelling is an essential chore, unless of course one is lucky enough not to need the income, or by a bizarre stroke of good fortune, find rewarding employment, financial and cerebral, within driving distance of home. It takes years to be on even nodding terms with ones fellow passengers, talking generally is frowned upon, except of course on the mobile, I swear, if I hear 'I'm on the train' one more time I'll rip the damn thing from their hands. What happened to the plan for mobile free carriages? Probably went down the same track as punctuality, why do we accept it, this daily ritual of torment. Summer is worst, why cannot men change clothes occasionally? Men wear the same piss stained trousers day in day out, 'Hey guys, just because the materials dark, it doesn't mean they are not dirty, dicks drip, urine smells, and I fed up with you thrusting your urine stinking trousers in my face.' I'm sorry, I'm ranting instead of telling you the tale that you want to hear, got carried away; honestly, you should try it sometime, then you would know what I'm talking about.

We got onto speaking terms when her carrier bag broke and spilled its contents onto the wet platform. It was Manga or another of those new stores, nice bag, crappy handles, takes something major like that to break the ice. The men ignored her, smirked, and turned heads away. She probably intimidates them, tall, always impeccable with a slight 70's air about her style, flowing tweeds skirts in the winter, calve length dresses in the summer, I can never recall her wearing trousers. Ever the practical one, I whipped out my 'just in case bag' and passed it to her.

"Here, let me help, you can use this."

"No it's ok, I'll be able... are you sure? That really is very sweet of you. I'll let you have it back tomorrow."

That was four years ago, since then we have exchanged smiles, said the odd word about the bloody English weather, cursed the latest cancellation, and looked.

Our eyes would meet at the oddest moments, a hole formed by an arm thrust into a jacket pocket, across the shoulder of a suit intent on the latest Tom Clancy, brief glimpses often averted as quick as they formed. Sometimes, you know that feeling, I could feel her eyes upon me, that curious prickly sensation on the back of the neck, and I would search her out between the twisted contortion of limbs and bodies, she would hold eye contact for the briefest second before looking away, turning to stare out of the window, tempting me with her profile, the faintest blush on her cheek. I often wondered why she looked at me. Curiosity? Nothing odd about me, I'd noticed she always seemed to catch me when I was feeling vulnerable, staring bleakly into space, fed up with my life and what my future might hold; maybe that was it, she saw the emptiness that only females seem able to touch and recognise for what it is.

In all honesty, I admit I sought her out each morning. She is one of those people that you cannot fail to notice, it wasn't just her stature, it was something about her eyes, her smile, almost hypnotic in the way she drew my gaze; she challenged my perception of self, making me squirm with the discomfort of secret desires suppressed from University days. You know how it is at university, Katherine, my best friend at Manchester, expounded the theory that boys only went to university to perpetuate boyhood, girls went to try to find a man. We were continually disappointed in the shallowness of the boys we met and one night tripped over the boundary of convention sharing my bed because of an overflow of unwanted party guests, and experimented.

When I say experimented it was Katherine that undertook the exploration, I lay supine and let her hands and lips rove pretending to myself I was too drunk to care, all the while relishing her touches and kisses. For Katherine it was just that, a one-night experiment, she soon returned to her quest of sorting the men from the boys. Letting her touch me that night shocked the root of my beliefs, I can feel her hands now, when I need to, different from a man's touch, more concerned with giving than receiving. It has been my one and only diversion, for six months I hoped we might revisit the night, I'd lacked the courage to touch her, to prise open her emotional core, and yearned for the opportunity, I was mildly heartbroken when Katherine found a boy who wanted to be a man and set about training him. I'm digressing again, but you see what this woman on the train does to me, where her look takes me.

The day we became lovers, I was in a seething fury at being stood up once again. It had planned weeks ago, theatre tickets, restaurant booked; he called to say he wouldn't be able to get back in time. I don't recall the precise phrasing of the latest excuse; I had long since stopped listening. He had become proficient at trotting them out; I really don't think he felt any shame at all. In truth, our marriage had finished long ago, we rushed in, swept on a wave of passion, and when we paused for breathe, found more to dislike than love could conquer. We remained bound together by the bricks and mortar of our mortgage. We both knew that the recovering property market had made possible our escape, it wont be long now, each wanted the other to take the first step, to admit defeat.

Exactly when my plan formulated itself I couldn't say for sure, if I were being completely honest, she was my first thought after he made his excuse. I was on the platform early, nervously looking around, waiting for her arrival. She swept onto the platform wearing a leaf green silk dress that giddily danced around her legs, as fresh and bright as the June morning. I smiled in her direction, noting the stares that followed her across to where I stood.

"Beautiful day," She said, aware of the effect her dress was having, "I wanted to thank the sun for delivering this glorious day."

"Well you have certainly achieved that." I replied, she smiled and blushed in the inimitable way that I had come to savour.

Watching the approaching train, I knew it was now or never. "I hope you don't misread this, (why did I say that!) I have a spare ticket for the theatre tonight my partner had to cancel at the last minute, (why did I say partner? she must have seen my wedding ring, know I'm married) would you like to join me?"

She turned her face to me, no hiding the blushes now, and said, "That would be wonderful. What are we seeing?"

"Titus Andronicus, at the National," I could see her slight frown, "maybe you should have asked what the play was first."

That was all it took and we dissolved into laughter.

She took my hand, "I'm Jenny, and you are?"

"Claire. Look the trains here, you know how it is, let's meet on the Lyttelton balcony at about seven."

It was one of those journeys where we barely caught a glimpse of one another, Jenny (I feel strange using her name) always got out at Waterloo while I travelled on the Charing Cross, she waved to me from the platform as we parted.

My day was dominated by the touch of her hand, such a simple gesture, it conveyed either more, or less, than I imagined. I only know I reacted in a way I had not expected, revisiting Katherine's touch, mind churning between the desire for intimacy and the convention of behaviour. I wondered if Jenny had a partner, speculating over what possible sex, acutely aware that I wanted her to be unconventional but refused to admit the word lesbian to my vocabulary.

At six, I was still playing catch up with office work, decided enough was enough, and took myself off to the loo to freshen my appearance. I was aware that I wanted to make a good impression, to please her. What would she be like? How would we react to each other? Now, I couldn't stop thinking about her eyes, our exchanged glances, blushes, unsure how to read the little information I had gleaned across the years. Unsure of what I was expecting, or even hoping from our meeting.

She was on the balcony when I arrived shortly before seven, even with the numbers filling the theatre she stood out, the brilliant green of her dress bright amongst the generally drab garb of the theatre crowd. She waved at me as I moved across the foyer to the staircase, mouthing something drowned in the noise of the 'Foyer Jazz' filling the space. I climbed to meet her, mouth dry, clammy hands sticking on the stainless steel handrail. As I turned at the top of the stairs to face her, I saw she guarded a table, securing a place where we could sit and begin the journey of discovery. As I reached her, she leaned to me and kissed my cheek like an old friend, I caught a trace of her perfume, Guerlian, Shalimar perhaps, its heady fragrance complementing the lightness of her dress. I sat down, knees trembling like a child from the warmth of her kiss, and began to hope she would lead me where I wanted to go.

"Hi Claire, you found me! Look at all these people. I got you a drink, G&T is that ok."

"It's perfect, just what I need (it might calm me down). Could hardly miss you in that dress, you shine like a beacon."

"I know, it's a bit wild at my age. When I raised the blinds and saw the sun this morning I just knew it was the day for this dress. Didn't realise I would be going on a date in it. Thank you so much for inviting me."

(A date? Is that how she regards this, a date, with me? ) "Well cheers." I said, taking my glass.

We toasted each other. I took a long slurp of my drink feeling the need to push alcohol into my system, forgetting for the moment that I hadn't eaten all day.

"Wow, you look like you needed that, been one of those days?" she asked.

"Yes, my secretary threw a 'sicky', just what I needed at the end of the week. I work in PR, the company schedules Friday as 'office work', no clients, and no meetings, just push the paper and schedule the weeks ahead. It is generally a good system but it does give the lazy ones a heads up as to which day to miss. I had better go easy on the drink, I haven't eaten all day."

"I could go and get us something to eat from the buffet, what time does the play start?"

"Seven thirty, it's a long play. I don't really think we have time, bound to be a queue, nearly always is. In any case, I didn't have time to tell you, we have a table booked for the Olivier restaurant after the play. My husband's treat."

I looked at her face for any hint of a reaction but saw none and immediately wondered what I had expected.

"You are married then, I saw the ring and wondered if you just, you know, sort of wear it, some women do."

"Barely. It won't last much longer." (Why do I want tell her this? To clear the ground for her?) "Tonight's stunt might be the final straw."

"Ah."

(And, just what sort of an 'Ah' was that, Ah, I'm glad, or Ah, here's trouble?)

"Once the passion cooled, we discovered we didn't like each other. Simple really." I told her.

"But you still live with him."

"Yes, mostly the house thing, we have pretty much separate lives, separate bedrooms, (you're doing it again!) I demand we perform the ritual of social intercourse from time to time, hence tonight, theatre and dinner."

"Emm. Never fancied it myself never found one that had grown up enough. Hey ho, I sometimes wonder what I'm missing."

"Not a lot, unless of course you like washing, ironing and cooking."

She laughed, eyes twinkling, and said, "Oh, I imagined it was more involved than that."

"You mean S E X? Well, that can be fun, but when the fun's gone, you have to make your own amusement."

"Yes, I do know what you mean."

Her eyes held mine as she said this, making sure the message arrived. We stayed looking at each other, looking for something beyond the tease, she brought her glass to her mouth, kissed the rim with her lips, smiling at me all the while with her eyes, and sipped.

"Tell me about Titus. Are you a Shakespeare nut?" she asked.

"I like Shakespeare and the National productions are pretty good, but the game was to see if I could get the bugger to sit in one place for three hours, I think he saw my plan for what it was."

"Claire, why are you trying? It sound's like the game's finished."

"I suppose you never want to admit defeat to yourself, you keep pretending... I don't know, maybe it is just a stasis until something else comes along."

I could hear the announcement that we should take our seats, people milling toward the entrances, and waited for her reply.

"Emm, stasis is quite wrong for you, for each of us, unless served with a heavy helping of contentment. Come on, drink up. Do you really want to see this play? Let's go and eat, do you more good than watching Titus Andronicus for three hours wondering why I'm here with you."

I felt myself blush, an event comparatively unknown since childhood, and drained my drink pleased she was taking the initiative, reading my mind. She was right, I had no desire to see the play and every desire to spend time with her.

"What about the tickets?"

"See that young couple down at the returns desk, can you see, the girl with the red cardigan, let's give them the tickets, make them happy. Let's not eat in the restaurant here, it's too prissy."

"Well, the restaurant wouldn't have room for us now, the booking was for after the theatre. They can bill his card for a no-show, serve him right."

We walked downstairs and presented the tickets to the young couple, catching them just leaving the theatre, faces disappointed.

"That was lovely." Jenny said, "Her face was a picture, I love making people smile."

#

We walked along the riverbank, the cool evening air cleansing the sticky atmosphere of the theatre. She took my arm like an old girl friend comforting me with her attention and again raising the hairs on my neck.

"I know an Italian restaurant, Arch Duke, it's half way to the station, not so far to stagger. What do you say?" Jenny asked.

"Sound's good, I really am hungry the more I think about it."

The meal seemed to pass in moments. We talked non-stop about our jobs and families, swapped birth signs, and explored our hopes and fears, laying a platform of understanding for future discovery. I discovered she was unattached and tingled with anticipation of where this might lead, but lacked the courage to express desires so new that the context embarrassed. She asked me about my husband.

"It was fine at first, the passion of young love. He was, still is on occasion, a rugby player, full of life, sociable, always moving with a crowd of people; that is how we met at a rugby do, and for a while life was great, out and about, lots of parties and fun. I wanted more out of life than it being just one big party. It was almost as if he were afraid of being alone with me, we always had to be doing things with the crowd when all I wanted to do was to be alone with him, enjoy a quiet meal and listen to music or talk. He just couldn't accept that that could be fun, enjoyable. Said I was growing old before my time and trying to drag him with me. So, he would go off with his mates and I would stay home with my music and books. We just grew apart from one another. Finally, I had enough of him coming home smelling of drink and snoring all night and forced him to move to the second bedroom. I suppose we have lived separate parallel lives these last five years.

It all happened around the time the housing market collapsed, we paid a lot of money for the house and it has been impossible to sell it and get back our money until this last year. During that time, I suppose we just got used to sharing the house, not that he is home much these days, I'm pretty sure he's sleeping with someone, he can't be away on business all the time."

"Claire, I'm sorry. It must have been awful."

"In a funny kind of way I was relieved that it had happened quickly, before we had children. That would have been worst; being tied to someone that you don't love because of children. No, it worked out for the best, my only worry that I will grow old alone."

"You won't grow old alone. You're beautiful, you must be inundated with men."

"That's sweet of you to say so, I don't feel beautiful, I've put on weight, my breasts sag and anyway I'm off men until they learn the difference between making love and screwing. Men all seem to think they only have to buy a girl a drink and she will drop her panties. I am sorry; I don't know why I'm talking like this. Too many men in the office who think I'm easy prey, stories do the rounds, they think just because I'm not getting any at home, the field is open for them to step in and fill the breach, my breach.

What about you, tell me about your love life."

"One of the world's shortest stories. I seem to scare them away. Men don't like girls as tall as them and I don't respond to male flattery, particularly about my height, never been able to distinguish between a genuine desire to say something nice and an attempt to ingratiate. I've had boyfriends, slept with a few but could never get terribly enthusiastic about the whole penis thing. I mean look at it, it's not exactly the thing you want to be most proud of in a man, most men I've known seem slavishly devoted to it's worship and wellbeing. I always had the impression I was running a close second to Mr. Willy, at best. A few years ago I decided enough was enough and would content myself with the things I enjoy, reading, films, I am passionate about films, and music. I suppose I keep hoping that someone will come along who will want me for what I am, who I am, and who will treat me as the object of desire rather than me having to play second fiddle to ego's, willies or whatever; I need someone to stir the passion in me, it's exists, it is just that no one has had the courage to reach for it."

"Well this is a fine state of affairs, two strikingly beautiful women living a life of celibacy." I said.

"Ah, now that depends upon your precise definition of celibacy, I don't spend all of my time reading or watching films, a girl has to have her personal pleasure, take what is at hand, so as to speak."

I laughed with her; I'm sure I was blushing at just the very image of her private intimacy, at the very least, her words had me squirming again, she had a directness that struck at the very spot she aimed for; despite realising that fact, it barely prepared me for the next phase of our conversation.