Impact 15: of The Bitch

"I know..."

Not an once of doubt in her voice.

I managed to get more work done than I expected, but was still trying to get my mind off Claire at four o'clock when Keith told Ben and me to leave early, that we'd start fresh Monday. He orders us not to even think about Gini coefficients over the weekend. I'm pretty sure he's talking to me. Ben works hard and is happy to stay late and do what it takes, but I've never gotten the sense that he takes work home with him.

I snuck the Piketty book into my bag. It's enormous so Keith totally saw.

"Just the introduction," he told me. "All you need is some context, don't go overboard."

Something I'd been worrying over was where we would put all Claire's clothes while she stayed with me. My little closets had filled up as soon as I moved in and, shame on me, I kept buying clothes and shoes. They were over full now. The one in the bedroom had so much hanging off both sides of its door that I could no longer close or open it all the way. It stands half open, a monument to my shopping compulsions.

As I was walking up the block I saw one of the men who works in the building next to mine loading a truck. It's Friday evening and things are already quiet. He's working alone to load garment racks into a box truck. It's filled with dozens of empty racks. There are three more to be loaded and I can see he's going to have a problem getting them all to fit.

"How much?"

He looks at me, surprised at first, but then I see him recognize me. I can tell I've caught him off guard. We've never really spoken, but we greet each other sometimes. He's alwas polite, gentlemanly.

"For what?" he asked, looking in genuine confusion at my flowers. I was holding the glass globe vase on my hip almost like a baby, and laughed at the idea that he thinks I might be selling flowers.

"Not these," I tell him. "How much for one of your racks."

He smiled, understanding now, and looked at the three remaining racks, appraising them. They are banged up industrial racks, probably older than I am.

"Eighty"

"That's too much. You can't even fit them all in your truck."

"Oh I can make them fit," he laughs.

"I'll give you forty if you bring it up the stairs to my apartment."

"What floor?"

"Fifth."

"Make it sixty."

"Deal," I tell him. "What's your name?"

"Leslie. And you?"

"Sarah. Nice to meet you Leslie."

"You too Sarah. Let's be quick - just a sec."

He takes a moment to examine the three racks, and after choosing one, he quickly loads the other two and locks the truck.

"This one is good..." he tells me. I have no idea by what measure, but smile and open the door for him. He easily carries the heavy looking rack through the entrance and passes me to start up the stairs. He holds it up high ahead of him as he climbs. He's moving faster than I do when I'm carrying nothing. It's like the rack is made of straw.

Most of the men I'd seen loading the trucks on my block were Eastern European or Asian, older, and slovenly. Smoking and slouched, they'd shove the racks like they resented them. Leslie moved like a man trying to get somewhere, and he was always smiling, always greeted me - but never in a way I found lecherous.

He isn't the only black guy working on the block but he is one of only three or four. But it's his persona that made him stand out from all the others. Bald and the physique of a serious bodybuilder - he cuts an amazing profile. His giant arms looked carved. His sweat-dark t-shirt bulged with the enormous muscles of his chest, but his waist was narrow - not a dad-body.

Additionally, Leslie always wore a small rolled towel around his neck. It was the particular faded green, thin and scratchy looking Terry cloth I associated with gyms. I've always pictured him working out somewhere in the outer boroughs; free weights in a storefront.

"Do you compete, Leslie?"

"Compete?"

"Bodybuilding."

"No... misspent youth," he said as I watched him round the top of the first flight of steps, careful not to bang the walls. He must have seen I was confused.

"These are prison muscles," he said with a sad smile. "I got fit inside."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"No need to be sorry. I went in an addict and a sinner, I came out clean and right with my Lord."

I'm not sure how to answer that, but as it is I have a hard time keeping up with Leslie, much less making small talk, I don't try.

"You good?" he asks, setting the rack at the top of the stairs. He looks like he's ready to bolt back down the stairs.

"You should compete," I tell him, handing him three twenties. "I bet you'd win."

That makes him laugh. He's already charging back down to his truck.

The casters on the cart are good and it's a nice size, still it took me a few minutes to get it in the door and, after pushing some things around, placed where I wanted it in the bedroom.

I liked how it looked in my room - weirdly out of place. Burnished and worn black iron pipe mounted to wood that looks like it might have been salvaged from an ancient shipwreck and industrial looking casters. I hope Claire will like it.

I spend twenty minutes more shifting things around. Everything comes off the closet door and I move a few more things onto the rack, until I can easily close the door. Then I turned my attention to the dresser. I cleared the top two drawers for Claire by hanging sweaters and some slacks on the rack. There would be room for as many pairs of shoes as she wants to bring on the bottom of the rack, but I'd need to pick up some more hangers for her.

'I have time.'

I take a moment to admire my handiwork, excited for her to see. I know the rack will please her, that it will make her feel welcome.

I should get cleaned up and changed, but I take a minute to call my mother while I undress.

"Hi mom."

"Sarah Beth, how are you?"

"I'm OK, I guess..." I sigh, shrugging off my blouse. "You sound tired."

"It's been a long week. I've been crying a lot."

"Me too," I admitted, examining and sniffing my blouse and bra - they both smell of sour sweat.

"Oh Sarah, I'm so sorry..."

"I'm just a little raw."

"Why'd you cry?"

"Everyone in the newsroom signed a card..." I tell her, realizing I'd left the card at work, kicking myself. "There were flowers too, really beautiful."

"That's wonderful... but why are you back at work so soon? I thought Keith told me he wasn't in a rush to have you back. Is everything ok?"

"Yeah no, everything's fine," I tell her. There's salad dressing on my slacks so I throw them in the hamper along with my blouse and bra and plop down on the end of the bed. "I just wanted to be back. I would have gone crazy otherwise."

"I get that. Jesus Mary I am ready to be done with all this paperwork and get back to work so I can do paperwork!"

We both laugh. I ask about Marcia, she tells me they are going to meet for dinner on Saturday, which is nice to hear, but surprising.

"Have you ever done that? I mean, things outside of work?"

"No not really, but with her leaving, and your father... she suggested it."

"Are you still worried about the department shutting down?" I ask, looking down at my toes. My nails are chipped. I wonder if Claire would like to get pedicures on Sunday.

"I asked her. She says not to worry about that..." Then after a pause she tells me, "It was wonderful to meet Keith... and all your friends. I was so touched that so many of them came all that way for you..."

"No one was more surprised than me," I admitted. My stomach felt tight. I had an urge to say something, to change the subject, to head off what I knew was coming - but I don't.

"Will you see Claire this weekend?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes. I'm meeting her and some of her work friends for sushi."

"Sushi? Are you eating fish?"

"No, but Claire says there are lots of vegetarian options for us."

"She's a vegetarian too?"

"Um... kinda? I mean since we met she's stopped eating meat, but I don't know..."

"Oh. Well, that's nice. That's a big change to make."

There was another pause. I could feel her working up to saying something. I took a deep breath.

"Has Claire always... dated younger women?"

"No," I say, thinking of Bernard, who Claire had told me was fifty. "Her last boyfriend was actually quite a bit older... I'm actually the first woman she's ever been with."

"Oh."

That stopped her cold. In just that little hiccup of a sound I could tell I'd shocked her.

"Yeah..." I started, feeling as if I was suddenly on firmer ground, as if I had the advantage or something. I hated myself for feeling that way. "We didn't really realize the age difference? I mean I thought she was a little older, but..."

"She looks so young," Mom observed. "I didn't think-"

"She does," I agreed, cutting her off. "And she knew I was younger, but I think, maybe because of The Times, she didn't realize how much younger... she thought I was older."

There's another pause while my mother chews on this. I'm expecting her to ask something more about the age difference.

"Have you been with women before?"

Now it was my turn on my back foot.

"Um, no, not really?" I admitted, not knowing how I could even begin to explain myself to her. The line was quiet, she was the one waiting me out now.

"There were a couple things that happened at school," I began, "but not like... I was true to Danny, and... I just never thought it meant anything," I told her. "Or maybe I didn't want to believe they meant anything."

"Do you think it's because of me?" she blurted. "Was it something I did... or didn't do?"

"Something you did? I'm not sure- what do you mean, Mom?"

"I mean, because you don't like men... because... Claire could practically be your mother."

"Ma..." I was pinching the bridge of my nose viciously tight. I forced myself to relax. I remembered what Kip said about her taking this all with grace, and took a deep breath.

"I keep thinking of the story you told about Katherine and me?" I start. "I think... in one way or another, I've always felt this way? ...But I do like men, Mom... I love men, lots of them. Just..."

I pictured Danny, remembered how hard I tried, how long I struggled - against his anger and contempt and my own. I had hated myself when I was with him, everything about myself. I thought of William. I had tried to convince myself I was falling in love with him.

"Just not in love-" I choked on the word, wishing I was clearer, more confident. "I guess I never have..."

And then I pictured Claire, how she had looked at the funeral home, how she had reached for me and held me; the way she swaddles me tight.

"I'm very much in love with Claire, Mom. I really don't think it has to do with her age, but I'm sure it has nothing to do with anything you did or didn't do."

"Is she in love with you?"

"Yes." I am struck by my lack of hesitation, my conviction.

There was another pause. Maybe like me she was trying to imagine what that means. Or maybe she was struggling with darker thoughts of sin or hell. I braced myself, wondering if the hysterics would start. But she just sighed.

"Well... I suppose I can stop worrying about you getting pregnant-"

"Mom!"

"I'm sorry!" she laughed. I could hear her sniffling. I was crying too.

"Did you know Nana let some guy lick her shoe?", I blurted, changing the subject.

"Oh my God, she told you that story?!" she asked, sounding a little exasperated with her mother.

"No! She told Kip andKeith that story!"

"NO!!!"

I was laying back on my bed staring up at the ceiling after we hung up, my head spinning a bit. I looked down at myself. My nipples were swollen and dark pink. I was squeezing my legs together. It had somehow been arousing to tell my mother about being in love with Claire, about her being in love with me, to feel my mother absorb that truth about me.

It felt wrong... no matter how obliquely my mother might have been involved. Still, I began to search my mind for something else as I raised my ass off the mattress and pushed my panties down. I was already open and wet. Kicking my panties to the floor I thought of Claire's fantasy and began fingering myself.

I pictured accompanying Claire to a party in Paris. I thought of the beautiful dresses and heels I had watched her pack for her trip. She and I had never gone out in formal evening wear. It was exciting to imagine. I pictured us, both with our shoulders and necks bare, hair up. Claire in her black wrapping gown and me in her wonderfully long charcoal gray silk dress - the night she had packed it I'd wondered if I could fit into it, had pictured how I would look in it braless. In my fantasy Claire and I are naked under our dresses.

"It will look like we are wearing thongs," I imagined Claire telling me, choosing a pair of her earrings for me to wear. The idea of being dressed in her clothes, wearing her shoes and jewelry, is simultaneously like little girls playing dress up and sexy beyond measure.

'Sugar and spice,' I thought, fingering myself faster, my heat already rising.

I couldn't picture The Bitch, but I imagined the confusion and uncertainty I would feel if a woman was flirting with Claire and ignoring me, pretending as if I'm not there. Because Claire had said the idea made her angry, I was picturing her posture, ramrod straight, the muscles of her neck tight. That image, of Claire sitting that way, tense, ready to spring, made my stomach hot. I was rubbing my clit fast with two fingers, my ass squirming against my bed.

In my fantasy Claire was between me and The Bitch on a sofa that faced a wall of glass looking out over Paris. I was pretty sure Paris doesn't have any modern skyscrapers, but I liked the image of the glass, a black mirror - at once shining with The City of Lights and reflecting back the unfolding drama.

As I imagined it, Claire and The Bitch were facing each other, going in and out of English and French with an ease that made following what they were saying harder than if they were to just pick one language. Still I'd have been able to tell they were talking about sex.

The other woman wasn't being explicit but she was talking about our love life, asking pointed questions. Claire was annoyed but engaged. They were sparing. Equals in a language game I wasn't matched for. I was looking on, holding Claire's hand in both of mine. She was turned away, her attention on the battle of wits.

"Est-elle bonne?" The Bitch asked, and Claire's hand tightened around mine. I imagined how I would blush when they both turned to look at me.

"Lick my cunt, Sarah."

I felt a plume of heat at the idea of the command; Claire's crisp English. And while Claire had told me she was mad in her fantasy, in my imagination I saw through her anger to the wildness, to the frantic thing behind her eyes when she swears and calls names, when she spanked me. I imagined how exciting it would be for her to watch me slide off the sofa and onto my knees without protest. I imagined keeping my face mild, reaching for the clasp at her waist and opening her wrap, finding the clasp on the other side and spreading the dress wide, showing The Bitch her nakedness.

I imagined Claire spreading her knees to make room for me and showing her sex, open and wet.

"Make me cum fast, Sarah."

Naked on my back, I pushed my tongue out and moaned, rembering how tightly Claire had held my hair that morning, how I'd sucked and licked her, smearing her with my lips, and fucked her hard with my fingers. I imagined doing that in front of The Bitch, heedless of my makeup or anything else besides making Claire cum.

"AHH BITCH! AHH FUCKING BITCH!" Claire had cried as she came. I think of how she had stared at me, an expression of pleasure so intense it looked like fury; her jaws snapping as she sprayed me.

I jerked silently on my bed, teeth clenched tight. In my mind's eye my mother was The Bitch watching me lick and suck Claire's cunt.