Khimairal Ink by Carrie Tierney

Khimairal Ink

Stories by Andi Marquette Barbara L. Clanton Jove Belle Stacey Darlington S. J. Powers

Khimairal Ink

Publisher Claudia Wilde Managing Editor Carrie Tierney Assistant Editor C.A. Casey

In This Issue Five Julys

Layout/Story Art T.J. Mindancer

3 HH

Cookies Big Love

4 HH 6 HH

ÂŠ 2009 Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company

Dear Jen

Carrie Tierney Andi Marquette

12 HH Stacey Darlington

Morning Coffee ISSN 1939-3393 Khimairal Ink Magazine is published January, April, July, and October.

Claudia Wilde

14 HH Jove Belle

18 HH Barbara L. Clanton

23 Into the Heat, Into the Light 26 Contributors

S. J. Powers

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appy Birthday to us! This is Khimairal Ink’s fifth year of bringing well-written prose to our audience of avid readers and we thank you for your support. We’re pleased to recognize our authors and their stories: “Water Rites” by Mary Douglas, “Games With Chance” by Andi Marquette, and “Gay Day” by Sandra Barret who were selected for Year’s Best Lesbian Fiction 2008 by judges Fran Walker, author of Lavender Ink: Writing and Selling Lesbian Fiction, Joan Opyr, author of Idaho Code, and Lynne Pierce, moderator of lesfic_unbound. We’re glad that Khimairal Ink could provide a forum for such talented writers. I have to admit, I like themes. I like to find them in our stories and weave them together, and this issue is no exception. I didn’t have look too hard for the theme this time; it jumped right

out at me and twanged. The collection of stories for July all have to do with cheatin’ hearts. But the question is, who’s? Welcome first time contributors, Jove Belle with an eye-opening “Morning Coffee,” escape “Into the Heat, Into the Light” by S. J. Powers and experience “Big Love” by Stacey Darlington, Our other contributors this month are Year’s Best Lesbian Fiction 2008, and Khimairal Ink alumni, Andi Marquette and Barbara L. Clanton. Again, we’re proud to be a part of bringing great stories and talent writers to readers like you. Enjoy! Claudia

Join us for the October 2009 issue featuring . . . The Buoyancy of Gold Anna Caro Memorial Stephanie Bonvissuto Cool Hand Like Mine Michael Merriam In Dreams of Black Sheep WE Marden

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ive Julys ago we put out our first issue of Khimairal Ink. I don’t think we ever imagined that we’d still be publishing it five Julys later, much less filling issues into the next year. While going through the last batch of submissions, I realized that the overall quality of the writing and storytelling has increased over the years. In the old days we would reject stories because they didn’t have any lesbians, the girl got the guy and not the girl in the end, a lesbian wasn’t the protagonist or even had an important part of the story, plus the usual poor writing and poor storytelling. Now our job has become harder because we’ve found ourselves not accepting stories that are perfectly fine, that even we admit we probably would have accepted two or three years ago. But these stories are now in competition with even higher quality ones, which means when we say let your imagination soar

and send us only your best, we mean it more than ever. And when you’re around long enough some “firsts” happen. We based our cheatin’ heart theme around two submissions. One is in this issue, the other one is not. I actually love the story not in these pages—I love the writing style and could read a whole novel in that style. So why isn’t it here? The author never got back to us about it. The emails we sent never bounced, and yet we don’t know if they ever got through to her. This is a first for us. So KP, author of PoS, if you see this, your story was accepted for this issue. As for the stories actually in this issue, I think you’ll enjoy the different “takes” on the idea of a cheatin’ heart. Enjoy! Carrie

Do you write stories that are positive, quirky, clever, funny, light, breezy? Do you write stories that make us laugh, or at least smile a lot? Do your stories stray from the garden path of expectation in amusing ways? In other words, are your stories fun and original and entertaining and may even have an out-of-the-blue surprise or two or clever twists? If “yes” to any of these questions, Nuance is looking for you. http://www.bedazzledink.com/nuance

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Call for Submissions . . .

Skulls and Crossbones A collection of short stories that features women pirates in any setting, any time period. Editors: Andi Marquette and R. G. Emanuelle. Publisher: Mindancer Press (Bedazzled Ink), print and ebook editions Stipulations: No longer than 7000 words; no shorter than 4000 words Will consider original and previously published stories. $35 per story, paid after contract is signed. Story rights revert back to authors 18 months after date of publication. Each contributor will receive one print copy as well as one ebook copy of the anthology. GLBTQ/heterosexual characters are welcome BUT EACH STORY MUST FEATURE A WOMAN PIRATE, either as the main character or the focus of the story (e.g. another sailor on the ship who hates the woman pirate and through his/her eyes, we observe the woman pirate). Again, the main character or the focus of the story MUST BE A WOMAN PIRATE. We will consider main characters that identify as transgendered (male to female), but that identity must figure prominently in the story as a driving force and/or something that speaks to the characterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s experience as a woman pirate. Extra caveat: The focus of the story cannot be a romantic hook-up/sex/erotica. Sex, eroticism, and romance may be part of the story (as long as they fit within the storyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s overall plot), but they cannot be the reason for the story or the driving force of the story. We want stories that feature adventure, intrigue, antiheroines/heroines, battles (epic, personal, or small-scale), something to be accomplished/overcome, vengeance, trickery, thievery, and/or assorted banditry and outlaw behavior. Absolutely NO stories that feature acts of pedophilia, incest, bestiality, or rape. Deadline for submissions is September 1, 2009 Final selections will be made by October 1, 2009, with publication tentatively slated for January 2010 To submit your story, send as an email attachment in RTF format, double-spaced to pirateanthology@gmail.com Please include your name, pen name (if applicable), mailing address, email address, story title, and word count on the first page of your submission. If you have questions, drop us a line at pirateanthology@gmail.com

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he was making dinner. I hung my coat on the rack by the door and joined her in the kitchen, recognizing the smell of her marinara. Garlic, oregano, basil. The holy trinity, she’d told me once a long time ago, when she loved me. “You’re late,” she said, not looking up from the big stainless steel pot that sat on the stove, heavy with sauce and tension. “I’m sorry.” I stood at the butcher block island in the center of the kitchen and studied the pattern of the wood, which always reminded me of highways. Straight, orderly highways, with defined beginnings and endings. Unlike relationships. Unlike the mistakes that sometimes create both. She said nothing more, and I turned to leave, to divest myself of the meeting that had kept me and all it portended. “Why didn’t you call?” she asked, still not looking up from the pot. Her arm moved in a slow circle as she stirred the sauce. Gentle, almost seductive, and I remembered the first time I’d seen her cook, and how I’d dreamed of watching sunlight fall across her naked back, longed for nothing but skin between us. “I don’t know,” I said, sticking to the truth, something I’d made it my mantra to do over the past year. “The meeting went late. You can call Paul to check that,” I offered without sarcasm. She looked at me then, brow furrowed in a way I knew meant she was considering her next statement. “You don’t know?” she finally asked, assessing me while still holding the wooden spoon over the pot. It dripped sauce and I thought of blood. “I guess I didn’t want to. The meeting was hard and I didn’t want to call because I was upset

about it.” I shoved my hands into my pockets, avoiding her eyes until the silence forced me to look at her. “No,” I said, at her expression. “I haven’t—” I stopped, uncertain how to proceed. “I haven’t heard anything from her or seen her. I’d tell you if I had. And I haven’t tried to contact her. Not since the bad time,” I finished, stumbling over my words, awkward in my public acknowledgement. “The meeting ran late,” I repeated softly. “Call Paul,” I finished, setting my cell phone on the butcher block. An invitation we both knew she wouldn’t accept, either to call him or check my call log, the other reason I left my phone with her before I went upstairs to change into sweats. I hung my trousers up in the closet—the one in the spare room. My room, I corrected myself. Guests used this room before I did, when I was welcome in her bed. That was months ago. We hadn’t had guests in a while, either. I hung my shirt up, calculating how long it had been since I’d slept in her bed. Almost a year, I estimated, smoothing the front of my shirt on the rack. March. The tenth. I closed the closet door and went back downstairs to the kitchen, where I stood in the doorway. She’d let Rusty in and he sat near the stove, waiting for handouts, glancing at me before focusing again on her. She was warming Italian sausage now, and when it was done, she’d cool a little piece and add it to Rusty’s bowl. “Are you hungry?” she asked with nothing beyond a passing interest. “Yes.” “Dinner’ll be ready in thirty minutes.” She

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covered the sauce with the pot’s lid and wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Okay. Can I take Rusty for a little walk?” He looked at me hopefully when he heard the word “walk.” “Sure.” She went back to the sausage, and I went to the front door, Rusty following, bouncing with excitement. I put on my heavy winter coat and a hat before I clipped Rusty’s leash to his collar. I put my gloves on outside, where the snow fell in thick, heavy flakes. My car was already covered with a layer of white. Rusty tugged me down the driveway, leaving tracks, and I remembered when she’d gotten him five years ago, a beat-up scraggly border collie pup from an animal shelter. I hadn’t wanted a dog at the time. I knew the work involved and the responsibility. But she had fallen for him hard, and I didn’t say no. Now, in a weird way, I was glad she had him, because he would never fail her. I had, but Rusty never would, a thought both comforting and painful. When we got back, I dried him off in the foyer with the towel for the purpose and hung his leash back on the coat rack as he bounded into the kitchen, and she greeted him with warmth in her voice. I waited a few seconds then went to the kitchen as well, where I took plates out of the cabinet. “This table?” I asked, motioning toward the small table in the breakfast nook. “Or the dining room?” I asked her this question every time we had eaten together since March, giving her the option of greater physical distance in the dining room. “This one’s fine.” She took a plate from me and placed a serving of pasta on it over which she poured a ladle of sauce. I held the plate for her while she cut one of the sausages in half lengthwise and placed it next to the pasta. “Go sit down. I’ll get mine.” I nodded and placed my plate at the place I normally sat at this table. She had already put a bottle of wine out, next to the placemat that denoted her seat. Two empty wineglasses stood next to it. The bottle was open and I poured her a half-glass before pouring myself a quarter. I set the bottle down and went to the cabinet for two other glasses, which I filled with water from the pitcher in the fridge. I put the glasses on the

table and sat down, waiting for her to join me. She did, and Rusty chose a spot a couple feet from her, head on his front paws. “How was work?” I asked before I took a bite. “The same. One thing about healthcare— there’ll always be jobs in it.” I cut a piece of sausage and dipped it in the marinade before putting it in my mouth. Warm, spicy, and exploding with flavor. “This is so good,” I said after I swallowed. “Thanks.” She picked up her glass of wine. “You’re welcome. Do you want to tell me about the meeting?” I looked up at her. “Not really. But I’m going to anyway.” I set my fork down and forced myself to meet her gaze, something that had been one of the hardest things for me to do in the past months. “It’s not good. They’re closing a couple of divisions and making cuts in others, including mine.” She continued to wait, not saying anything. I licked my lips and continued. “We’re getting the final list of staff cuts on Friday.” “Do you think you’re on it?” “I don’t know. Corporate’s not saying anything so everybody’s just speculating. I can’t say whether I’m any more useful to them than any other graphic artist over there. So I’m expecting the worst, I guess.” She didn’t respond right away, and instead took another sip of wine, then another couple bites of pasta. I ate in silence as well. “If you lose your job, what does that mean?” she finally asked. “I’m not sure.” I picked my fork up but I wasn’t sure why I had so I put it down again. “My brother says I can stay with him for a while, until I find another job. Tammy and Jane offered their basement to me. I’ll figure something out.” I pushed my food around on my plate. “If I’m on the list, and I can’t get something else in a month or two, I won’t be able to afford to live here.” I stared at my plate. “And you don’t need to buy me out of the house. I’ll sign it over,” I added, hating the way the words felt in my mouth, hating what they represented, but knowing it was the only fair thing to do. We’d separated our finances after the bad time, keeping just one account for household expenses, just as we’d separated

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ourselves physically, trying to find something—a reason, maybe—to hold onto each other in the wreckage of what had happened between us and the choices I’d made. But memories couldn’t rebuild a future and they couldn’t repair the damage that littered our shared past. “Let’s talk about it with Ellen,” she said softly, expression inscrutable. “Our appointment’s tomorrow after you get off work. Did you remember?” I smiled, in spite of how I felt. “I always remember those. I’ll meet you there. I’ll leave work and go directly to her office. If something’s weird at work and might delay me, I’ll call you.” She reached over and squeezed my forearm, startling me. A light, fleeting touch. “I don’t need a GPS read-out,” she said with an answering smile. “I know you will.” I stared at her, not sure what to do with the small slice of trust she offered in her words. “Sorry. Habit,” I said tersely, because it was one I’d deliberately cultivated within the last year, trying to prove to her that she could believe in me again some day. I stood then, battling tears and not wanting her to see, not wanting her to know that I ached, that I’d give anything to undo what had happened, that I’d sell my soul to the first bidder if it meant I could go back in time and make a different choice. I picked up my plate. “Are you finished?” I asked before I reached for hers, keeping my face averted. My eyes stung. “Yes.” I picked her plate up and took both to the stove, where I busied myself putting food away into containers for the fridge. She remained at the table, staring out the window at the snow, holding her glass of wine. I loved watching her when she was caught in a reverie, her hair framing the strong planes of her face, her fingers often absently toying with whatever was within reach. Tonight it was the stem of her wineglass, and I envied it. I scrubbed the sauce pot at the sink, using the brush she preferred on its surface, wishing I could scrub the past out of my mind. And hers. My eyes stung again and I scrubbed harder, until I could see my reflection in the pot’s surface. At that point, I set it on the drying rack and started working on the frying pan she’d used to warm the sausage. I left it to soak and began cleaning

the stovetop, wondering how many times I’d be able to do this in the future, with Friday looming the day after tomorrow. I wished I could do it the rest of my life, if it meant I could stay. I went back to work on the frying pan. Her hands on my shoulders from behind surprised me and I dropped the pan in the sudsy water, splashing my sweatshirt, soaking through that and my T-shirt to my skin. She leaned against me, crossing her arms over my chest above my breasts, and pressed her face against my shoulder. I didn’t move. These moments were few since the bad time and all the more precious. This one would see me through many, many weeks. Tears coursed down my cheeks, but I gritted my teeth and fought them still, gripping the edge of the sink. “It’ll be okay,” she said against my sweatshirt, holding me tighter. “Yeah,” I managed, though I wasn’t sure I believed it. She loosened her hold and moved. Her lips brushed my cheek, and I closed my eyes, wanting to turn the clock back, to unravel the months between now and last March. “I’m going to bed,” she said near my ear. “I have to be at work at five.” “I know.” “I’ll see you at Ellen’s.” She gave me a final squeeze and pulled away. “Come on, Rusty.” To me, she said, “Good night,” in a way that pre-dated the bad time. “ ’Night,” I said. “Hope work goes okay.” I listened to her footsteps fade and the clickclick-click of Rusty’s toenails on the wood floor of the dining room. The stairs creaked under her weight and I heard her in her bedroom above. I finished with the pan and drained the sink before I checked around to make sure I’d gotten everything cleaned up. And then I sat at the small table where we’d eaten together and stared into the winter darkness through my tears.

usty tore through the snow like he was a guy who’d just gotten parole after twenty years. I smiled, and thought of winters past and how I used to like them because it meant I’d go home to a warm house that smelled of cookies,

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fresh bread, or whatever else she was making. She’d hold a cookie up to my lips and tell me to taste it, to tell her if there was anything wrong with it and I would, humoring her, because there was never anything wrong with anything she made. And she’d laugh and hand me her rolling pin and kiss me and winter wasn’t so wintry anymore, standing in the kitchen with her arms around me and her lips on mine. And now winter was a reflection of my life, a long gray enigmatic season between other seasons that differed only in temperature. Like whatever remained between us. Neither completely together nor completely apart, though tonight in the session with Ellen we’d talked about finding a beginning we could both agree on and try to go from there. And we’d talked a little more over pizza afterward. But talk was one thing, and life was another. We couldn’t begin in the absence of belief in each other or anything between us. We talked in our therapy sessions, and we tried to talk outside them but I wasn’t even sure why I hung on to the hope that one day, she’d forgive me. Nor was I sure why she’d asked me to stay, when everything before the bad time was a mess, too. Were we trying to rebuild out of habit? Desperation? Love? All three, maybe. “Rusty,” I called. “Time to go, buddy.” He stopped his mad dash across the park and trotted back, breath visible as small puffs in the night air. I clipped his leash on, and we walked the six blocks back to the house. By the time we got to the driveway, it was snowing again and I half-hoped it would snow the whole world in so I wouldn’t have to go to work the next day and see the list of names. I was putting off the inevitable, I thought, as I stamped my boots off on the front porch before taking Rusty inside. “Hey, could you come here?” she called from the kitchen. “Hold on a sec.” I hung my coat up and divested myself of hat, gloves, and scarf before I stepped out of my boots and left them to dry on the mat by the door. “What’s up?” I asked as I approached the kitchen doorway, Rusty at my heels. “Help me,” she said, gesturing at the big ball of dough on the counter. She held out a rolling pin, and I hesitated before I took it, uncertain. I

set the pin down and washed my hands in the kitchen sink and dried them on a clean dish towel. She smiled then, and I moved automatically to the counter where I reached into the jar of flour that stood next to the dough so I could dust the rolling pin. She was rummaging in the pantry when I carefully pressed the pin against the dough and started flattening it. “Pick a few shapes,” she said, placing a plastic bag filled with cookie cutters on the counter next to me. “Okay. Any preference?” “No. Whatever moves you.” She smiled at me and held up a bottle of chocolate sprinkles. “How about vanilla icing and these?” “Sounds good.” I smiled back and carefully pulled the dough off the pin, reaching for more flour. I continued rolling out the dough, stopping when I had a big swath about a quarter-inch thick. Satisfied, I put the pin aside and reached for the bag of cookie cutters. “A little thinner, honey,” she said from the stove, and I froze for a few seconds. “Okay.” I stammered a little as I picked up the rolling pin and set to work on the dough. “How’s that?” She inspected it. “Yep. Pick the cutters now and get some cookies ready for me,” she said in a way that made me think of the first month we started seeing each other, when our time together was defined by fun and desire. Since the bad time, she rarely used that tone with me, making it that more noticeable when she did. I dug in the bag of cookie cutters and looked for shapes that appealed to me. “Do you want anything Christmas-related?” I asked, thinking maybe she was making cookies for her staff at the hospital. “Not necessarily. Just pick a few things that speak to you.” “All right.” Santas, reindeer, turkeys . . . she had a lot of holiday shapes, but I didn’t really want those, though the season demanded it. A few random shapes like airplanes, musical notes, and dogs caught my attention, but I didn’t really want those, either. “Geez, I don’t know,” I said, digging through the bag feeling panicked, like I might be failing a test. “Then close your eyes and pick a couple,” she suggested. “Really. They’re just cookies.”

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I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and reached into the bag. I pulled three shapes out and set them on the counter without spending any time trying to figure out what they were through touch. “Good picks,” she said, and I opened my eyes. A heart, a dog, and a Christmas stocking. “Cut me some cookies.” She pecked me on the cheek and went back into the pantry, and I did as she asked, alternating between the shapes and placing the cookies carefully on the baking sheets she had prepared. I filled two, and she slid them into the oven and set the timer for ten minutes. I gathered up the remaining dough and rolled it out again, remembering how we used to do this a lot together, and how it felt easy and comfortable then but sort of strange now, like a new pair of shoes that needed breaking in. “I don’t want you to leave,” she said, and I stopped rolling the dough, instead stared at it as I tried to process her statement, though it had come up in our session that evening. Somehow, it had more resonance here, in our kitchen. I turned toward her. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to get a job before my savings runs out. If I can’t, then you’ll have to pay most of the household expenses.” I repeated what I had said to her in Ellen’s office. “I know.” Her fingers toyed with one of her wooden spoons. “I make enough to support us both until you find something. And my job’s pretty secure.” “What if I don’t find something right away?” “Then we’ll re-visit the topic and see what our options are. If you lose your job, we’ll do a budget this weekend and see what our expenses are and figure out where we can cut back.” “Okay.” I returned to the dough. “Maybe we should do that anyway,” I said, setting the pin aside and reaching for the heart-shaped cookie cutter, testing the new pair of shoes. “Yeah. Maybe we should. How about Saturday evening? I get off work at three.” “I know,” I said, because I did know when she got off work. Her schedule was on the calendar that hung on the wall near the back door of the kitchen. I always checked her schedule and since the bad time, I made sure she knew exactly where I’d be and when at all times, writing my schedule on the calendar every week.

She smiled at me and touched my face. “I know you do. I just want to make sure that I verbalize my schedule, too.” I smiled back, covered her hand with mine, and pulled it around to my lips so I could kiss her palm. I released her hand as soon as I had done so and pressed the heart cutter into the dough. The timer went off, and she crossed the room to the oven and took the two trays of cookies out and put two more in. She used a spatula to put the cookies on cooling racks so I could fill the trays again. “Saturday evening’s good,” I said, “to talk about that. I’ll be here all day, either working on my résumé or some of my freelance stuff, depending on what happens tomorrow. Maybe Rusty and I will make a pot roast or something.” She laughed, and I stopped what I was doing to look at her, to make sure that the laugh was real. She took a cookie off the cooling rack and held it out, one hand cupped underneath it to catch crumbs. “Taste.” I took a bite as she held it and chewed. “What do you think?” “It’s good. Buttery. The icing’ll be really good on these.” She took a bite as well. “Hmm. They are good. And I’ll now start on that icing.” She held the last bite out for me and put it in my mouth, her fingertips lingering on my lips. I thought maybe I tasted a memory as I chewed. She set to work mixing powdered sugar, vanilla, and milk in a bowl and I went back to putting cookies on the trays, lining up hearts in one column, dogs in another. “I miss you,” she said, and my throat closed around my breath for a moment. “I miss you, too.” I cleared my throat and went back to spacing the cookies on the sheets. My hands shook. “I’d like to talk about that on Saturday, too.” “Okay,” I said, going back to the cookies. “I’d really like that.” She stirred the icing mixture, a slow rhythmic sound. “Call me tomorrow when you find out what’s happening.” I looked up and caught her eye. “I will.” I lined up another column of hearts then looked at her again. “What if it’s bad news?”

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“Then we’ll make some cookies tomorrow, too, and talk about it on Saturday.” I nodded. “And if it’s good?” She set the spoon down on the ceramic utensil rest. The hug she gave me was tentative, like a beginning. “We can never have too many conversations,” she said near my ear. “Or cookies.”

I hugged her back, and we stood there for what might have been a minute or more, the smell of cookies warm and hopeful in my nostrils. She pulled away and reached around me to pick something up. She handed me the heart-shaped cutter. “Here,” she said, pressing it gently into my hand. “Make some more.”

Read about the adventures of Torri and Kai. Friends in High Place the first book of the Far Seek Chronicles

Mindancer Press

http://mindancerpress.wordpress.com/books/friends-in-high-places/

Available from Regal Crest visit http://andimarquette.com/

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guess things do change after almost thirteen years of being together. I suppose nothing stays as vibrant as in the beginning; you know when you just can’t wait to be together. When no matter what she does, you think it’s adorable. It is true that I took her home the first day we met. The attraction was that magnetic. I knew it, she knew it, and yes, I believed it was fate. I still do. That is not the point. Look, don’t judge me, it’s not like there hadn’t been others before her. Not many that’s a fact, but enough to know the difference between say, puppy love and the real thing. She is it, my one big love. So why am I here with you? Well, I know sometimes in a long-term relationship you can grow apart I just never suspected it would happen to us. So I guess the answer is I’m just lonely. There is plenty of love still between us, don’t get me wrong, big love. We are both just different now. Lately she does her thing, and I do mine. I think she just aged quicker than I did; she’s not as active as she used to be. I still like to get around town, you know. I love her and don’t fault her for it. Like I said, I am just a little lonely, that’s all. I do have certain needs. Lately, we spend more moments in amiable silence while I write or read, and she lies in our bed, relenting to her achy bones. She will not take meds either she’s stubborn that way. I know I should be telling her all this but she wouldn’t understand. Sometimes when I talk, I don’t think she is listening at all. You probably don’t understand either, well, maybe you do. Hell, I got a place out in the country for her because it reminds her of where she’s from. Me, I’m more of a city girl, even though we were both

pretty much country raised. We had a place once, we sure have moved a lot of times, this cute cottage on a lake. One of my favorite memories is that place. We would tromp down to the lake to feed the birds old bread at sunset. She loved it when I sometimes fed the gulls hotdogs and would occasionally eat one herself. I never did like raw hotdogs, except maybe when I was a kid. But she likes them and think that’s cute. See, everything she does is okay by me. I feel like sometimes I get on her nerves though. I would probably be happier in the country if she would sit outside with me, maybe take a long walk and bird-watch like we used to. Another thing, you know how people say the longer you are with someone the more you start to look alike? Well, that’s true with us. We both have sort of unruly blonde hair, although her eyes are brown and mine are green. Her eyes are beautiful! I thought her eyes were the ones I would stare into forever. I never thought there would be an end. At least not like this. You know an end within the relationship. That’s worse I think than losing her permanently, you know, to death. I don’t mean to be morbid, but I have considered her dying. That’s what happens when you have such a deep emotional bond. You fear losing it. I wouldn’t be the first one; my best friend went through it last year and still hasn’t recovered. Big love is irreplaceable, you see. This is just so hard, the separation. I still like to go out and socialize. I take her with me occasionally to visit friends when she is willing to go but then she’s generally anti-social or wants to leave early. Look, I’m no prize to be with I never said I

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was. I work too much; I spend too much time on my projects. I know some of this distance is my fault. But, I never put a leash on her. She is free to leave if she is not happy. She has always had plenty of people wanting to take her home. Everyone adores her, and why not? She is beautiful, kind, patient and loyal to a fault. She is perfect really, so am I complaining? Like I said, I’m lonely. When I go home tonight, I know she won’t greet me like she used to. She’ll probably snub what I brought home for dinner. That’s okay; I will eat alone as I always do and keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to rile her. My closest friends know what’s going on; they notice it when my eye wanders. They tease me and ask me when I am going to go trolling for bitches. I think that’s defaming but I know they’re just joking around. I do go out looking sometimes. I just look though; if they glance back at me I quickly avert my gaze. I give no heavy eye contact because I am loyal to her. The thing that really hurts is that she sleeps way on the other side of the bed now. No petting, no cuddling, she doesn’t like me to bother her at all when she’s sleeping. I leave her alone because I don’t want her barking at me. I guess I have gotten used to it, the separation, and the distance, but as I said, my eye has wandered.

Not only wandered but also lingered and returned your eye contact. To be honest I thought about you all night. What it would be like to cuddle with you on the couch and watch movies. Look into your beautiful blue eyes. I felt guilty with her in the bed with me, so guilty I assure you. That is why I came back here. I know I promised you something that I just can’t give. You are beautiful, and I feel something for you already, but when I look into your eyes all I can see is my girl. My thirteen-year commitment. My big love. I realize now that I will take her as she is. I suppose it took me almost taking this step. You have no idea how guilty I feel for returning your affection, falling deep into your puppy dog eyes, responding to your excited breath. I am mortified that I actually let you kiss me! I am sorry but I can’t take you home although you are so beautiful and young. I know someone will discover you and give you a safe and loving place to live. You are a highly pedigreed Husky after all. Good luck, I had better leave; my grumpy mutt is waiting to ignore me. She can’t help it; she just aged faster than I did.

Coming this fall from Dragonfeather Books . . . Athena’s Curse by Stacey Darlington A quirky new twist on the Classic Greek myths! Meet Asudem, the orphaned daughter of Medusa, as she traverses the dangerous region of Lower Olympus in a journey to stop the potent new power in her eyes. With her best friends, Drella the Goddess of Chaos and Vanity, and Pretal the Lion Goddess, Asudem seeks her family history and to deﬁne her duel nature. Laden with a head full of wisecracking snakes, young Asudem must face and conquer an array of monsters, witches and other creatures on this passage of self-discovery. A hilarious read for the young at heart.

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he little brass bell above the door rang as another customer came in for morning coffee. I felt like one of Pavlov’s damned dogs as I ran to the counter to take her order, conditioned to do so without thought after months of hearing that bell ring. Not for the first time, I contemplated ripping the damned thing down. But then I’d have to explain why it was missing to Viv, and she wouldn’t like me giving into my impulses in this case. Mrs. Danburry heaved her oversized black purse onto the counter and rested there for a moment, her breath coming harder than it should that early in the morning. “Child, it’s gonna be a hot one.” She fanned her face, red from exertion. “I can feel it clear to my bones.” I had the same conversation about the weather at least a hundred times a day. Too hot, too cold, too windy. Never just right. And they never wanted a real conversation, just a smile, a nod, and off they went. “It sure is, Mrs. D.” Before I came to work here, I thought all coffee drinkers were the same. Didn’t take me long to realize that wasn’t the case. Mrs. D? She was plain black in a real cup, not paper, with a raspberry Danish on the side. I couldn’t understand why she would pay someone for a plain ol’ cup of coffee that she could get with less fuss and considerably less money from her own coffee maker at home. When I asked Viv, she answered with a sad little shake of her head, “She’s just lonely, Lies. That’s all.” That taught me to take a bit more time when the Mrs. Danburries came in. “Global warming, I tell you, days like today, I sure believe it.” Mrs. Danburry dug though the depths of her purse and dragged out her coin

purse, crumpled bills kept it from closing all the way. She held my hand firm when I tried to take the money from her. She reached up—her hand trembling with age, the skin on the back of her arm swaying—and gripped my chin. “You’re a good girl, Liesel. Always have been.” She nodded once, her movement hard like that decided it all. “Thanks,” I never knew what to say to statements like that. As folks figured out that my separation from Luke wasn’t just a temporary break, but rather just the first stop on the road to D-I-V-O-R-C-E, they reached out in different ways. Some with sympathy, like Mrs. Danburry. Others with sneering condemnation. It was a mixed bag as to who responded in what way. Even Luke’s mother seemed to be in the sympathy court, where as my own was none to happy with the renewed single status of her eldest child. “Here’s your coffee, ma’am.” Roxy, Viv’s daughter, smiled in her shy, sweet way as she set the cup, along with the pastry on the table by the window. Mrs. D. gave my chin an extra squeeze, then worked her way to the table, still complaining about the heat. It wasn’t so bad, this life I found myself in. Thirty-three, almost divorced, living in my best friend’s spare bedroom, and selling coffee for little more than minimum wage. When I spelled it out like that, it sounded a little bleak, but most days I found plenty to smile about. I poured myself a cup and with a nod to Viv, stepped around the counter to sit with Mrs. D. for a bit. Half-way to the table, the front door opened

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again. I smiled that reflexive business polite smile that is required in the service industry. My face froze, along with my throat and limbs as my brain registered who had come through the door. She stood there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She was the reason for all the confused, pitying looks, the heated judgment, and a good amount of fear. Hell, she was the reason for the divorce itself. And to make matters worse, she wasn’t even a little bit sorry. She blushed under my rigid scrutiny, her cheeks flaming red. This couldn’t be easy for her either. The Other Woman wasn’t a role that most could wear comfortably, especially not someone like Grace who faced life head on. Sneaking around just wasn’t in her make up. And yet, she’d done it, played the role of mistress, all with that intense fucking smile on her face. The door swung shut behind her, and that stupid little bell jangled through the silence and over my nerves. Grace stepped forward, a small, unsure smile teasing the corners of her mouth— a combination of guilt and need. “Liesel . . .” She said my name with far more timidity in her voice than she normally would, and I wanted to go to her, assure her everything would be okay. If nothing else, we’d been friends for years, since high school. She didn’t need to be afraid of me. It’s not like I would attack her in the middle of Viv’s coffee shop. I set my mug on the table and squeezed Mrs. D.’s shoulder as I passed, just letting her know that I was okay. She worried, and I thought that was sweet. I stopped a few feet from Grace, careful not to get in her personal space. “Coffee, Grace?” She shouldn’t be here. She knows it. I know it. Hell, everyone in town knows it. “Umm.” She shifted her weight again. “Can we talk?” I felt Viv close in behind me, then her arm settled around me. “You sure that’s a good idea, Lies?” Her fingers dug into my shoulder, sure to leave a bruise. I loved her for it, her need to protect me, but it just wasn’t the right time. Coming here was hard enough for Grace without Viv turning into the Godfather. “It’s okay, Viv. I got this.” I didn’t look away

from Grace when I said it. She needed to know that I wouldn’t shy away from her in public. Grace sighed in relief, her shoulders relaxing slightly. I could still feel the tension coming off of her, but not nearly as much. After all, I’d said yes. “Come on, then.” I nodded toward the office and waited for her to pass me before collecting my coffee from Mrs. D.’s table. I needed something to do with my hands, to keep me from doing something inappropriate with them. As the door closed behind us, shutting out the symphony of silver clanking on ceramic, I suddenly reconsidered agreeing to see her. The quiet hung in the air, punctuated by the soft sound of her breathing. I turned and pressed my back to the door and waited. She took a hesitant half step toward me, her hands clenching and releasing at her sides. “I shouldn’t have come.” “No, probably not.” “I tried to talk myself out of it.” “It’s okay. Really.” I stepped away from the door, willing to meet her in the middle. “This is just so fucking hard.” Grace stretched her hand out and cupped my face, rubbing her thumb—calloused and soft at the same time— across my cheek. And just like that, it was all okay. The tears and hurt from Luke. The whispered-behindmy-back rumors. The name calling that some thought I couldn’t hear and others didn’t care if I heard or not. With that one simple touch, she took away all the reasons, all the justifications to stay with my soon-to-be ex-husband, stripped away all the noise until all that was left was her and I and the undeniable truth in our hearts. I couldn’t keep my hands at my side any longer and pulled her to me, wrapping my arms around her. The almost shaved short hair on the back of her neck tickled my fingers and the low spicy scent of her cologne comforted me. Cologne, not perfume, and I couldn’t get enough of this woman who was feminine with her soft curves, but anything but feminine with the way she smelled and the way she carried herself. She opened doors, held packages, and opened jars, but more that, she listened, paid attention to what I said and what I didn’t say. She was strong, made me feel safe, and could

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turn me to liquid fire with a look, a barely whispered word. She was everything I wanted and nothing I was supposed to have. Good girls don’t. That’s what my mama taught me. But how was I supposed to say no when she came to me and kissed me, hot enough to burn clean through my soul? How was I supposed to say no when she promised it would all be okay? No one would ever find out. Not that I cared. I was intoxicated. Lust permeated my life, and I was too giddy to hide it. “I can’t keep doing this.” She kept her head down, her eyes averted when she said it. I hated that she felt like she couldn’t ask for what she wanted, like there was no way I would agree. I couldn’t stand all the self doubt coming from her. So I kissed her. She was hesitant, almost shy as she nibbled my mouth, her tongue skimming over my lips, but not pushing past my teeth. When the kiss ended, I could see some of her normal confidence in her eyes again. “I’m ready whenever you are.” I’d said the same thing at least a hundred other times, but she refused to rush me, refused to push me out of the phantom closet the town pictured me in. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” She squeezed my hand, her fingers laced with mine, and tugged me toward the door. “Let’s go.”

I expected her to drop my hand as we returned to the front of the shop, but she didn’t, her steps more firm than before, her chest a little puffed out. Then, just like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to do, she gave me a quick kiss on the lips, the kind Ward gave June on his way to work during prime time in the 50’s, and said, “I’ll see you tonight.” I watched her climb in her truck, a big ol’ F350, designed to haul everything she could ever imagine and still have room for her uncharacteristically over-inflated ego. Normally, she was humble, down to earth, but her smile said it all. She got the girl—that would be me—and she wanted the world to know it. With a wink she backed out of the space and pulled into traffic. “Auntie Liesel?” Roxy appeared at my side, quiet and steady, just like her mama. “I poured you a fresh cup.” “Thanks, sweetie.” I sat opposite Mrs. D. and waited. It was just a matter of time before one of them said something. It wasn’t every day that two women kissed in front of God and all creation. Certainly not in my hometown. Mrs. Danburry reached a hand—weathered and cracked like the Arizona desert at three in the afternoon—across the table and grasped mine. She held it for a moment, then patted it once with a nod. “Yes, a good girl. Always have been.”

Coming in December 2009 from Bold Stroke Books . . .

Chaps by Jove Belle You can’t outrun the past when it’s waiting right around the corner http://jovebelle.wordpress.com/ http://lesbianauthors.wordpress.com/

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In Keisha’s Shadow Tori’s life seems to be going from bad to worse when brash and flirty Ashley shows up and turns her world upside down.

Nuance

http://nuancebooks.wordpress.com/books/in-keishas-shadow/

From Nuance Books . . . Year’s Best Lesbian Fiction 2008 The first annual collection of the Best lesbian short stories published in 2008 http://nuancebooks.wordpress.com/books/years-bestlesbian-fiction/

Lavender Ink: Writing and Selling Lesbian Fiction By Fran Walker, L-J Baker, Nann Dunne, Sacchi Green & Andi Marquette “Hooray for publishing this book!” -- Mark Leach, Now Voyager Bookstore, Provincetown, MA

http://nuancebooks.wordpress.com/books/lavender-inkwriting-and-selling-lesbian-fiction/

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ear Jen, I didn’t mean for it to happen. You know that, right? I didn’t even know you then. Not really. It started when you and Melissa had that potluck dinner, remember? I’m not even sure how we got invited. The first time I met you was at my house for Patty’s 40th birthday party. Sue brought you guys. The more the merrier, I’d told her. I liked you both instantly, but I didn’t get hit by the freight train—that is, you—until your potluck a year later. An entire year later. We knocked on your front door. No one answered, so we walked in. You appeared as if you’d had one eye on the door all along. Your white tank top brought out your tan flawlessly, but it wasn’t then that I fell for you. No, not then. You welcomed us into your house, took our pasta salad offering, and showed Patty and me where the drinks were. Melissa took over and handed us plastic cups. We chuckled when she handed us magic markers and told us to write our names on the cups. I got the distinct feeling the markers were her idea, not yours. She also showed us the sign pointing toward the bathroom, and told us about the “discussion” you guys had about hanging the sign. “Jen doesn’t think drunk girls need help finding the bathroom,” she said. Patty and I have had similar “discussions” during our ten years together. I smiled thinking that maybe we had finally found another stable couple we could hang out with. So many of our friends are single, breaking up, or hermitting. But you, somehow, unbelievably, got into my head that night. I’d had a few beers and needed to use the bathroom, so I followed Melissa’s sign down the dimly lit hall and found it. I finished

up in the bathroom and opened the door. I practically bumped into you coming out of a side room—a guest room, I supposed. Not knowing you well I figured I should say something. “Jen?” “Yeah?” Your tone was always so chipper. “Nice sign.” I gestured over my shoulder, but smiled so you’d know I was teasing. “Pshht,” you said with a laugh. “I still don’t think we need it.” “Actually, and I don’t mean to take sides, but I needed it.” “Oh, my God, Karen. Whatever you do, don’t tell Melissa that, okay?” I laughed and nodded in agreement, but I was surprised you had remembered my name. You brushed some hair out of your eyes and said, “I just didn’t want her to tape the sign to the wall. I painted the whole house about a month ago because I want to sell.” “And she doesn’t?” You nodded, and I couldn’t quite figure out what emotion crossed your face, but I guessed that you and Melissa had many “discussions” about that issue. “I want to move closer to work. My commute’s a killer.” “What do you do?” “I’m a paralegal for Robison Law downtown.” “Downtown’s pretty far from here.” “Tell me about it.” You never did ask me what I did, which was a relief, because my job as an administrative assistant for an insurance company just wasn’t impressive. Maybe you already knew I was a secretary. Did we talk about our jobs at Patty’s 40th? I can’t remember.

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I didn’t hear what you said next, because you smelled so good. Like baby powder. Your blond hair fell at just the right length over your tanned shoulders. Your tank top showed off the definition in your arms. Your tight abs caught my attention, too. The pull to touch you was strong. Oh, so strong. You excused yourself then. You had to see to the drinks, but I didn’t want you to leave. Resigned, I meandered back to Patty, but I wasn’t really with her. No, I was with you. I knew where you were every second. Every now and then you’d move through my cross hairs, and I’d find myself holding my breath. I tried not to let it show. Did I hide it well? At one point during the evening I danced with Patty. You leaned against the wall and watched us. “Hey, Karen,” you shouted over the music, “how’s the mix?” “Great. I love this song.” I moved to the beat of a seventies disco tune. I didn’t dare invite you to dance with us, because I knew I’d give myself away. All I could think about was running my hands all over your strong body. I’m forty years old, and I hadn’t felt like that since . . . since forever. My stomach was in knots over my betrayal to Patty. She was dancing next to me, with me, but my body and my mind were with you. What in the world was I doing? I had no right feeling anything for you beyond friendship. Those are the rules, right? Right? Later, after most of your guests had gone home, you turned down the music and sat next to me on the living room sofa. I tried not to hyperventilate. You joined our conversation, but then Patty’s attention was diverted across the room to a politics debate. You kept your attention on me, though. You didn’t see, but I melted into your sofa right there in your living room. I asked about the tattoo on your shoulder, and you moved your tank and bra straps out of the way so I could see. I reached over and held both straps aside with one hand and then grabbed onto your bicep with the other as if holding you would allow me to see your tattoo more clearly. The vein in your neck pulsed. I wanted to kiss it. Kiss you. I vaguely registered that your tattoo was an angel. Honestly, I didn’t get a good look

at it, because I was touching you and, although you didn’t know it, you were touching me everywhere. I finally had to let go. You held me with those dark eyes as I rambled on about the rainbow tattoo on my ankle. Did my words even come out right? The time finally came to let you and Melissa have your house back, so Patty and I got our cooler and headed toward the front door. Melissa gave each of us big hugs, but I felt like a traitor hugging her back. You waited your turn behind her, and my pulse raced. I was just about to hug you, to feel your body against mine, when this drunk chick pushed you out of the way to hug Melissa. I wanted to kill her. She started blabbering to Melissa, and I couldn’t find a subtle way to get to you. You tried hard to get around, and I was rooting for you, too, down to my toes, but you finally shrugged and simply said. “Karen. Patty. It was great to see you guys again. Thanks so much for coming.” I smiled, and then my Patty and I walked down the front walk toward our car. I pulled my keys out of the front pocket of my jeans and heard something hit the concrete. I think it was a button I’d had in my pocket. I bent down to find it, but came up empty. I stood up, and there you were—inches from me. I took a startled step back, I hadn’t heard you approach. “What did you drop?” You looked down. I swallowed hard. “Oh, a button I think.” “Did you find it?” “No. If you find it, call me.”

had just given you an excuse to call me, and you did. Two days later. You found that stupid button, and invited me and Patty to see the new Adam Sandler movie with you and Melissa. We picked a theater halfway between our respective houses and sat four across in red velvet high-backed seats. I’m not sure how it happened, but Patty went in the row first, me next, then you, then Melissa. I was ecstatic because I was going to sit close to you for two whole hours. My nerve endings were smoldering. I barely registered the movie when it finally started. I only felt you. You were so close. You smelled so good that I wanted to nuzzle into your neck and breathe in your scent. Heat

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radiated through your denim shirt. Your warmth left me breathing kind of funny. About twenty minutes into the movie I shifted my foot slightly and it touched yours. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I didn’t move away, either. I couldn’t move away. The movie played on without me because your foot was the only thing in my universe. I finally got control of my breathing only to feel your bare calf, your hard muscular calf, lean into mine. I think I might have gasped. Good thing the movie was loud. Did you realize your leg had relaxed onto mine? Did you know we were touching? You had to know, but maybe you didn’t care because you relaxed even more, and then our knees touched. Your skin against mine sent my already stimulated nerve endings on overload. I felt my face, my neck, my entire body flush, but the theater was dark, so I was safe. I didn’t move my leg away. To move would be to confess that we’d been touching. The movie ended, and you stood up pulling your leg away from mine. Something was torn from me then. You smiled with those alluring dark eyes and asked, “Did you like the movie?” Did you think I could form a coherent sentence at that point? Did you think I had registered any part of that movie?

I smiled at you, and you smiled right back with that soulful grin of yours. The one that slices right to my heart. By that time I had developed enough armor so your smile didn’t completely liquefy me. But then you let your eyes linger, and the armor I thought was so strong simply dissolved. I know my face must have turned fifteen shades of purple, but still you did not look away. I couldn’t figure out what your eyes were trying to say to me. Your grin faded and your eyes took on that serious tone. I had to look down. “Karen?” I looked up slowly to meet your gaze. “Yeah?” “What are we gonna do?” And I knew what you meant. It was the way you asked. You didn’t mean, “What are we gonna do after lunch?” You didn’t mean, “What are we gonna do for Melissa’s birthday?” I knew what you meant, and I couldn’t answer. I swallowed hard. What I thought was a onesided obsession had turned into something far more dangerous. I tried to clear the lump from my throat. I had to try several times. “I don’t know.” I barely got the words out, but I spoke the truth. I didn’t know.

nd do you remember that time the four of us went to the county fair? Remember those camels? You just couldn’t get one to spit at you. How gross would that have been, anyway? I really missed you when you and Melissa rode the roller coasters. I wished I was the one riding with you instead of her. And do you remember when Patty and Melissa got on that long line to get barbeque ribs and soggy corn on the cob? You and I snagged an open picnic table and cleaned it off the best we could. You held the table while I went in search of napkins and plastic utensils and those wet-nap thingies. I came back with the supplies and sat across from you. Oh, how I wanted to sit next to you and let my leg fall against yours, but I sat across from you and pretended that my world was just fine. I pretended that you didn’t make my blood soar when I was near you, or when we talked on the phone, or when I simply thought of you. No, I pretended that you were just my friend.

fter that day at the fair, I couldn’t find the strength to call you. Every time you called my house, I let Patty talk to you. You never once asked for me. Patty and Melissa, or maybe you, arranged for a Texas Hold ‘em night at your house. I was torn. Oh, I wanted to go so badly. I needed to see you, but trouble awaited me if I did. I went anyway. You two have a lot of friends, so I tried to lose myself in the sea of women. Every time I looked up from my card game, I saw you watching me from across the room. You’d flash me a quick smile that I couldn’t help but return. I was powerless whenever you looked at me. My concentration that night was shot. I was out of cash early, and that was just not like me. I needed to regroup so I got up from my table and headed for the bathroom. I splashed water on my face until I felt able to handle being in the same universe with you. I took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door. That’s when I

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saw you standing in the doorway of the guest room, the same guest room you had emerged from at the potluck. I stopped in my tracks. “Karen?” “Yeah?” “Can you come in here?” This was going to be trouble, and I knew it. I should have darted right past you and headed back to my table. Back to my girlfriend. I should have, should have, should have. I didn’t. I moved toward you, and you backed into the room. Once I crossed the threshold you quietly closed the door. You turned the lock. You moved closer. I backed up and stumbled against the twin bed. I had to sit so I wouldn’t fall. You were next to me in an instant. Your eyes locked onto mine, and I couldn’t break away, but I didn’t want to. Your hand reached up and touched my cheek. I inhaled sharply. That made you smile which made me smile, too. My breathing changed. Got heavy. Yours did, too, I think. I’m not sure because suddenly your soft, warm lips caressed mine. Your hand went around my waist. You pulled me to you, and I put my arms around your neck and kissed you with a need that was painful. I don’t know why, but I started to cry, and you tried to pull away to tell me that everything was going to be okay. I remember getting angry at you for daring to speak. To speak would be to anchor us in sanity. I kissed you back to keep you quiet. I kissed you so hard I must have bruised your mouth. I finally wrenched myself away from you, breathless, I looked at you so intensely that I think I scared you. I wanted you so badly, but I was angry, too. Patty and Melissa were right outside that door, and we were in that room sneaking around like . . . like I don’t know what. I stabbed at the tears in my eyes and took a deep breath. All the while, I never let my gaze leave yours until I stood up and stormed past you. You grabbed my hand as I went by, and I hesitated. I hesitated long enough for you to spring up and embrace me from behind. You put a strong arm around my waist and caressed my stomach over my t-shirt. You pulled me toward you, but I resisted . . . for a moment. With a resigned sigh, I relaxed into you and turned my face toward yours. You kissed my neck and my face. I closed my eyes and twisted around to face you. I returned your kisses with a

fervor I can’t ever remember having with Patty. I stopped kissing you because you reached under my shirt and placed your hand on my bare stomach. I had to stop kissing you because I was breathing hard into your neck. Your hand snaked downward and popped open the button to my jeans. Your fingers made their way under the waistband of my Hane’s. I covered your hand with mine. At first, I didn’t know if I covered your hand to guide you or to stop you. Your hand moved lower and I figured it out quick. I struggled out of your embrace, buttoned up my jeans, and stumbled toward the door. I turned the lock, but before I opened the door I caught the question in your eyes. I had no answer for you then. I took a deep breath and left.

didn’t call you for the longest time after that evening, but I still couldn’t get you out of my head. Every time you called us, I wouldn’t answer the phone because I’d feel your strong arms around me, your hands on my stomach, reaching lower. After two agonizing weeks, I couldn’t take it anymore. Patty and I invited you guys over for a movie night. Remember how you slyly maneuvered for the two of us to go on that beer run? The first of many. Nobody questioned why it took forty minutes instead of fifteen. I couldn’t undress in front of Patty after those beer runs because of all those love bites you left on my body. Those beer runs were stolen moments, but they weren’t enough anymore. I guess they weren’t enough for you, either, because you called me on my cell phone last weekend and casually mentioned that Melissa was going to be out of town for a few days at a medical convention. A thousand conflicting thoughts raced through my head, but I couldn’t voice a single one of them to you. “Karen?” “Yeah?” “Come over Friday. After work. You work late sometimes, right?” “Yeah.” “Tell Patty you’re working late. Come over.”

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elissa is away, Patty thinks I’m working late, and you think I’m about to walk through your front door. Jen, I know you’re waiting for me right now. You probably have candles lit and wine chilled. I’m sure you have sensuous music picked out for a slow dance before we . . . God, it would be so easy, but I’m sitting in my car around the corner from your house trying to convince myself that this can’t happen, that I don’t want this. But I do want this. I want to feel your skin against mine. I want to give

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you pleasure and feel you rise in the passion we create together. I want to finally finish what we never could on those beer runs. But Jen? How can we? I should have drawn the line months ago. I never should have let it get this far. I should have realized long ago that I already have my happily-ever-after. Her name is Patty. She is my life. I cannot throw her away. Please don’t let me. Don’t let me. Dear Jen, Please let me go.

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hey had no place to go, no room, no private bed, no home not otherwise occupied, just a car, front or back, parked in the lot behind say Pie House or Lim’s Hardware, 90 degrees in the shade, each of them pantsless and panting, yearnings impossible to ignore and by God, they didn’t. Terror and heat, desire and denial, they carried on like this until Jessie’s mother left one weekend to visit Jessie’s sister who resided one state over, some 200 miles away. Her mother left Jessie in charge of her second-floor apartment in the city, in charge of collecting the mail and watering the plants as she was the one who lived in town and anyway, that’s what a daughter of her mother was left to do. Her mother also had sons, but according to her mother, her boys had jobs (Jessie had a job), they had families (Jessie had a family), they had responsibilities both large and small (didn’t she?). But alas, her mother would say (her convenient ambivalence ridiculously obvious) they were “just sons.” As if to say her boys, although they were now grown men and coowners of Babel Books (one handled the business end, the other the sales), but in the eyes of her mother, all boys/men/sons, and especially her little princes, were nurturingdeficient individuals not to be trusted to care for plants and precious mail. That’s what daughters were for. Jessie was the actual daughter, her lover her alleged “best friend.” Nevertheless, Jessie’s mother introduced her “friend” to perfect strangers as her “adopted daughter,” her voice dripping with irony and disdain, as if she knew everything there was to know about them, and

in truth she probably did. Everyone did, though no one said a word. Especially not the L word. The word was too powerful, too impossible not to believe. Innuendo, on the other hand, was rampant.

hey climbed the second story stairs and entered Jessie’s mother’s warm, clutterless apartment, four whole private rooms, living room, kitchen, dining area, bedroom. They set about turning up the air conditioners until they were blowing the heavily lined drapes and invisible dust mites, then set themselves down on the plastic-covered love seat, thigh to thigh, cool air blowing over their sweat-moistened bodies. The bedroom—a room big enough to hold a desk, file cabinet, dresser, nightstands, and a queen-sized bed—loomed large in their thoughts, no thought to the future, as if they might not have one, but what did it matter, here, now, they were inseparable. They lay down on the floral comforter, their heads arms legs shyly lying next to each other, barely touching. This was new to them, a bed. Tentatively, Jessie reached for her lover’s hand. A fine scent of furniture cleaner and her mother’s Chanel No. Nine floated in the air. Ignore it, Jessie commanded her self and brought her lover’s hand to her lips, turned to face her, and saw her father’s piercing blue eyes follow her from a picture on the nightstand. “Years of costly therapy.” Jessie sighed and let their hands drop, desire leaking out of her and onto the floor. In the blocked light of the lined drapes, shadows played on the ceiling, walls, the lush, blue carpet, they played with her

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mind, her daughter and her husband, out with their friends, not missing her. Not waiting for her to arrive home and start dinner, make conversation, urging her to clean rooms. Not holding their breaths for her complete attention. In this alternate universe, Jessie’s life was split into two perfectly contented halves, not crazed into this schizophrenic tear of ecstasy and dread. A blank mind would be sublime, she thought, and willed her thoughts to nothingness. But just thinking about nothing, the nothing became something, something about which she’d rather not have to think. Like the old black and white picture on the wall of her Russian relatives. Her great grandmother, a plain woman with a dire mouth and a babushka wrapped loosely around her thinning hair sat next to her great grandfather, his grey-white beard long and unkempt, box shaped hat on his head, his eyes, posture, hands held in the grim countenance of a rigid, religious man. All around them stood their children: her slightly plump maternal grandmother and twelve of her siblings stiffly posing for the camera, eyes poring over them, their dresses and collars pinched around their necks. Jessie rose to flip her father’s picture face down, remove the Russian family from the wall, denial encasing her like a blanket of soft down. The cool air, the privacy, the luxury of inner springs, room to stretch their legs, their arms, their heads. Had they not made love in worse situations, terrifyingly public situations, innocent people roaming all around them, rushing to their cars, hurrying away? When would they have this again? Jessie dared not think, leave this all behind, go back to the car. The car was now poison. She found a large beach towel and carefully laid it under them and closed her eyes. Thoughts closed against the family, a feeling was allowed to pass between them. Like bolts of energy between their organs, their cells each buckled to be pantsless. They knew they would be soon, but suddenly it wasn’t soon enough. Greedily, they reached out for the other, hands lifting shirts, pushing down under jeans. Soon one of them cried out, eyes rolling back behind her lids. “Shhh,” they reminded each other as they suddenly heard the downstairs toilet flush.

hey tidied up the bed, the bathroom, carried the beach towel with them to wash and return and were out the door, heading back down the stairs on shaky legs. They reached the first floor apartment landing, and the door opened. A sallow faced woman wrapped inside a lime green house coat and lavender slippers greeted them. “Oh, it’s you,” said Masha. “I thought heard noises and knew Lill was gone, and I said to myself, who could be up there?” Busted, busted, busted. What had she heard? Both of them looked at the other, at their pale faces, at their red and slightly bruised lips. Jessie’s legs shook anew with fear and renewed desire. “Yes, just me. Ha ha ha. And my friend,” she said and put a hand on her lover’s shoulder where it froze, willing itself not to move down the front of her shirt and caress a nipple. Could Masha sense it? “Come in, come in,” she said, and pulled them into her apartment, the air hot and close and permeated with an underlying scent of urine. Jessie imagined all the unused cleaning products collecting grime under the sink. Soon she would witness the kitchen itself as Masha directed them there with a no nonsense agenda and began pulling out jars and aluminum wrapped containers from the refrigerator “Turkey wing?” she offered. They shook their heads. “Something to drink—I have tea, I have orange juice.” She stuck her head back into the refrigerator. They held themselves up, grasping the back of two pink, wrought iron chairs. They said no, no, they were not hungry. The kitchen stank of wilted vegetables and day old cooking oils. In the sink, food caked dishes were piled high. The ceiling, the walls were yellowish white, the vinyl floor a checked black and smudged white, reminiscent of the stone steps of Russia, the black and white photo. What did they use for a kitchen back in the old country? How had her great grandparents fed, clothed and housed thirteen kids? What did they use for beds, baths, refrigeration? Without aluminum foil, Masha’s turkey wings would lie rotting in the garbage, sucking in moisture, attracting maggots. Jessie scanned the counters, the sink, the floor. Although she couldn’t see them, she felt the bugs crawling

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up her arms, invading her hair, her mouth. She struggled to take in fresh air. We must go, they said, their muscles prepared for flight. Masha’s voice echoed from the depths of the refrigerator. “Apple sauce? Potato latke?” “Thanks, but really, we’ve got to go. Need to collect mother’s mail.” They backed out of the kitchen, through the living room, and let themselves out, quietly shutting the front door behind them. A moment later, Masha opened it. They had gotten one step beyond her door and slowly kept moving. “How about a nice cup of borscht? No? Okay, nice to see you.” “Nice to see you too.” They took mini steps, first one stair then the next. “Your mother is a doll,” she called out. “What would I do without your mother the doll?” “Oh. Thank you. Okay. Well, must get mail.” Jessie’s voice sounded foreign to herself, slightly stilted and unreal. In a short while, they’d each be back with their families, lives that felt as foreign as her voice, as distasteful as Masha and her apartment. Jessie with her husband and daughter, her lover with her female partner and their adopted son. Separately, their lives

were transitory, waiting for their real lives to begin. What if Jessie’s devilish son met her lover’s light-hearted daughter and when they came of age, they married? Or what if they had money, enough to buy a big house for all four of them, or at least enough money to get a motel room instead of making love on the Freudian bed? One of them pushed the other ahead, and quickly they navigated themselves out of Masha’s sight, and opened the heavy outside door to a blast of the dense, humid air. It was 96 degrees, a heat wave. Where does one go in a heat wave? They could not go backwards, they could not move forward, out the door, into the raging sunlight, into their day that would end too soon, thrust back into their temporary lives. They shut the door. Masha was still calling. “Next time, I’ll have something you like!” If she said one more word, they’d have to leave. Not live in the hallway. Not put pillows down and rest on the cool tiles, their names taped to the mailbox. “Girls!” she called. “Girls? You there?” They headed for the car.

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Andi Marquette Andi Marquette was born in Albuquerque and grew up in Colorado. After a couple of academic degrees, she wandered back to Albuquerque and completed a Ph.D. in history. She fell into editing in 1993 and has been obsessed with words ever since. That may or may not be a good thing. She currently resides in Colorado, where she edits, writes, and cultivates her strange obsession with New Mexico chile.

Stacey Darlington Stacey Darlington fills her days as an upholstery artist/furniture designer. At night she spends hours crafting stories and playing her guitar. Her main areas of interest lie in the study of various traditions, specializing in Greek and Native American. Look for her hilarious middle reader, Athena’s Curse, coming soon from Bedazzled Ink’s Dragonfeather Books imprint. Stacey lives in Tampa, Florida with the love of her life, her dog Mavis. But she’s no spinster!

Jove Belle Jove Belle is an author of lesbian fiction. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her partner of 14 years and their three children. Her published work includes her novels Edge of Darkness, Split the Aces, and Chaps (Due out 12/09), along with many short stories. To learn more about her life and her writing, visit her online at http://jovebelle.wordpress.com

Barbara L. Clanton Barbara L. Clanton has written two young adult novels, Out of Left Field: Marlee’s Story and Art for Art’s Sake: Meredith’s Story. Her third young adult novel, Quite an Undertaking: Devon’s Story will be out in November, 2009. Her children’s novel Bases Loaded, is a softball-themed novel and will be out in the summer 2009. She is a native New Yorker who left those “New York minutes” for the slower-paced palm-tree-filled life in Orlando, Florida. She currently teaches mathematics at a college preparatory school in the Orlando area. When she’s not teaching, playing softball, tiling her floors, or evicting possums from the engine block of her RV, “Dr. Barb” plays bass guitar in a local band called The Flounders with her partner who plays the drums. Her ultimate dream is to one day snowbird between upstate New York and central Florida.

S. J. Powers S. J. Powers has a dazzling array of publishing credits and has won a couple of awards. She is completing a collection of stories, working title “Welcome to the Sickhouse.” She can be reached at firegut@sbcglobal.net.