Читать книгу Passing For black - Linda Villarosa - Страница 13

I walked up to the front of Cookie’s at about 6:45, horrified to be arriving early. That seemed so utterly eager and desperate. But maybe it was better to have Cait walk in and see me sitting back, relaxed and cute, than for her to spot me pacing up and down Columbus Avenue looking anxious, disheveled and crazy. I wanted to seem cool—not too excited—but my real feelings were betraying me.

Cookie’s was a funky dive uptown not far from that other university. It served small vegetarian meals, herb tea, wine and beer, and sometimes featured folky live music. It had a definite lesbian vibe, which was why I usually avoided it. I had been dragged there a few years ago with Oz, a friend from college. He lived on the Upper West Side and had been on a health kick and had stopped eating meat altogether. Over seiten stir-fry, mashed sweet potatoes and two glasses of syrah, Oz confessed that he thought it would be very hot to do it with two women. I’d been secretly wondering what it would be like to do it with one woman. He had giggled and looked at me expectantly.

“Oz, you need to pick up two women here then, because I’m not going to be one of them.” I had laughed nervously. He’d always felt more like a brother than anything else. I’d hoped he wasn’t flirting with me. “You see anyone or any two you like?”

We had both looked around. No good prospects for him. Or for me if I had been seriously looking, not just playing this secret, silly little game with myself. This was not exactly the L-Word crowd. Oz had shrugged sheepishly and we’d both laughed.

Oz wasn’t with me tonight, though. I was alone in a lesbian-centric restaurant. Was everybody staring at me? I walked quickly through the small restaurant hoping not to attract attention. When I lifted my head and looked around briefly, I realized how well it was working: No one was paying me any mind. A group of college-age men and women were crowded onto a paisley couch in front of a tableful of books. They were drinking coffee and quizzing each other for an exam of some sort. Next to them, two women sat in thick, dark wood chairs, sharing a sandwich and staring lovingly at a baby in a bouncy seat on top of their table. Nearby a group of women, a sports team I guessed judging from their bloody knees and mud-smeared faces, was drinking beer, jabbing each other and talking loudly.

I made my way to the back, which was dimly lit by a small antique lamp. I sank down into a puffy sofa, and tried to look natural as I waited for Cait. I pulled out a magazine—oops, my own—then shoved it back into my bag. I didn’t want her to see me reading that. Or any magazine. Cait and her crew didn’t seem too keen on the “press.” It was a little dark for reading anyway.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long. Cait strode in, a few minutes early, looking as fresh as first thing in the morning. She was wearing a light blue sweater, low-cut jeans, her hair slightly damp. Walking through Cookie’s, Cait’s stride was comfortable and confident as she looked around for me. She stopped briefly to touch the shoulder of one of the girl jocks, probably a student of hers. Then she spotted me in the back. She smiled big, her face genuinely joyful. As she hugged me tightly, I devoured her scent—Ivory soap and hand-washed laundry hung outside to dry.

“You are beautiful,” she said, looking me up and down, in a way that was appreciative rather than lascivious. There it was, “beautiful.” For a moment I felt just that. “I’m glad to see you.” I was surprised, because she meant it. She was stripped of pretense—no air kisses or sarcasm or prideful holding back.

Her directness was startling and refreshing. I wasn’t used to that, even from men, who tended to use tired pickup lines cribbed from R Kelly. Before Keith, the kind of men I had dated pursued their attraction in some circuitous, careful way. Keith had been mannerly and cautious, taking correct baby steps into our relationship. Before him, I had used an intermediary, a yenta of sorts. “Find out if he likes me before I like him.” After that, I had fallen into one or two relationships almost by default or by accident with a couple of men in college. We had been too polite to admit that sex should’ve been a one-night stand, rather than drunken, accelerated intimacy turned into ill-fitting, three-month couplings. Nothing was wrong with any of these men, but nothing was exactly right either. It’s not you, I wish I could have told each of them at the awkward end of the affairs; it’s your gender.

“Thanks.” I felt shy, giddy and goofy all at the same time.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Cait asked, looking at me with the directness that seemed her trademark. I noticed the suggestion of her British accent again.

“Uh, yes, I’ll have…” and then I stopped. I couldn’t think of what to say. This should’ve been the easy part, the drink. Not THE DRINK. But the decision seemed suddenly weighted. A few seconds passed. Cait tilted her head to the side, staring at me with amusement.

“Um, yes, I’ll have a scotch. On the rocks. With a twist of…lime.” At least I had said something, but why that? I didn’t even like scotch. Did people drink it with lime? Why was I ordering some old man’s brown drink? I sounded like my own grandfather.

“Well, they don’t serve hard liquor here, but they have this great homemade beer.” Cait spoke smoothly, helping me through the uncomfortable moment. “I’m having one; I’ll get you one, too, if that’s okay.”

“Sounds good.”

As Cait went up to the bar to get the drinks, I was starting to feel much more nervous. My forehead and underarms were damp with sweat, and I seemed to have developed a slight tic in my right eyebrow. I felt the hiccoughs coming on. Get it together, girlfriend. Girlfriend? Calm down and don’t call yourself girlfriend. This does not mean you’re a lesbian. This means nothing. You are doing research. With a woman you are attracted to. For an article your boss may not want about a conference the media is barred from. Relax. Do that deep breathing exercise you wrote about in your magazine. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

Oh no, I was doing it too quickly. Blinking, I thought, Oh God, I’m hyperventilating; Cait is going to come back and find me passed out. I needed something to breathe into. A paper bag? Where the hell would I get a paper bag now? I pushed my face into my purse—Kate Spade, real; I’d gotten it at a sale at work—and sucked in air that smelled like lipstick, sugarless gum and a piece of chocolate cake left over from a lunchtime birthday celebration. The cake was wrapped in a napkin next to my engagement ring. Phew, that was better. I pulled my head out of the bag and looked around to make sure Cait hadn’t seen me, but she was exchanging niceties with the beer tender. Okay, more slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. That was much better.

Cait returned to the table with two beers that looked thick as stew. “Here you go.” She put the sweating, oversize mugs in front of us. She looked at me more closely. “Are you okay? You look a little flushed.”

“Yes, I’m warm.” I removed my jacket and fanned myself like one of my great-aunts having a hot flash in church. I was wearing a stretchy sleeveless turtleneck and felt self-conscious and semi-naked.

“You have lovely skin.” Cait ran the back of her hand from my shoulder to my elbow. This was not helping me relax, but I didn’t want her to stop touching me. I needed to get hold of myself. It took the willpower of several people for me to gently pull my arm away.

“Well, er, I wanted to ask you some questions about your conference. I mean, what is a lesbian sex conference, anyway? Is lesbian sex so complicated that lesbians need to share tips? Is it informational, for straight women?” I was speaking so rapidly that I could hardly understand what I was saying. Why was I talking like a member of the White House press corps?

“Which question should I answer first?” Cait rested her cheek on her hand and looked at me intently. Her cheeks were flushed, too, and her eyes that bright, gunmetal gray. I shut my mouth, and smiled.

“Yes, the sex is so complicated that lesbians don’t even agree on what lesbian sex is, so there are endless areas of debate.” I liked that she was funny. But more, I liked sitting so close to her that I could feel heat rising from her skin as she spoke.

“Why don’t you join us next weekend, and you can find out for yourself?”

“Will I need lesbian ID to get in?” I looked at her suggestively and felt a flutter of excitement. I liked this playful, sexy me.

“If you dump your fiancé, I don’t think you need one.” Her gaze remained direct. With the mention of Keith, the light moment had passed. I felt nervous again. Why was I doing some provocative Tracy-Hepburn verbal back and forth with a woman? Actually, with anyone. I wasn’t the flirty type. I was more quietly straightforward. You had to peel off layers to get to my soft, sensual center. Outside of my job as “sex reporter,” when the vibe became even vaguely sexual, my sense of humor generally left the building.

“Listen, just come on Saturday and find out for yourself.” She smiled, and I noticed small lines around her eyes. I had called them “crows’ eyes” when I was a child. I wondered how old Cait was. A little older than me. Thirty-five-ish, I guessed.

“I’ll try,” I said, taking a breath and smiling back. Cait took a swallow of beer, and set the empty glass back on the table.

“Good.” Her voice was velvety and low. We made small talk for a few minutes more before she leaned toward me and brushed her lips very lightly against my cheek. A whisper kiss, like a secret. I moved my face back slowly, and looked into her eyes and lingered for a moment. I felt hot all over; even my hair and the tips of my fingernails were on fire.

“I’ll see you Saturday.” She stood, turned and walked away, moving quickly, with a wide-legged stride. I even liked the way she walked. There was something forceful about it. Not exactly masculine, but not feminine either. She didn’t have that distinctive New-York-City-get-the-hell-out-of-my-way walk. It was something different. She looked purposeful, like she knew where she was going. As I stumbled dizzily out the door, I was the opposite. I looked like I had no idea where I was headed.