Chapter 6: The Morning Run
The silence in the house after that night on the couch had been a physical thing, a thick, choking fog. For three days, Evelyn moved through the rooms like a ghost, jumping at every text notification, her heart hammering when a car door shut outside. The memory of Jane’s fingers inside her, the shocking, undeniable rightness of that touch, played on a loop in her mind, a filmstrip she couldn’t burn. She’d touched herself thinking about it, in the shower, under the covers, a frantic, shameful mimicry that left her aching and hollow. Afterwards, the guilt would crash down—Daniel’s kind, absent face floating behind her eyes.
She’d ignored Jane’s first three texts. Simple, breezy things. Hope you slept okay. Coffee later? Then, I feel like I overstepped. Can we talk? The last one, a voicemail she’d listened to four times, Jane’s voice uncharacteristically soft. “Evelyn. Please. I’m sorry if I scared you. I just… I got carried away. You’re so beautiful when you let go. Let me make it up to you. Just a chat. In public, anywhere you want.”
The avoidance was a full-time occupation. She’d peek through the blinds before checking the mail. She let the Etsy order notifications pile up. She considered, hysterically, calling Daniel and begging him to come home, but the words would choke her. How could she explain the panic without revealing its source?
Jane, however, was a patient hunter. On the fourth day, a small, elegant pot of orchids appeared on the front porch with a note. No strings. Just an apology. - J. It was the kind of gesture Daniel never made. On the fifth day, as Evelyn scurried to her car, Jane was suddenly there, leaning against her own SUV, dressed in simple jeans and a sweater, looking more vulnerable than Evelyn had ever seen her.
“Five minutes,” Jane said, her blue eyes earnest. “On the sidewalk. In broad daylight. I just need you to know I’m not a monster.”
Evelyn had paused, her keys biting into her palm. “What you did…”
“I know,” Jane interjected, pushing off the car. “And it was selfish. You were half-asleep, vulnerable. I took advantage. But Evelyn,” she took one careful step closer, “you were also right there with me. Your connection with me. That wasn’t just me. That was us.”
The truth of it was a hot knife. Evelyn looked away, at the neat suburban lawns, anywhere but at Jane’s knowing face. “I’m straight.”
“I know you are. And I’m not asking you to become like me. I’m asking for a friend who maybe… explores some things with you. Safely. Consensually. With clear lines.” Jane’s voice dropped to a practical, soothing murmur. “A morning run. That’s all. Just two neighbors getting some air. In public. On the main trail. You set the pace. You can literally run away from me if you want.”
It sounded reasonable. It sounded sane. A run was neutral territory, athletic, not intimate. It was a way to dissipate the nervous energy crackling under her skin. A way to maybe, finally, stop thinking about the slick heat between her legs that only that memory seemed to soothe.
“Okay,” Evelyn heard herself say, the word small and dry. “A run. Tomorrow. Seven AM. On the main river trail.”
The victory in Jane’s eyes was subtle, a faint warm glow, quickly banked. “Perfect. I’ll be here.”
The morning was cool, the sky a pale watercolor wash. Evelyn wore high-waisted black running leggings and a loose tech tee, a deliberate armor. Jane, waiting on the sidewalk, was a study in deliberate sensuality in skin-tight black lycra shorts that cut high on her taut thighs and a cropped, slate-grey sports bra that revealed the defined planes of her deep cleavage and sculpted abdomen. The platinum of her hair was stark in the dawn light.
“You look ready to flee,” Jane smiled, falling into an easy jog beside her.
“I am ready to run,” Evelyn corrected, setting a brisk pace.
Jane matched her effortlessly, her breathing steady. They didn’t speak for the first mile, just the rhythmic slap of their shoes on pavement, the sounds of the waking city. It was almost normal. Almost.
“So you’ve been hiding in your studio,” Jane said conversationally as they turned onto the lush, wooded river trail.
“Working.”
“Liar.” Jane’s tone was light, teasing. “You’ve been thinking. A lot. Your brain must be exhausted.”
Evelyn shot her a look. “You don’t know what I’ve been thinking.”
“I can guess. You’re thinking: I’m straight. I love my husband. That was a bizarre, one-time lapse. Then you remember the specific way my middle finger curled, and your whole body clenches, and the theory falls apart.”
Evelyn’s breath hitched. It was a direct, obscene hit. “Stop it.”
“I’m just naming the monster, Ev. It’s less scary once it has a name.” Jane pointed ahead where the trail forked. “Let’s go left. There’s a nicer view, and there’s a community yoga class in the pavilion by the lake. We can cool down, watch the sunrise.”
Before Evelyn could protest, Jane had subtly steered them onto the left path. The trees thickened, dappling the path with shadows. Jane’s arm brushed against hers with every other stride, the contact a tiny, repeated electric shock.
The pavilion emerged from the mist rising off the lake, a wide, open wooden structure. And Jane had understated it. It wasn’t just a yoga class; it was a gathering of perhaps twenty women, a sea of undulating, lycra-clad forms silhouetted against the peach and gold sky. Soft, ambient music mingled with the sound of synchronized breathing.
“See? Public,” Jane whispered, leading her to a bench at the periphery. “Very public.”
They sat, stretching their legs. Evelyn’s heart was already pounding from the run, but it now began to thrum for a different reason. Her eyes, against all her will, were dragged to the group.
The instructor stood at the front, a woman of breathtaking physical command. She wore a high-necked but backless sports bra in deep violet, and leggings so sheer and dark they looked painted on. Every muscle in her torso was etched with definition, her shoulders powerful as she guided the class into a slow, flowing vinyasa. “Inhale, reach. Exhale, fold.”
But Evelyn wasn’t watching the posture. She was watching the body. The way the violet lycra of the bra stretched taut over full, rounded breasts, the dark circles of her nipples clearly outlined against the fabric, peaked and firm from the morning chill or simply arousal from the movement. The leggings plunged low on her hips, the high-cut legs revealing the powerful sweep of her glutes, and in the front, a distinct, soft seam that traced the delicate division of her lower lips, emphasized by the unforgiving tightness of the material.
A hot, strange ache pooled in Evelyn’s belly. She tore her eyes away, only to have them land on another woman nearby. This one was in coral pink, a second-skin outfit that left nothing to chance. She moved into a downward dog, and the position inverted her chest, the weight of her breasts pulling the fabric into a straining, shadowed crevice. The rounded outlines of her areolas were visible, and as she shifted, the pull of the lycra across her mound was explicit, outlining a neat, prominent vulva.
"Oh, God." The thought slithered through Evelyn’s mind, stark and lewd. "You can see everything." It was like being let into a secret, sacred world of feminine shapes she was never supposed to notice this way. She felt like a voyeur, a pervert. But her gaze, hungry and ashamed, kept drifting.
A pair of women near the back worked in tandem, one assisting the other into a deeper stretch. The helper, in cobalt blue, leaned over, her own breasts swaying gently in their tight enclosure, her nipple a pointed tip against the blue. Her hand was splayed on the small of her friend’s back, slipping just under the waistband of her leggings. They smiled at each other, a quiet, intimate exchange that spoke of touch and trust.
Evelyn’s mouth went dry. She imagined Jane’s hands on her like that. Guiding her. Not in the shadowy living room, but here, in the open air, with everyone seeing and somehow approving. The fantasy was dizzying. She could almost feel the whisper of lyca against her own skin, the humiliation of her own body’s response visible to anyone who cared to look.
“It’s okay to look,” Jane murmured, her voice a warm breeze in Evelyn’s ear. She hadn’t even noticed Jane leaning so close. “You’re allowed to appreciate beauty. It’s just anatomy. Beautiful, powerful, sexy anatomy.”
“It’s… like they’re almost naked,” Evelyn breathed, her voice trembling.
“They’re clothed. But the clothing honors the form, doesn’t hide it.” Jane’s own leg, slick in the short black lycra, pressed against Evelyn’s. “Look at that one, in the silver.”
Evelyn followed the subtle tilt of Jane’s head. A tall woman with a long blonde braid was in a warrior pose, one leg bent, the other stretched back. The metallic silver leggings shimmered, a mirror to the sky, and were so tight they seemed to have been poured onto her. The fabric dipped into the precise cleft of her buttocks, and across her pelvis, it formed a distinct, camel-toe shadow, the contours of her labia meticulously defined, a clear, inviting split in the shimmering material.
A pulse of raw, wet heat throbbed between Evelyn’s own legs. Her running leggings felt suddenly oppressive, coarse. She imagined what she must look like sitting here, if someone could see through her own clothes. Was her body that… legible? That available for reading? The thought should have horrified her. Instead, it sent a secret, thrilling jolt through her veins.
“What are you thinking right now?” Jane asked, her lips so close her breath tickled Evelyn’s earlobe.
“I’m thinking…” Evelyn swallowed, the confession torn from her. “I’m thinking I’ve never let myself see women this way. As… objects. But they’re not objects. They’re… they’re breathtaking." The last word was a whisper, a shameful surrender.
Jane didn’t gloat. She simply nodded, as if Evelyn had confirmed a fundamental truth of the universe. “I know you do. Your body knew it weeks before your mind caught up.” Jane paused, letting Evelyn’s gaze wander back to the sea of glistening skin and sinuous fabric. “That wanting doesn’t make you a bad wife. It makes you a alive, complex woman. Daniel isn’t here, Ev. He’s chosen not to be here. You are.”
The instructor’s voice rang out, clear and calm. “Now, find a partner. Move into a supported fish pose. Open the heart, and let your partner hold the space for you.”
All around them, women paired off. Soft laughter, gentle touches, hands on backs, on shoulders. One woman lay back into her partner’s lap, chest arching upward, her throat exposed, her partner’s hands cradling her ribcage, thumbs perilously close to the sides of her breasts.
Evelyn watched, mesmerized, her own heart feeling like it was cracking open. The intimacy was palpable, a current of unspoken female energy that flowed around her, through her. She was outside of it, aching to be inside it.
Jane’s hand came to rest, lightly, on Evelyn’s thigh, just above the knee. The heat of it seared through the running fabric. “This is what I wanted to show you. This… possibility. It doesn’t have to be a secret, shameful thing in the dark. It can be like this. Open. Accepting. Beautiful.”
Evelyn turned her head. Jane’s face was inches away, her blue eyes reflecting the dawn and something darker, hungrier. Her gaze flicked down to Evelyn’s mouth. The memory of their almost-kiss in the kitchen, the feel of Jane’s fingers inside her on the couch, collided with the present visual feast.
“Jane, I can’t…” she started, the protest automatic, but hollow as she knew she had reacted more passionately to lesbian porn like a breath of fresh air.
“You can,” Jane said, her thumb making a slow, infinitesimal circle on Evelyn’s leg. “You will. But not today. Today, you just watch. And feel.”
And Evelyn did. She let herself look, really look. She traced the outline of every breast, the hard points of nipples pushing against pastel and dark fabrics. She followed the sinuous lines of spines dipping into low waistbands, the perfect, rounded apples of buttocks sculpted by leggings, the unmistakable, soft outlines of pudenda pressed against straining lycra. Her thoughts were no longer coherent sentences but a flood of sensations: the imagined feel of that silver fabric under her palms, the taste of sweat on a collarbone, the weight of a breast in her hand, the hidden, slick warmth beneath those tight, defining seams.
The class ended with a collective Om that vibrated in the cool air. Women began to roll up their mats, hugging, chatting, sharing water bottles. The spell was breaking, but it had been cast irrevocably inside Evelyn.
She stood up abruptly, her legs unsteady. “We should go.”
Jane rose smoothly, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. She said nothing as they began a slow walk back along the trail. The silence was different now, charged with everything that had been seen, everything that had been acknowledged.
After a few minutes, Jane spoke, her tone casual again. “So, the new Starfall exhibition opens at the modern art museum next week. Supposed to be incredible. You interested?”
It was a normal question. A friend asking another friend to an event. But nothing was normal anymore. The invitation was a line thrown across a new, terrifying, and exhilarating chasm.
Evelyn looked ahead at the path, the dappled light, the ordinary world trying to reassert itself. She saw the outline of her own breasts in her loose shirt and wondered, fiercely, what they would look like held in by tight, thin lycra. What she would look like, exposed like that, for Jane. For herself.
She took a shaky breath. “Maybe. Send me the details.”
Send me the details.
The words hung between them, a delicate bridge made of smoke. Jane just nodded, her smile not widening, not betraying the surge of victory that sang through her veins. She understood the fragile weight of that maybe. It was the sound of a lock clicking open, not a door swinging wide.
“I’ll text you the link,” Jane said, her voice impossibly normal, as if they hadn’t just shared a ceremony of quiet, collective ogling. She increased her walking pace just slightly, forcing Evelyn to keep up. “The reviews say it’s immersive. Lots of light projections, soundscapes. Something to get the brain thinking in new patterns.”
Evelyn made a non-committal hum. Her own brain felt stripped, rewired. Every woman they passed on the trail now—a jogger in a tight tank, a dog-walker in yoga pants—was suddenly a map of hidden contours. She saw the pull of fabric across a chest, the shift of a backside, and her mind instantly supplied the image from the pavilion: the precise, outlined anatomy beneath. It was exhausting. It was exhilarating. She felt like she had been given a pair of x-ray glasses attuned solely to feminine form, and she couldn’t take them off.
They reached their street. The sun was properly up now, baking away the dew, turning their neighborhood bland and wholesome again. The two houses sat side-by-side, hers with its cheerful yellow door, Jane’s with its modern, slate-grey facade. A canyon separated them.
“Well,” Evelyn said, stopping at her own walkway. She crossed her arms, a self-protective gesture. “Thanks for the run.”
“Anytime.” Jane wiped a phantom strand of hair from her forehead, the movement pulling her crop top taut for a second. She let the silence linger just a beat too long, watching Evelyn’s eyes flicker away. “You should hydrate. And maybe take a cool shower. You look… flushed.”
Evelyn knew she was being teased, studied. She turned without another word and let herself inside, closing the door on the vivid, disturbing morning. She leaned against the cool wood, listening. Jane’s footsteps, light and confident, moved next door. A lock disengaged. Silence.
The house enveloped her, its quiet now a screaming void. Daniel’s absence was a tangible presence in the neatly folded newspaper on the coffee table, in the single, clean coffee mug in the dishwasher. She walked to the living room, her eyes drifting, against her will, to the couch. The cushions were plumped, innocent. But she saw the indentation of Jane’s body, the shadow where her own legs had been spread. The memory was no longer a blurred, guilty secret; it was crystalline, sharpened by the morning’s visual feast. She could feel the specific, clever pressure of Jane’s fingers, the shocking wetness of her own response. Her body clenched, a hollow, aching pulse.
“No,” she said aloud, her voice strange in the quiet. She marched to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, drank it down. The water did nothing. The ache was deeper than thirst.
Her phone chimed. A text from Jane. Not the exhibition link. A picture. It was a close-up, artistic shot of the orchid she’d left on the porch, dew sparkling on a pale purple petal. The caption read: It survived the night. Tough little thing.
Evelyn stared at it. It was a benign image. A plant. But it was a tether. A reminder that Jane was thinking of her, was persistent, was watching. She didn’t reply. She placed the phone face-down on the counter as if it were radioactive.
The next few days passed in a strange, suspended rhythm. Jane didn’t text again about the run, or the couch, or anything suggestive. Her messages were breezy, mundane. Saw a recipe for that lemon pasta you like, attached it. UPS guy left a package for you by my door, want me to bring it over? She was rebuilding the scaffold of normalcy, plank by careful plank. Evelyn responded in kind, with terse politeness. Thanks for the recipe. I’ll get the package later.
But her internal world was a riot. She found herself scrolling through the yoga studio’s Instagram feed, lingering on images of powerful, flexing bodies in minimalist activewear. She would close the app, disgusted with herself, and minutes later her fingers would seek it out again. She tried working on her Etsy orders—delicate, floral-printed baby onesies—but her hands felt clumsy, her mind adrift. The soft pastels of the fabrics seemed childish, insubstantial against the mental image of slick, dark lycra.
Daniel called from Singapore, his voice tinny with distance and fatigue. “Hey, you. How’s my girl?”
“I’m okay,” she said, pressing the phone to her ear as she stared out the kitchen window at Jane’s dark windows. “Just… busy. Orders are picking up.”
“That’s great, honey. Listen, it’s chaos here. The client is being a nightmare. I might have to stay through the weekend. Maybe into next week.”
A part of her, the good wife part, should have felt disappointment. A twinge of loneliness. Instead, a treacherous, liquid relief seeped through her. More time. More space.
“That’s… a long time,” she managed, her tone carefully neutral.
“I know. I miss you. I’ll make it up to you. A fancy dinner when I’m back. Whatever you want.”
What do I want? The question echoed in the hollow space he couldn’t fill. She thought of the silver-legginged woman, arching her back in the dawn light. “Sure, Daniel. That sounds nice.”
After the call, she felt marooned. The silence of the house was no longer just empty; it was expectant. It was waiting to be filled with something else.
The text about the exhibition came on Thursday evening. It was no casual link. It was a fully formed plan.
Starfall opens Friday night. Member previews at 7. I have two passes. We can go, get cultured, then ditch the crowd for a quiet drink after. There’s a wine bar I know that does amazing small plates. Low-key. Just a decompress after all the visual stimulation. What do you say?
It was perfectly pitched. Cultural, adult, with an explicit promise of no pressure. The ‘low-key’ was a masterstroke. It offered an off-ramp, a definition of the evening that Evelyn could accept without feeling she was stepping into an abyss. Just a decompress.
Evelyn read it a dozen times. She stood in her studio, surrounded by the innocent trappings of her old life—the ribbon spools, the pastel card stock—and felt the pull of the new one, dark and sleek and promising a kind of saturation her current existence utterly lacked. She thought of Daniel, harried in a conference room on the other side of the planet. He hadn’t asked what her plans were. He assumed there were none.
Her thumbs hovered over the screen. Just a friend. At an art show. It’s what people do.
She typed back. Okay. Friday. 7 is fine.
Jane’s reply was instantaneous. Perfect. Wear something you feel amazing in. See you then.
The directive was subtle, but it was there. Feel amazing in. Not ‘nice’. Not ‘appropriate’. Amazing. It was an invitation to consider her own body as an object of sensation, not just presentation. Evelyn closed her eyes. In the darkness behind her lids, she didn’t see Daniel. She saw Jane’s knowing, blue gaze.
Friday arrived, heavy with unspent rain and portent. Evelyn spent too long getting ready. She tried on three dresses. One was too wifely, a floral wrap dress Daniel loved. She took it off. Another was too aggressively date-like, a little black dress that felt like a declaration. She discarded that too. She settled on a pair of tailored, emerald-green trousers that hugged her hips and a simple silk shell the colour of cream. It was elegant, stylish, but with a slight androgynous edge the trousers gave her. It felt like a compromise between who she was and who she might be exploring. She left her auburn hair down, brushed until it shone.
When she opened the door, Jane was leaning against her porch rail. She wore black, head to toe: tailored, slim-fit trousers, a silky blouse unbuttoned one button lower than strictly necessary, a tailored blazer. The platinum of her hair was a shock against the dark fabric. Her eyes travelled down Evelyn’s body, a slow, appraising journey that left a visible trail on Evelyn’s skin.
“You look,” Jane said, letting the pause stretch, “incredible. Green is your colour. It makes your eyes look like deep forest pools. Dangerous.”
Evelyn flushed, the compliment too intimate, too specific. “Thanks. You look very… New York.”
“That’s the idea.” Jane grinned, offering her arm. “Shall we?”
The museum was crowded, buzzy. The Starfall exhibition was a labyrinth of darkened rooms pulsating with projected galaxies, nebulae swirling across walls and floors, symphonic electronic music thrumming through the air. It was easy to get separated, to become anonymous in the crowd. They didn’t talk much, just moved through the spaces, occasionally pointing out a particularly stunning visual effect. The art was overwhelming, sensuous in its own way, a bombardment of light and sound that lowered barriers. Evelyn felt her shoulders loosen, the constant hum of her own anxiety drowned out by the immersive noise.
In a room where a million pinpoint stars swirled around them, Jane leaned close, her lips brushing Evelyn’s ear to be heard over the music. “It makes you feel small, doesn’t it? Insignificant. Like the rules you make for yourself are so ridiculous.”
Evelyn shivered. She didn’t pull away. The stars reflected in Jane’s eyes, twin universes being born. “It’s just light.”
“It’s a feeling,” Jane corrected softly. Then she straightened, the moment broken. “I need the ladies’. I’ll meet you by the exit in five?”
Evelyn nodded, watching Jane’s dark form dissolve into the crowd of shifting silhouettes. She felt unmoored again, the spell of the art broken. She made her way to the grand foyer, near the main doors, and waited. She checked her phone. A text from Daniel: In back-to-back dinners. Thinking of you. She didn’t reply.
Jane reappeared, but her demeanour had shifted. A new, controlled energy crackled around her. “Okay,” she said, slipping her phone into her blazer pocket. “Change of plan. The wine bar is packed, reservations screwed up. But I know a place. Totally different vibe, but the cocktails are artisanal, and it’s quiet on a Friday night. A good place to actually talk.”
Evelyn felt a faint prickling of unease. “What kind of place?”
“An old pub. The Velvet Hearth. They renovated it. It’s all dark wood, deep booths, incredible whiskey sours. Trust me.” Jane’s smile was open, guileless. “We can always leave if you hate it.”
The trap was exquisitely baited. A ‘pub’ sounded safe, unglamorous, the antithesis of a predatory scene. A ‘quiet place to talk’ was exactly what she’d said she wanted after the museum’s sensory overload. To refuse would seem paranoid, rude.
“Okay,” Evelyn said, the word feeling like a key turning in a lock she couldn’t see.
The Velvet Hearth was a fifteen-minute drive away, in a neighbourhood of converted warehouses and trendy eateries. From the outside, it looked like any other upscale gastropub: warm light glowing through leaded glass windows, a discreet, brushed-metal sign. Jane held the heavy oak door open for her.
The first wave was sound—a low, resonant hum of conversation and laughter, deeper, richer than a standard bar’s chatter. The second was scent—polished wood, hops, a hint of clove from someone’s cigarette outside. The third was sight.
Evelyn stopped just inside the doorway, her brain processing.
It was beautiful. All dark mahogany, leather, and soft, golden lantern light. It was also, unmistakably, a women’s space. There were men, perhaps one or two, tucked in corners with female partners, but the energy, the demographic, was overwhelmingly, confidently female. Not like the yoga class, which had been about performance and fitness. This was about socializing, intimacy, pleasure.
Pairs and groups of women filled the booths and clustered at the bar. Women in sharp suits, their ties loose. Women in soft flannel and jeans, fingers interlaced on the tabletop. A stunning Black woman in a crimson dress laughing as her date, a butch in a crisp button-down, whispered in her ear. Two older women, grey-haired and elegant, sharing a plate of fries, their comfortable silence speaking of decades together.
And the looks. The glances that flicked to her and Jane as they entered. Appraising, curious, knowing. They weren’t hostile, but they were specific. They placed her. She was with Jane, and Jane’s posture, her confident scan of the room, marked her as a regular. This was her territory. And Evelyn, in her elegant green trousers, was new territory being brought in.
“See? Quiet,” Jane murmured, placing a light hand on the small of Evelyn’s back to guide her forward. The touch was possessive, a signal to the room. Evelyn felt it like a brand.
They slid into a high-backed, upholstered booth in a slightly recessed corner. It was intimate, private, but with a clear view of the room. A view Jane had undoubtedly selected.
A server appeared, a woman with a shaved side of her head and a sleeve of intricate tattoos. “Jane. Haven’t seen you in a bit. Usual?”
“Two of my usual, Sasha. Thanks.” Jane didn’t offer Evelyn a choice. The ‘usual’ was part of the immersion.
When Sasha left, Evelyn leaned forward, her voice a strained whisper. “Jane. This is a… lesbian bar.”
“It’s a pub that’s historically women-owned and queer-friendly, yes,” Jane said, unbuttoning her blazer, perfectly at ease. “The cocktails are fantastic. The vibe is chill. I told you.” She spread her hands. “Look around. Is anyone bothering us? Is it a raucous orgy? It’s people having a drink after work.”
It was true. The scene was civilized, warm, even cozy. But the subtext was a deafening roar. Every interaction Evelyn saw was a lesson. The easy way a woman’s hand rested on her date’s thigh. The prolonged eye contact over the rim of a glass that had nothing to do with conversation and everything to do with hunger. The casual, unselfconscious kisses—a quick peck, a slow, tender meeting of lips—that happened as naturally as breathing.
“Was this your plan all along?” Evelyn thought, her heart pounding yet accepting her fate.
“The art show was art,” Jane, her eyes glinting. “This is life. Unfiltered. I wanted you to see it. No pressure. Just observation. You’re an anthropologist tonight. Study the natives.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to that hypnotic, intimate register. “Look at the two women at the bar. The one in the leather jacket.”
Evelyn’s gaze, against her will, travelled. The woman in the vintage motorcycle jacket had her arm slung over the shoulders of a younger woman in a velvet top. The younger woman was turned into her, speaking animatedly. The older woman wasn’t listening to the words; she was watching her date’s mouth, her eyes dark with a focused, smouldering intent. Her thumb stroked the velvet covering the younger woman’s shoulder, back and forth, a tiny, relentless caress.
“She’s going to kiss her before her sentence is finished,” Jane whispered, a connoisseur predicting a move in a chess game.
And she did. The younger woman was midsentence when the older one leaned in and captured her lips, swallowing the rest of her words. The kiss wasn’t chaste. It was deep, claiming, a silent conversation that rendered speech obsolete. The younger woman melted into it, a hand coming up to cup the leather-clad jaw.
Evelyn’s own lips tingled. She looked away, heat flooding her cheeks, her neck, her chest. She took a gulp of the water Sasha had left.
“It’s so… open,” she breathed.
“Why shouldn’t it be?” Jane’s gaze was steady on her. “They’re not hurting anyone. They’re not cheating on anyone. They’re just existing in their truth, in a space made for it.” She let that word, ‘cheating,’ hang in the air between them, a grenade with the pin pulled.
The drinks arrived—something in a coupe glass, smoky and amber-hued, with a twist of orange.