Natasha started this thing with Sawyer in a moment of spontaneous hedonism. She can let herself feel good about it until she remembers the online lists of what she’s got to look forward to. She’s spent hours illuminated by blue light, Googling things like ‘Long-term effects of amphetamine use,’‘poly-drug use memory loss,’ and ‘recurrent psychosis after amphetamine abuse.’ Certain phrases stick in her brain, usually the ones about violent behavior and brain damage. She imagines Sawyer reading those pages, her pretty lipsticked mouth sounding out the words, connecting them to the woman she's been sleeping with for almost two months. Natasha closes her eyes. She imagines Lucia telling her to keep going, that she's doing well.
She runs her cigarette under the faucet to put it out, and puts the butt in the bin. In the bedroom, Sawyer is still sleeping, and doesn't stir when draws back the curtains.
Natasha remembers running into an old friend from high school at the mall. She'd had a baby, and they were both old enough that the baby hadn't surprised her. What had surprised Natasha was that when they were talking the baby had started crying, and her schoolmate had just pulled the baby's hat down over his eyes to stop him. It worked immediately, and it was a such an effortlessly confident movement that it had played on Natasha's mind for days. Natasha had forgotten about it until she easily maneuvered Sawyer on to her chest, unwinding her curls from where they are caught in her own armpits. Sawyer starts murmuring, a little frown between her eyes. Natasha kisses her forehead and she quiets again.
Natasha doesn't want to put a word to it, but she knows which one she'd choose.
It surprises Natasha, but they sleep steadily until they are both awoken by Sawyer's alarm. Sawyer takes a while to wake properly, staring mindlessly at the curtains while Natasha fires up the coffee maker.
Sawyer eventually gets up to shower and dress. Natasha toasts them both a bagel and they eat them standing. Sawyer rests one hand on Natasha’s hip and wedges a foot between Natasha’s, leaning their bodies together. This close, Natasha can see the signs of exhaustion in her face.
“Thank you for last night, I really appreciate it”
“That’s fine,” Natasha pauses to swallow, “It’s what I’m here for.”
“Yeah,” Sawyer breathes, “I guess it is.”
She leans in to kiss Natasha. It’s slow, slows down Natasha’s thoughts. She forgets that there’s a world beyond this square patch of sunlight next to the sink.
“You can stay here if you want, when I go to work. I’ll leave you with my spare keys.”
Natasha’s heart speeds up. It wouldn’t feel right to be trusted with Sawyer’s whole apartment.
“I need to go the Centre to do some social media stuff for Gillian.”
Sawyer nods, “That’s fine. I’ll leave in about 20 minutes if that’s okay. Hey! You could walk me to the theatre if she’s not expecting you at a particular time.”
Sawyer looks hopeful, and Natasha finds herself agreeing. Sawyer is in a giggly mood this morning. Despite needing to wear all black and thick soled boots for work, her movements are so exaggeratedly femme. She presses herself into Natasha’s side, twists her shoulder into her chest as she laughs, pushes her hair back from her face with the backs of her fingers. It all makes Natasha want to pull out her guts and hand them over to her. As they walk through town, Sawyer makes Natasha stop in front of shops where neither of them could ever afford to shop, points out what she thinks would look good on Natasha.
Out of the blue Sawyer asks her, “How does it work? Do they pay you a flat rate for everything you do at the Centre, or do you invoice them separately for teaching and social media stuff and gardening?”
“How do you mean?” Natasha is startled.
“Well, surely you realize that people usually get paid for doing that?”
Natasha frowns, “Not when they work with friends.”
“Please, Irma’s my friend. Kimberly’s my best friend and we worked together last year. You deserve to be recognized for your work and your talent.”
Natasha turns to draw Sawyer’s attention to a jacket in a window she thinks would look good on her.
When they get to the theatre Natasha expects to leave Sawyer at the door, but Sawyer’s pulling her through corridor after corridor, each lined with flight cases and boxes of shoes labeled by time period.
“You should come in,” says Sawyer, leaning on a large brushed-steel door. “No, wait," Sawyer says, planting her palm on Natasha's chest, "I want you to see it when it’s done.” Natasha doesn’t know quite what to do with herself now.
“Can you remember the way you came in?” Natasha definitely doesn’t, but as if she’d ever admit that. Sawyer gives her one long, deep kiss before she says she has to go. Natasha spends fifteen minutes in the bowels of the theatre trying to find the exit. By the time she’s on the street she’s gasping, and she breaks into a light jog to burn off the adrenaline.
Natasha doesn’t see
