"I'm sorry that the Riot Grrl movement did not penetrate my consciousness when I was a seven year old in rural Wisconsin."
Natasha laughs and kisses her other cheek and gestures to a brown paper bag sitting on the side, "I bought us croissants."
"Can I have coffee in my mug? The pink one with the palm trees?"
Sawyer had spotted it at the back of Natasha's cupboard once when she was looking for a proper wine glass, and she's been using it ever since.
Natasha is teaching most of the day, and Sawyer plans to meet her later for gay yoga. Sawyer pulls together an olive, apple and couscous salad from the strange contents of Natasha's refrigerator and cupboard. She tips it into the only Tupperware with a lid and presses it into Natasha's hands.
They linger at the top of the steps, Sawyer finds it hard to pull her lips from Natasha. She's covering herself in Natasha's red lipstick, she doesn't care. It's a cold East Coast morning, she's only wearing a little satin slip with the batik couch throw looped over her shoulders. If Natasha's downstairs neighbours come out and look up they'll have an eyeful.
She cups the balls of Natasha's elbows with her hands, tickles the backs of her biceps. She pops her hip so she can wedge her bent leg between Natasha's. Natasha laughs, tries to break away. Sawyer kisses her big white teeth instead. Natasha drops her keys into Sawyer's hand, "Can you lock up for me?"
Sawyer doesn't snoop. It's tempting, she knows she could probably find a diary or sketchbook to answer some of the morbid questions that have been forcing themselves into her brain at odd moments.
Instead, she makes herself a pot of coffee and chooses a couple of books from Natasha's haphazard shelves. There's a book of poetry written by people experiencing addiction. It looks well-thumbed. It's clearly a self-published volume, and she scans the contributors list hoping to find Natasha. She isn't listed, but Sawyer reads a few anyway. Some are far too earnest, some too painful and a lot are just obscure, full of metaphors and allusions that Sawyer can't parse. She leaves it on the coffee table.
Sawyer spends the day working on her laptop. Irma's first season as Artistic Director has gone very well, and she's offered her old Chicago creative team to stay with her in Boston and work on her second. Sawyer still misses home. She's never worked for one director, one theatre this long before. But she's not done with Boston yet, certainly not done with Natasha. It's something new, something Sawyer knows that she needs to nurture carefully. She thinks about feeding tired bees, watching their frond-like tongues lap sugar water from a spoon, hoping they get stronger, waiting for the buzz as they become airborne. She wants to do this work, it feels important.
She scours the industry forums and job postings for signs that she's missing out on something else, but she knows she's made her mind up. She drafts a letter to her landlord asking for a four month extension on her lease, something she was offered when she moved in but wasn't sure if she would need.
She heads to the centre an hour or so early. Before she goes, she wedges one of Natasha's chunky silver rings on her finger. Natasha probably wears this one on her middle finger, but it fits best on Sawyer's ring finger. Sawyer doesn't know the symbol stamped on it, but she likes that it is smooth from wear.
She's timed it well, when she gets to the centre Natasha is nowhere to be seen. The mess tables are mostly empty, there are only a few people typing on their laptops or making notes. She leaves her coat on, wedges her hands deep in her pockets as she fixes her eyes on the person she needs to talk to.
"Hi, Lucia, mind if I grab you real quick while it's pretty quiet?"
Lucia has her tablet in her hands, looks like she's deep into typing a long email. She sighs but puts it aside.
Lucia gestures to a kick stool on the floor. Sawyer sits on it obediently but her legs are too long, and the stool too short, for her to be able to sit comfortably. Her knees are bent at a savage angle right in front of her face.
"Sawyer, good to see you. Did you have a fun weekend?"
Lucia is always poised, always polished. But Sawyer doesn't miss the flicker of apprehension in her eyes.
"It was great, thanks," Sawyer says brightly. "So, Natasha told me you've been friends since you were eighteen. You moved from the South for college. Is that right?"
Lucia nods, fiddles with the knobs of the enormous coffee machine.
"But you decided to leave college to work full time. Natasha says you've been amazing here. Inspirational, she says."
Lucia nods but looks unsure, "What are you after?"
"Nothing. I was just interested because I had a similar experience really. I left home to go to college and never went back. Of course, working is harder than college. But we used to work on real productions, real audiences, so I guess it is similar."
Lucia whistles, "Good for you."
Lucia folds some dry, clean dishcloths, places them in a drawer.
Sawyer starts again, "What I'm trying to say is, I don't think I would have had the emotional maturity to deal with
