"I went to see an exhibition of USSR propaganda and stuff at The Met, and it reminded me of you. I don't know," Sawyer trails off.
"I love it," says Natasha. She grins and tucks it away into her purse. "Thank you, it's very thoughtful of you."
Sawyer says what she came here to say, "If it’s a community centre I should treat it like one, not use it like a McDonalds, 'n so?" Sawyer leans forward in her seat.
She thinks of the broke-ass theatres she knows in areas where white people boast of the 'cultural amenities' in their realtor ads and stick another 10 grand on the price. Or places where people go to the theatre bar for cocktails but don't book tickets to her shows.
"I'll try and tell you when I disappear in future," she finishes.
Natasha sits in silence for a couple of seconds.
"There's no obligation to, but I would really appreciate that. So you were in NYC, anywhere else?"
After that, conversation flows more easily. Natasha only darts back up to the studio when Sawyer spots some of the other women trotting up to the door. Sawyer is torn. She doesn't really want the other women to spot them having a cosy chat, but she also wants them to see how she has Natasha laughing. Sawyer has always liked making people laugh, but with Natasha it comes easier than most. She finds it immensely satisfying to get Natasha flapping her hands, stamping her feet under the table. Sawyer knows when to pause, when to use one of her voices, when to let Natasha beat her to the punch line.
When she sees the other women come through the door, Sawyer stands up. She twists to the side, hopes like hell Natasha is looking at her ass. For a second, Natasha looks completely blank before she stumbles to her feet.
"I've got to get to the theatre to talk to some people," says Sawyer. She bites down on her fingernail and adopts her most obnoxious voice. "I've warned them to wear a maxi pad because they'll be needing something down there by the time I'm done with them."
"Man, mama was right when she told me not to fuck with Virgos."
"Oh, absolutely."
CHAPTER FIVE
✤✤✤
Natasha feels sweaty, rattled. She's not one for infatuation, or anything more than taking someone back to her flat and suggesting they leave fairly soon after she's come. But, thankfully, she doesn’t have much time for rumination before her class arrive. She usually prefers to be stretched and ready before they turn up, but instead she's trooping up the stairs in the middle of the pack.
"Shit – was that girl the one that came for a couple of weeks last month? Did you see her ass?!"
Natasha's sweaty hand slips on the metal railing and she takes the stairs two at a time so she can push ahead.
Natasha decides to do her stretches at the same time as the welcome circle to try and catch up on the minutes she's lost. She's glad she's flopped over, looking at her feet when she says,
"Hi, I'm Natasha! I practically live here. My good thing for this week is that I unexpectedly reconnected with someone that I thought I might not see again!"
The session goes well, and for a while she feels buoyed with new energy. But that evening, she still feels rattled. Natasha's life is a delicate balance. For a long time she was perpetually on the teeter-totter between the noose and the gak. She needs to keep some sort of middle ground. She needs regular contact with the people she respects, but can't get too enmeshed. She needs creativity, but not the untrammeled sort that ends in a three day speed-and-painting extravaganza. She needs regular exercise, but mustn't find herself dizzy and tachycardia on the floor of the gym, with brown piss and far away eyes.
Natasha's flat feels too small. She brushes her teeth four times. She rocks on her feet from her toes to her heels and back again. In the mirror her eyes look restless, there's too much white around her irises, it looks like she's already had a bump of something.
Natasha tries yoga. She twists herself into her most complex poses, and her bones feel relief. She tries to imagine her thoughts as clouds floating across the sky of her mind. She fails. She swings her legs back down to the floor and smokes the last of her pack. She uses her nails to split the cellophane of a new pack. She decides to try and combine smoking and yoga. Ash falls on to her raised knee as she holds her cigarette in her teeth.
She thinks about how sometimes she wants someone, but she knows it's not a good idea. It's a risk, and she doesn't take those any more. She wants to cup a taller woman's breasts with her hands, then let them fall heavily over her own. She wants to curl her fingers inside a slick pussy. She wants to be licked, to feel the heat of a tongue rather than her own blunt fingers. But it's not worth it, in the end.
She does a quick Google and see if they still do the Dyke Night at The Midway. They do, and her small apartment in JP isn't too far away. She should probably text Lucia and Gillian but if
