Natasha lines her eyes with her blunt black liner, powders her sweaty forehead and dusts bronzer under her prominent cheekbones. She never used to buy lipstick that cost more than $1, but Lucia bought her Bang by Urban Decay and now she lets herself wear it when she wants to feel like the person Lucia thinks she is. She isn't too pleased with her reflection. Her mouth looks tight and twisted, and her eyes cold.
The Midway is the other side of Centre Street, and Natasha decides to walk down through the Arnold Arboretum. There's an hour until they shut the park, and Natasha can stop and find her favorite trees. When she was young, her parents used to take her to a different part of the Emerald Necklace during every break between semesters. They'd sit up and mark their papers on the first day of vacation, then they'd take the kids out to see the trees. It's amazing that in the last thirty-four years the trees have barely changed at all.
The maples and the larches have transformed themselves into every shade from gold to burgundy. She stoops to pick up a handful of witch hazel. She likes witch hazel because the leaves turn red from the edges inwards like they are on fire, and they make Natasha feel like Joan of Arc.
The park is mostly empty. She sees a few joggers and a group of college students cradling burritos wrapped in foil as they kick leaves at each other. Natasha slips past them all.
She emerges by the Forest Hills T-stop and leaves her little pile of leaves on the Arboretum wall.
The Midway has a low ceiling and is already sweaty and murky. Pink lights flash over the dance floor, revealing slices of grinding movement. It already smells of weed and that raspberry perfume that seems to be this year's favorite among women who love women in Boston.
Natasha can't stand Queereoke but she falls a little bit in love with Dyke Night every time she comes. She loves all the different women. The ones in plaid, the ones in mesh with little PVC crosses over their nipples. She loves the ones that look like her old art teacher, and the ones that look like they just stepped out of a Cadillac.
Then, because of course it fucking is, it's Sawyer. She's worn her hair loose and parted to the side, and it cascades down over the neckline of an off the shoulder black lace dress. Her shoulders are freckled, and her dress hits the middle of her thighs.
She's determined to stay back, she knows Sawyer's friends will appear soon. They don't want to speak to Natasha, Sawyer's fucking yoga teacher who looks like Sarah Sanderson after a few rough nights on the streets. They are bound to be young, creative types and when they find out that Natasha's a fine art graduate that has barely produced anything of note since college, their tone towards her will surely change.
Ten minutes later and Sawyer's friends are nowhere to be seen. Sawyer sinks two hi ball glasses of what looks like vodka and soda. She wobbles off to the bathroom and when she returns she gets a shot and another drink, and downs both immediately.
Natasha wishes she had spent more time on her hair. She wishes she had worn a cleaner dress. She wishes she hadn't pledged to sobriety. She wishes her internal voice would shut the fuck up.
Sawyer is tall enough that she can sit on the bar stool and cross her legs at the ankles, letting her toes scuff gently on the floor. Natasha isn't short but she's short enough to need to put her feet on the foot-bar. Natasha badly wants to put Sawyer's long legs over her shoulders.
"How come you're on your own?" Natasha asks.
"I was out with the guys from the theatre, but they've all gone home. They have to be with their wives and kids, 'n so," Sawyer pauses. "I looked up the Autostraddle guide to Boston and they say this is a good place to hook up."
With a few drinks inside her, Sawyer keeps slipping off her stool and bouncing herself back on it with her toes, making her tits bounce.
"I'll get another! What are you drinking?" Sawyer leans over and seizes Natasha's drink, sips it.
"That's just pop!" Sawyer wags a finger in Natasha's face.
"I don't drink much," Natasha says quickly. "So how are you finding Boston? I didn't know you lived in JP."
"I don't, I'm in Cambridge on a four-month lease."
Sawyer flags down the bartender. They're an androgynous person with pastel pink hair and an undercut on one side. Sawyer tells them how pretty their hair is, and they blush under Sawyer's gaze. Natasha knows how overwhelming it is to have all that force directed at them.
"So, you're in a hooking up mood?" Natasha asks. The bartender looks over hopefully from where they are fixing another person's drink.
Sawyer looks down and starts swirling her ice with her straw. Sawyer's thick lashes are like little smudges of charcoal on her face, and Natasha feels like a dirty old woman for asking. She starts pulling at the thin flaps of skin either side of her nails as she casts around for a different question to ask Sawyer.
"Lighting, then, what's that like?" Sawyer looks up and Natasha is surprised anew at her eyes. In the dim light of the club her eyes shine like mercury. Which suits her, Natasha thinks. Sawyer sits up straighter and crosses her legs
