Sapphic Voices Romance

Captured

Part One

This was Saturday morning. Good. She could die in peace, maybe by Sunday night she'd have the electrolytes back to normal and just a slight case of Lisa Phillips. With any luck, Lisa would be relegated to "friend" status and then this business of trying to become lovers could be over. Besides, it was an uncomfortable position to be in: to be the chaser, the pursuer.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God."

The mantra was the hot, sour prayer of the hopeless. Hollis lay curled up with her forehead pressed against the cool porcelain toilet. What had she been thinking? Three drinks and she'd be transformed into the most beautiful, seductive creature Lisa had ever known? Five and Lisa would fall madly in love with her? Dammit! She pounded the heel of her hand against the floor and fired a poisonous round through her head. She groaned again. Lisa had her tied up in knots and it just wasn't fair. For all her forthrightness, Lisa was stealthily reserved about her feelings for Hollis. This coquettish shit had gone from charming to maddening in four weeks flat. Hollis had the bottles of Chevas Regal to prove it.

"You alright?" Jackie asked drily. The answer was a low, wounded groan. The heavy, sharp smell of sulphur crept from under the door.

When Hollis emerged, long fingers of bluish smoke drifted from around her shoulders. In her right hand she held a spent book of matches from a high tech, low Chinese restaurant. Her left hand cinched the tail end of an over-sized, moss colored T-shirt. Slowly she shuffled down the hallway, on tilt and steering left like an old grocery cart. Damn that Hollis, Jackie thought. Even in her less than finest hour, Hollis was still beautiful, maybe even more so now that her throng of minions weren't sniffing her crotch. Hollis' hair draped over one eye like soft, shiny mink in the bright sun. She was laboring, breathing a wisp of it in and out of the corner of her mouth. However, the spoils of last night's fun were poorly camouflaged by the matches and Jackie backed away, stifling a gag. Hollis managed to get through the bedroom door and drop into bed.

Jackie watched Hollis with detached interest, her light green eyes like a dead fish. A closer look at those eyes reflected a mentally agitated woman. Whatever sexual attraction might have been ignited was soon consumed by a greater conflagration and burned out. Most women were caught off guard and bolted, running for safety. But Jackie was secure in her font of obscure knowledge, which stank conspicuously like new money screaming for attention. Behind her back, her friends jokingly referred to this as illuminati pro forma. The fact that Jackie had any friends at all was owed to her great connections, the wonderful parties she threw, and her three point shot. Jackie's verbal swords often declared wars not really meant to be won. But when she took interest in someone, she became so single minded with conviction, the poor quarry soon surrendered, casting a wary eye on the clock, waiting for the monologue to end. Hollis was one of those casualties, but a beloved friend nonetheless. She liked having Hollis around for the most part. Hollis was a good sparring partner.

The ceiling was a spinning vortex and Hollis flung a leg over the side of the bed to anchor herself. Jackie was banging away in the kitchen, cleaning up from last night's party, making sure Hollis knew her present condition was not appreciated. Hollis muffled a hoarse laugh in the crook of her elbow and knew that her roommate would be cool towards her for several days. It was easily rectifiable. She'd make Jackie's favorite casserole and everything would return to normal. Slowly, she cracked open an eye and looked at the clock. The ceiling played a dirty trick and came crashing down on her head.

Hollis shot out for the bathroom again and sent Jackie crashing into the wall.

"Shit!"

"Sorry, sorry..." the apology gurgled out as Hollis dived head first into the commode. Jackie bit down on her lower lip, cutting off bright red curses. She sneered and slammed the door shut, leaving Hollis to fend for herself.

Admittedly, this was something new for Hollis. She couldn't even recall the last time she'd been drunk, spewing like Mount Etna. Women avidly pursued her and she usually had her pick of the best of them. She was irresistible with her great sense of sexy, offbeat humor. Most importantly, she made them feel special, wanted. But this came easy for Hollis who genuinely found each of them likeable and interesting in their own ways. This all left her feeling quite safe until talk of more serious things came up. Then it was exit, stage left. A friendship was forged from dreamy memories; and, if commitment were left out of it, every once in a while bedroom privileges were extended.

Lisa Phillips was different. She knew of Hollis' reputation for being the grand dame amoureuse; whatever seductive trap Hollis might lay, Lisa deftly stepped around with keen regularity. She left Hollis dangling by the slightest thread of hope that there might be more than spice tea between them on cold nights.

"Damn!" The cursing was becoming a regular thing. Hollis made a foggy mental note to purge herself of the sailor talk by Monday. In the meantime, she cursed Lisa Phillips for all things great and small. As much as she hated smoking, she rooted around for an emergency cigarette. She'd nursed the same stale pack for six months now. She only lit up when things seemed desperate. And this was desperation at its finest. With shaking fingers she lit the end of a generic cancer stick. It took her mind off her stomach. In fact, it seemed to calm her nerves a little.

She went out to the garden, away from the slamming cabinet doors and Jackie's dead fish eye stares. She pitched the smoldering butt down the kitchen disposal and went out. In a fit of melancholy, she picked a wild onion and crunched the crisp spring green. Soon the hot peppery taste was buzzing in her mouth, flooding her dark gray eyes with tears. Sounds of an acoustic guitar being tuned and then strummed filled the morning air. It was a moving song; fingers plucked an intricate staccato, weaving note upon golden note. Each minor chord bent bittersweetly and hung in the air on a wayward note, like a question. There was a pause, an afterthought, and the music began again. Hollis heard the whispered curses as the woman searched for the answer. Like a thief, Hollis picked up the damp, curled newspaper in the drive and moved closer to the house where her neighbor lived. This neighbor she hardly knew. It was their habit to remain strangers. If their eyes met at all, it was a mistake.

The phone rang and the song was amputated again. Without meaning to, Hollis ears strained to hear the conversation, to know if there was someone special who shared the woman's life. There was laughter and the clack of earthenware being pulled down from the cupboard. Hollis could tell from the sounds that two places were being set. A few gurgling sputters from across the street, and Mrs. Cheatham's sprinkler bloomed a misty arch of water. Mrs. Cheatham nodded a greeting in Hollis' direction and tried not to notice her bare feet, the too large tee shirt, or Hollis peeking through the heavy laden magnolia to the house next door. Hollis waved the paper at her; it was her explanation, her apology, her thin defense. The elderly woman's lips spread in a yellowed victory garden grin, full of triumph and conspiracy. Just for show, Hollis picked a large, waxy magnolia and took it inside. Out the corner of her eye, she could see Mrs. Cheatham's grin melt into uncertainty.

Soon Hollis returned to the wild garden and began weeding. It was good to work. The sun was beating heat through the old cotton print dress and melting away the alcohol from her skin. The cold, indecent fire in her heart for Lisa was flickering, dying. Hollis drank deep, sighing gulps of water from the hose and sat down in the furrow of rich dark earth, shielding her eyes with the trowel, afraid the sun had played tricks on her.

The neighbor was standing there, like some ethereal creature and the creature seemed to say: "Would you like some tomatoes?" She stammered a little and thrust the fruit at Hollis as if she wished to be anywhere else but where she was, and would kindly leave if only Hollis would just take the damn things. Hollis still said nothing and looked for the longest time at the woman's hands. The hands that cultivated succulent tomatoes and made such sweet music. They were larger than Hollis'; they were intelligent looking.

Finally Hollis let her off the hook, and smiled, accepting the neighborly gesture with quiet thank yous. One overly ripe tomato fell in the tent of her lap and when she reached for it, it burst and squirted red fleshy seeds.

Hollis laughed out loud, but the woman stoically went about cleaning her up, as if she'd thrown up on Hollis. The neighbor, whose name was Susan, persisted and turned her blue eyes on Hollis. They were steel blue and there was no other choice but to accept them.

S.L. Dutton's e-mail address is unavailable.

Click here for a list of all of S.L. Dutton's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.