Tangerine Perfume

"If you end up falling in love with someone, it's because of them. If you end up hating someone, it's because of you."

———

She always waited until the last minute to get ready.

It wasn't that big of an issue. Lots of people were the last-minute sort, the yank clothes off of hangers and stuff it into suitcases sort. There would never be a situation where they broke character and yet everything always worked out for them in some magical, time-bending way. As if the other half who planned and prepared and considered were just a bunch of uptight suckers wasting their lives being uptight suckers.

Taylor sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, her legs crossed at the ankles, bare feet pressed against the rug. She thought about going downstairs but she couldn't bring herself to move. She knew it didn't matter; they were about to spend the next several hours together and then end up right back at the apartment where they would spend another blurry swath of time together. Ten or twenty minutes alone, even thirty, the other woman wouldn't notice.

Taylor picked up her glass of wine and sipped it. There was the sound of a drawer opening, followed by the rattling of small plastic things. She knew exactly what the other woman was looking for because it always started with her searching in the wrong place. The words, second drawer, were hovering behind the seam of her lips. But she remained silent.

The rattling noise became louder, more frantic. It was suddenly cut short by a bang and the whoosh of another drawer opening.

"Second drawer," Taylor called out. A moment later, a figure appeared less than five feet away from her, wrapping her nose in a silky, invisible cloud of perfume.

"Thanks." Jane held up a tube of mascara beside her unclear expression. As she turned back towards the bathroom, she muttered, "Not sure what it was doing in there."

"Besides being with all the other tubes of mascara?"

Her long, dark hair circled around in a dramatic sweep. "It's always in the top drawer," Jane stated.

"I didn't realize there was more than one," Taylor sighed, lifting her wine glass to examine it.

Jane paused in the doorway. As she breathed in, all of the lines defining her bare back stretched as her delicate shoulders rose, "Can you get me a glass of wine, please?"

Taylor stood, her voice coming out like liquid sugar. "Of course, Babe."

As she left the room, a familiar feeling tweaked from within her chest. It reminded her of stepping onto a frozen puddle. There was the initial pressure, usually by a foot, followed by the squeaky crunch that transformed the surface into a spiderweb of cracks. Sometimes the ice was thin enough to break the whole thing into pieces. Other times, it remained intact but would appear permanently different.

Every relationship became like that, but they didn't all end up in pieces.

Sometimes, without realizing it, they started to melt.

As Taylor entered the kitchen, her eyes were immediately drawn to the coffee mug on the island. She was several feet away but she already knew there would be a cold, milky brown surface peeking up at her. Jane had never once finished a cup of coffee in the two-and-a-half years since they'd gotten together. She also never watered her plants, although she bought them with every intention of doing so. Yet they were all green and healthy, bouncy, even, thanks to Taylor. But it was only because Taylor was afraid of what their guests would think if they saw an army of dead plants decorating a quarter of their living room. Jane never cared what their guests thought.