A Dangerous Affair (Lesbian Story)

Death where is thy sting?

Death, where is thy sting?' with ' it is here in my heart and mind and memories.'
-Maya Angelou

A

bigail
08 October 2016 - Funeral of Judge Paul Masey

I'm hesitant to enter the spacious study of the late Judge Paul Masey. The overbearing presence of the man's ghost permeates the sturdy creases of the walls.

The bookshelves are lined with thick volumes of litigation and American history. The man's bookshelf reads like a Harvard law school library.

Near the window sits a single brown leather sofa with tendrils of light seeping across its polished surface.

If you listen closely you can almost hear the ancient groan of the furniture as it shifts position with the sun.

In reality what you can actually hear is the smokey sizzle of a hi hat accompanied by the caress of a saxophone from the stereo.

There, behind the cherry wood desk, is where my lover reclines with her feet poised atop the masculine furniture.

I can clearly see the red bottom of her court shoes and the black poplin shift she wears has risen slightly to above her knees.

She's taken off the oversized hat and sunglasses that she had worn at the graveyard.

The graveyard where I'd held her as she'd sobbed uncontrollably when everyone except Kalinda had left.

It was natural but unexpected. Elizabeth had sobbed silently sobbed over how she was never enough for him.

The glass of scotch in her hand is half empty, much like her eyes.

"That was a beautiful service." I say.

Her eyes shift from staring unfocused out of the window to be unfocused on me.

She doesn't respond, so I continue:

"A part of me thought you hated your father, I didn't know you had so many good memories of him."

Elizabeth scoffs and drains the glass and walks to the cherry wood, drinks table to get a refill.

She finally speaks as she pours. "I don't." Her glass is now filled to the brim as she turns with her behind balanced on the Rococo styled piece of furniture.

"That story of how we celebrated my graduation over at The Ché for the first time, not true." She says draining her glass and turning for a refill.

Liz, apparently, is going to get drunk on the day of her father's funeral.

"But you can't make a eulogy at your father's funeral and tell the story of how you had to drive, eight hours across town, to Sacremento so that you make it in time to defend a DUI of an oil magnates son. Just so he'd owe your father a favour. Nope. Or how you spent the following day of your graduation asleep in an expensive hotel watching CBS reruns while your classmates celebrated their hard earned degrees."

The lawyer drains her glass and turns to place it on the table. "And you can thank Kalinda for the beautiful service. I had nothing to do with that."

The fairly inebriated states attorney walks towards me, her steps timid, her voice pleading.

"Do you think I'm a good person?" She stands right up to my face.

No she isn't fairly inebriated, Liz is drunk. I can smell the amber liquid breathing through her pores. I can't let anyone see her like this.

I can understand her behaviour though. To have an workaholic father pass away would wreck havoc on any sane person.

Multiply that with the fact that Liz bottles away her emotions and you get this. Drunk, maudlin and hurt Elizabeth Masey.

"But I can't be as bad as my father. I won't. I want to be a good person Ab." She continues as she walks closer to me I'm not sure who she's trying to convince.

"I'm going to be a good person Abigail." She finally whispers and closes the distance between her lips and the crook of my neck.

Her kisses are sloppy but the heat that always envelopes me with her touch is ever present.

"Liz!" I protest quietly. The window and door is open and shes got a house full of high stake holders in upstairs in the dining hall.

My protest falls on deaf ears as the older woman continues her bittersweet assault against my skin.

I try to push her off me but she only moves her desperation onto my lips.

A part of me is infuriated that Liz would use me like this. I can feel her desperately trying to hang onto some form of happiness through me. The alcohol hasn't numbed her pain perhaps I can.

The other part of me sympathises with her, but I want her to experience it. Call me cruel, but Liz needs to immerse herself and confront the pain of losing her father.

The study is filled with the frantic shuffling of cotton against cotton as I resist her.

"Liz, sto..." Before I can finish pushing her off, a Boston accent speaks and fades off at the end of its sentence: "Liz the ushers are asking..."

Tony, her secretary, walks in unannounced with the expression of a gasping fish frozen on his face.

"Oh..." he says.

His wide eyed, open mouthed face looks comical against his dark skinned bald head.

Clearly he didn't know about us, why would he? Liz only ever comes to my apartment and I've never been to her office.

Officially or unofficially.

His hand gestures are caught mid-motion as he signals unsuredly that he'll just return later. "I'll just...tell them to...I'll just go."

And so the first person, outside of our circle, to stumble upon the reality of our relationship leaves the two of us in a tensed filled silence.

"Shit." Liz slurs as she slowly seems to return to her senses.

"Shit Abby. I'm..." She walks towards the scotch. "Shit." She mutters again.

She blames herself. For everything.

If someone asked how well I knew Elizabeth Masey, the answer would be: not at all.

Although, now I could say she'd shown me more of herself than she had to anyone else, Liz was virtually an emotional vault.

I'd struggled all week with not knowing how to comfort her. Not knowing why I flew a whole presidential candidate to Oregon just so I could be with her.

Liz was fine. Liz was coping. But in the midst of it all I realised one thing - Liz, was human.

Right now her vulnerabilities are laid bare and unfixable. And there's only one way to ease the unfixable exposure to emotion.

"Put down the glass Liz." I say walking towards her.

Her movement pauses for a moment but she eventually decides to seek comfort in the acrid burn of scotch again and continues to pour her drink.

"Put the glass down." I say more forcefully. This time she listens.

I rein in the tears that have clogged up my throat. I need to be her strength right now. There can be no room for her to think that I would not hold her up should she crumble.

"Come here." I say with false courage and my arms open and inviting.

Like a wounded animal, learning to trust again, the states attorney slowly walks over to me.

Her oval face is marred with a tear filled frown as she bites her lips to keep them from falling.

But she is walking to me and for that I am glad.

She needs to want to come to me. I can't meet her halfway. Liz needs to choose for herself to be vulnerable or else she'll see it as a weakness and build her walls up again.

Her pulled back brunette locks are flawlessly tied in a ponytail. A severe contrast to the flawed creature that stands before me now.

As she stands an inch away from me, I can see her tether held together by a single breath.

The single breath pulled through her nose opens the flood gates to her emotions and Liz cries in my arms.

Liz cries and I do nothing but hold her.

We stand in the centre of her dead father's office and I offer my lover nothing but strength in vulnerability.