Chapter Text
From a balcony seat, Lydia watched Julian conduct. His turn with the orchestra. Being a guest again after so long made her feel like an exchange student, or a visiting lecturer, or yet another pianist competing for one measly little spot. Hadn’t Cleveland and New York meant anything to these people? But this was Berlin, and she’d known the orchestra would be quietly cutthroat, that countless others like her thought they deserved a place here. A permanent place. But then, she would watch Julian and start to lose faith. Didn’t this orchestra reject guest conductors all the time? If so, then why was Julian still here? His stick technique - if it could be called technique at all - slowly started a forty-car pileup in the orchestra, first the clarinets and then the cellos, a slow but steady crash until Julian finally made the musicians rest. Though she wanted to at least try to respect him, she couldn’t find much to respect, other than that his German skills greatly surpassed her own. And she could picture this little twit taking classes all last year, nose against the pages of a workbook, breathing in ink and his own leftover sweat as he figured out conjugations and grammar. So far, Lydia could order a beer, hail a taxi, and speak in basic terms about classical music. Julian had her beat. But as he stopped the musicians - palms against the podium, back to her - Lydia couldn’t find anything else about him worth respecting. Drumming his fingers, trying to figure out what to do next. She was pretty sure he dyed his hair, for she doubted men could naturally grow chestnut-brown hair with little flecks of gold throughout. He looked one anxious holiday performance season away from starting to wear jeans to work.
But Andris loved him. That was the problem. Andris adored Julian, so Julian would inevitably be Andris’s replacement when Andris retired this year. An absolute stain upon this institution, a terrible decision with decades of repercussions, but it would be the decision made nonetheless. And Lydia would go back to New York, would try to move on, find something else. Maybe score films. Hans Zimmer kept wanting to collaborate; maybe they could Skype their way through putting sound to the next action film worthy of Oscar nominations. Or, maybe she would retire early and start playing as a concert pianist for retirement homes. It wasn’t as if she needed money anymore, and if she couldn't stay in Berlin, then there was little left that she wanted to do. And maybe that was what scared her most about Andris loving Julian: she knew that there were plenty of paths for Julian’s life, but for her, there was only one path, and that path led here, directly to a place that didn’t want her. Yes, Andris liked her, but Andris sang Julian praises. Lydia would be gone from this city soon enough, Julian rising to his new position, Lydia’s position no longer necessary. As she watched Julian raise his baton again, she sighed, looked down at the notebook on her lap, tried to think like an academic rather than like a blubbering mess. But it was getting hard to keep her head up. She wanted to stay. She wanted to stay, but she knew there was no way for her to stay.
Actually, there was one way, and she looked down at that way in the pit, at the first chair. Sharon Goodnow. A female concertmaster. When Lydia first met Sharon, the two shaking hands indifferently, Lydia brought that up, hoping the female angle would keep her here longer. Sure, she despised using her gender in order to gain favor, but she really wanted Berlin, so she told Sharon I’ve never worked with a female concertmaster before. And to her chagrin - to her delight - Sharon looked wholly nonplussed, then changed the subject. Only later had Lydia learned that, at that very moment, Sharon was the only female concertmaster of a major orchestra on the planet. On the planet. All of the others were men. And there Sharon was, seeming so indifferent. So aloof. And it was hard not to find that attractive. It was hard not to look over at Sharon during rehearsals and see that Sharon was the portrait of competence, a fantastic musician and an even greater collaborator. And the rest of the orchestra adored her. Now, she stared down at Sharon in the pit, and Sharon looked as simultaneously focused and aloof as always, wearing a tea-length skirt and a grey button-down, almost monk-like. Sharon looked like a woman who owned exactly one pair of earrings, a set of diamond studs valued at $20,000. Sharon looked like she didn’t drive on principle, not because she couldn’t but because that was so far beneath her. Sharon looked like she slept in cashmere.
So, well, Lydia had a crush, and that crush complicated things. It felt immoral to manipulate someone she had a crush on, but if Andris wouldn’t keep her, Sharon might, so weeks ago, she invited Sharon to lunch, just for the two of them to talk. And Sharon smiled softly in a way that told Lydia that there were no secrets here. Lydia wasn’t the first guest conductor to ask Sharon to lunch, hoping to secure a spot for another season. The first woman, sure, but not the first guest conductor. And, really, Lydia hadn’t been thinking of romance. She’d deliberately sought out the least romantic restaurant close to the philharmonic, not wanting the lunch to be romantic. The two of them surrounded by stock brokers, investment bankers, men who worked with money. They would discuss business, and they would discuss music, and Lydia would take the check - Sharon fussing, Lydia insisting - and they would choose to do this again next week. Making this a weekly ritual. That way, Sharon would start to feel attached. All of those feminine feelings. Though Sharon could let go of a guest conductor, she couldn’t let go of her little lunch friend. And Lydia could push the crush to the back of her mind. Sure, Sharon was beautiful, and when their eyes met - Sharon’s big blue eyes meeting hers - Lydia lost her words, but there was no way Lydia could fuck the concertmaster, especially not the concertmaster for this orchestra, so that wasn’t a possibility. She wanted Berlin so badly; she refused to let her own id ruin the opportunity.
But when they went to lunch, they talked. They talked for the whole hour. They were late returning to work, Sharon a little flustered, warm in the cheeks. As if they’d done something illicit. And Lydia hadn’t needed to ask if they would have lunch again next week, for she’d already known they would.
So, she’d now had lunch with Sharon Goodnow seven times. They were about to go out for an even eighth. In theory, she was waiting in the balcony for this rehearsal to end, waiting for Sharon, and she knew that that was boyfriend territory. She knew that she was acting as the man who would walk Sharon home, the man who would open the door to her cab. And then, Julian stopped the music again, and Sharon looked up at the balcony instead of at Julian, leaving Julian hanging. Forcing Julian to fend for himself while Sharon met Lydia’s gaze. Still aloof, still unimpressed, but Sharon would change when they went to lunch together. Yes, she would, turning warm and interesting, even downright talkative, wanting to know about Lydia, wanting Lydia to know about her. They could talk about music for hours. They could, and they had. Once, they even stayed late at the philharmonic, talking while the sun set, and then, they suddenly realized the time, and Lydia asked if she could buy Sharon dinner. Sharon couldn’t cook tonight; it was far too late, so she might as well join Lydia for dinner. And, of course, Lydia wanted to know Sharon’s response, wanted to hear if Sharon had other plans, if Sharon had someone with whom to spend her evening, but after a moment of hesitation, Sharon reached for her coat and said yes to the invitation. No calling a boyfriend to tell him she would be late tonight, no making sure she had a babysitter for the evening. Sharon was single, and single straight women wouldn’t have said yes to the dinner invitation.
She’d gotten the closest she ever had to Sharon that night. They had kept talking, talking long enough for Lydia to actually ask for a dessert menu, and flourless chocolate cake, and two silver spoons, and Sharon in the half-lit restaurant, blue eyes staring right into Lydia’s soul as Sharon asked if Lydia wanted the last bite. Too much fun. So much fun, so Lydia said, what the hey? They should go to a bar, one more drink. Just one more. And Sharon actually said yes, the two of them tipsy on expensive Beaujolais and wandering the streets in search of another drink, winter cold keeping them close on the sidewalk, and Lydia asking for directions in mangled German, and Sharon laughing next to her. She could tell Sharon was a little drunk from the laughter, so she didn’t mind it, didn’t mind at all, then led them both into the bar, her palm on the small of Sharon’s back, the two of them ordering white wine spritzers and pretending to enjoy them. And laughing more. Sharon wanting a cigarette, the two of them outside of the bar, and though Sharon offered one, Lydia was too American, so she leaned back against the building, hands in her pockets while Sharon smoked. Cigarette between the fingers of Sharon’s leather gloves, and now, right now, Lydia had an opportunity. Pull the cigarette from Sharon’s hand, then kiss Sharon in the cold, dark night, lit only by streetlights, close enough to drunk that they could blame this mistake on the alcohol, but they would both know it wasn’t a mistake. And then, she would haunt Sharon the next day, coming in to work and asking Sharon how her evening was, and Sharon would swallow uncomfortably and try to think of an answer. And Lydia would hold all of the power.
But she stayed where she was, watching as Sharon dropped the butt of the cigarette, then snuffed it out with the ball of her foot, suede heeled boots in the Berlin darkness. The trains are still running, Sharon said as she looked at Lydia, big eyes, hair pulled back, hands returning to her pockets. Sure, fine. Lydia could take the train tonight. Lydia could take the train for this woman.
And in the fluorescent lights of the U-Bahn, they sat together, two seats side by side, their legs touching. Lydia’s coat against Sharon’s, the knee of Lydia’s slacks against the knee of Sharon’s, Sharon’s handbag on her own lap. For once, Lydia kept her legs together, not spreading out, and she left her hands on her lap, no gloves, knuckles winter-rough. Sharon always wore gloves outside in the winter. Lydia kept hand cream she never bothered using in her office. Their pairs of separate hands, Sharon’s against the side of her bag, Lydia’s on her own lap, pale hands in the too-bright subway car, and Sharon’s stop came before Lydia’s. Only so much time. Only so many chances. So she nudged her hand toward Sharon’s, their pinkies brushing, Lydia’s bare hand against leather, something so small that it couldn’t be intentional, something still so clearly deliberate. Sharon looked down at their hands, and even with all of the sounds of the subway, Lydia could hear the way Sharon started breathing faster, the shift within the woman alongside her, and Sharon understood. Sharon knew what this meant, and Sharon kept still, and Lydia felt that small, gentle caress of leather on her hand, the farthest she’d gotten with this woman. Maybe the farthest she would ever go, and she would touch herself thinking about this, thinking of supple leather gloves and Sharon’s nervous breathing, would let that orgasm sustain her until she could walk into Sharon’s office the next day and ask if Sharon wanted to spend the evening together again. And maybe next time Lydia would take Sharon’s glove off, then put the glove in her own pocket, making Sharon ask for it back. And maybe the time after that she would feel Sharon’s hand in hers, and Sharon would take a deep breath, and Sharon’s hand would soften against hers, and this would all finally feel worthwhile.
But, actually, this was taking too long. The most she’d gotten so far had been a touch through a glove. At first, she’d been hell-bent on not ruining her reputation with the concertmaster, but now, she was certain Andris would choose Julian over her, and she needed to get this woman out of her system before her cunt started to plot revenge. Meeting Sharon’s gaze - Sharon in the pit, Lydia in the balcony - Lydia knew that her days here were numbered, and thus, she could take a risk. She could ruin everything. After all, this was the end of her career, the end of her long list of accomplishments. In a year, she would be retired, buying a penthouse in New York and spending her days listening to records and composing, acting aimless and trying not to let the failure consume her. And she would rather be a failure who had fucked Sharon Goodnow than a failure who hadn’t.
Sharon turned to face Julian again. Lydia stopped holding her breath. Tonight, she would take Sharon home with her, and then, she would finally relax. And she would take her first steps toward acceptance.
Though Sharon typically kept her office door open, most didn’t dare enter, as if Sharon’s aura did more than a door ever could. Still, Lydia always knocked, knocking on the wall, trying to subtly announce herself. Sharon had a neat little light-wood desk, white walls, a room painstakingly Scandinavian in comparison to the rest of the philharmonic. The only colorful accents of the room were the many books pushed together on a tall shelf and the two violins in the climate-controlled glass case against one wall. Otherwise, this place could’ve worked as a yoga studio, or a high-end naturopathic clinic, or page from Architectural Digest.
“Ready?” Lydia asked, tight-lipped smile, leaning against the jamb of the door.
She’d tied the sleeves of her sweater around her shoulders, too warm indoors. She crossed one ankle over the other. She’d put on a little extra cologne this morning. She wanted to be like catnip for Sharon’s repressed psyche. Repressed? To everyone else, Sharon seemed repressed, but when they went out to lunch together, Sharon unfurled, her brilliant mind stretching out like a cat in the sun. The two of them could talk for hours, not running out of topics, not wanting to stop. Never wanting to stop. Lydia found Sharon painstakingly easy to talk to, as if she were talking to herself, but no, Sharon was better, for Sharon could counter her, and Lydia actually respected Sharon’s opinion. She actually cared what Sharon thought.
But, still, she puffed her chest out a little, met Sharon’s gaze as Sharon looked up from her work laptop. It was really important that she look hot today.
“Sorry,” Sharon said, and to Lydia’s delight, Sharon seemed a little on-edge. A little too busy. “I have to finish this.”
Well, then. Lydia ambled into Sharon’s office, looking around at the nearby chairs, scouting out a spot. However, the chairs in Sharon’s office - hard sides, sharp corners - clearly weren’t meant to be comfortable, so maybe even the office itself wanted Lydia to know she should leave.
“I can wait,” Lydia said, sitting down in one of the uncomfortable chairs.
Her back was already starting to hurt. Looking over at Sharon - still hunched over her laptop, crease in her brow - she figured Sharon needed a while, but they were at a strange point of the season. Too early for anything last-minute, too late for new plans. So she watched as Sharon typed, little wrinkle on her forehead, focused on the task at hand. She liked watching Sharon work. She liked how Sharon tied her hair back, little bun at the nape of her neck, long curls pulled away from her face. Once, Sharon came to rehearsal with two French braids, the ends all wispy and curling, Dorothy Gale with a violin on her shoulder, and Lydia had felt undone. Looking at her first chair, seeing one braid on one shoulder and the other behind the violin. It had only happened once. She desperately wanted to know why it had only happened once.
And now, she could ask why. She was hell-bent on going down in flames. No, not flames, but she could ruin her halfhearted lunch-date bond with Sharon now. She could turn this into a bacchanal, the two of them waking up feverish and naked three days from now, Sharon then slandering Lydia to Andris. Nothing mattered anymore. Julian would take Andris’s place, Lydia would go back to New York, and Sharon would have had her first orgasm in ten years. That was how it would go.
“You must be exhausted,” Lydia said, pushing herself up from the awful chair. “Don’t you have an assistant?”
“If I can’t handle my own work,” Sharon said, still typing, not looking up, “then I don’t deserve this position.”
Well, then.
“But surely,” Lydia said as she came over to Sharon’s desk, hand left next to Sharon’s laptop, fingers stretching out, “you have more important duties than answering emails.”
“Wait for me outside,” Sharon said, brushing Lydia off. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“This is the worst part of the season,” Lydia said. “It’ll get better.”
“I really need to finish this.”
“What’s so important, then?”
Lydia stood behind Sharon, looked down at Sharon’s laptop screen. A whole slew of emails in German, seventeen unread.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Lydia said, then brought her palms to Sharon’s shoulders, starting to massage her there.
And she could feel Sharon’s tension, the slight resistance in Sharon’s shoulders. The way this touch wasn’t unwanted. Wholly inappropriate, but not unwanted, and then, Sharon started to relax, if only to save face. She let Lydia massage her shoulders because she didn’t want to draw any attention to Lydia’s actions.
“You’re so tight,” Lydia said, moving her thumbs against Sharon’s taut muscles, enough strength there to take Lydia aback. “So tight.”
She heard the way Sharon’s breathing quickened, watched Sharon’s hands stay still on her keyboard. On the laptop screen, there were so many unread emails, but Sharon didn’t look at those; no, she stared at her reflection in the screen, at what little of Lydia she could see, and she let her shoulders be massaged. Let herself be touched.
But the moment couldn’t last forever, and all too soon, Sharon tensed under Lydia’s touch, taking a deep breath, enough of that. Clearing her throat, subtly asking Lydia to stop.
“Wait for me outside,” Sharon said, but her voice wavered, off-kilter, no longer so stoic.
“Okay,” Lydia said, obliging for once.
She brushed her palm over Sharon’s shoulder, then headed out of Sharon’s office, not looking back.
Sharon always wanted to walk to the restaurant. The same one as always, where they would go through the same motions as always: the two of them checking their coats - and Lydia’s baseball cap - and ordering different but equally boring salads. At least Sharon’s had warm sweet potatoes and some nuts and goat cheese sprinkled in. For now, Lydia could only manage basic greens and bland vegetables; she needed the season to end so that she could tolerate steak again.
As always, Sharon goaded Lydia for checking her hat at the door, but this time, Sharon looked nervous, as if this joke had turned into something new. As if the joke could be misinterpreted as being flirtatious.
“It’s vintage, you see,” Lydia gave, the two of them being led to their same table as always. “They don’t make hats like that one anymore.”
“I’ll never understand that,” Sharon taking a seat at their same table, no need to look at a menu, “these hats or…gym shoes. The collections.”
Lydia took her own seat, furrowed her brow.
“You don’t understand collections,” she said.
“People keeping piles of stuff. No purpose, just wanting to keep this stuff.”
Lydia thought of all of her records, her hundreds of books. The Bernstein tapes at her mother’s house, tapes she kept fearing her mother would take to Goodwill.
“You don’t have anything like that?” Lydia said. “More than one of something? Sheet music, perhaps?”
Sharon scoffed. “Not like that.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“Wanting status,” Sharon said. “Recognition. The conveyance. Not the matter of wearing the shoes, but wanting others to know your status from them.”
Well.
“It’s tacky,” Sharon added.
“I’m glad to know,” Lydia said, smiling, “that you think my hat is tacky.”
When the waiter returned, Sharon ordered a glass of white wine and the same salad as always. White wine? The last time Sharon had ordered wine with lunch, she’d just come out of a long meeting with Andris, one about which she refused to discuss with Lydia. Sharon Goodnow, the patron saint of composure, never drank at lunch, not unless she felt undone. And though Lydia had wanted Sharon to feel undone, she hadn’t wanted Sharon to feel truly uncomfortable. No, she’d hoped Sharon would want her. She hadn’t meant to scare Sharon in the process.
“So,” Lydia said, their drinks served, the restaurant around them full of the lunchtime financier crowd, “your emails.”
Sharon sighed, fingertips on the stem of her wine glass.
“Andris wants me dead,” she said, then took a sip.
“You really should hire an assistant.”
“And make him do what?” Sharon asked. “Rosin my bow? Shine my shoes?”
“Answer your emails.”
“You don’t understand that,” Sharon said. “The…balance. The appearances.”
“Of course I do,” Lydia said, a little annoyed. “I’ve been in this business longer than you have.”
“But you’re a personality,” Sharon said. “A performance. The audience wants you. They’re interested in you. But they can’t come too close. It’s my job to make sure they’re never too close.”
Lydia knew that already. Or, she understood the concertmaster’s position, but for Sharon, the job meant something else as well. Sharon wanted control. Sharon needed to smooth out the conductor’s rough edges, making him palatable for the public, making him an entity rather than a person. But now, Andris wanted to retire, and his looming retirement meant that the orchestra’s upcoming summer tour juggled a number of potential conductors, none confirmed, all willing. Though no one knew when, someday soon Andris would announce his successor, and that successor would take over the tour, introducing himself to the audiences, showing the future of the philharmonic. And Lydia knew that she was out of the running already. That was why she could make Sharon want her now: she had nothing left to lose.
“Are you anxious about the tour?” Lydia asked.
“Yes,” Sharon set her wine glass down, “very.”
And then, they were served, and the conversation faded away. Faded into their same discussions of music and art, the ease they had together. The same lunch they’d had so many times before, but this time, Lydia edged her foot toward Sharon’s under the table, just a moment of contact, no acknowledgement. Sharon didn’t seem to react, but that didn’t mean Sharon hadn’t felt the touch. That didn’t mean Sharon felt nothing.
As always, Sharon wanted a cigarette after lunch, so while Lydia paid for the meal, Sharon fetched her coat, went outside, and smoked. Through the glass windows of the restaurant, Lydia watched Sharon, watched her practiced gestures, so European, so foreign to Lydia. Tapping away ash absentmindedly, a tic like picking at one’s nails. Sharon looked good in her coat, all grey wool and soft lines. She always looked good. Good enough to be Lydia’s downfall.
Leaving the restaurant, Lydia shrugged into her coat, hands in her pockets. There were snow flurries falling, the kind of flurries that made her wince, thinking the season had been done with snow. Look here, green grass nearby, all of the slush gone, yet flurries started falling, and she sighed, seeing her breath, craving heat. Behind her, Sharon dawdled, wrapping her scarf around her neck, slowly slipping her hand into one glove. Lydia never wore gloves; Sharon almost always wore gloves. And as Lydia looked up at the sky, that opaque snow-sky, she thought of their hands touching on the subway, one bare and one covered, and she felt warmth in the pit of her stomach, sunshine-warmth, but at the same time, she mentally forced the image to change, to make her past self take Sharon’s hand in her own, pulling off the glove, skin to skin, holding Sharon’s hand and listening to Sharon breathe. The way Sharon could look so stoic but have the tempo of her breathing give her away. Now, Lydia watched Sharon put on her second glove, and she ached, ached to hold Sharon’s hand, just one little touch. Just enough to tide her over.
She could feel Sharon staring her down. Looking up, Lydia met Sharon’s gaze, and she saw something in Sharon’s eyes, something new. Something intense.
“You’ll tell no one,” Sharon said, then reached for the lapels of Lydia’s coat and pulled her into a kiss.
At first, Lydia felt dumbstruck, the two of them out front of the restaurant, in plain view, a populated part of Berlin, her baseball cap falling off with Sharon's force, but then, Lydia made herself relax and breathe into this kiss, wanting to let Sharon explain. To let Sharon be the one to talk. Lydia’s feelings, they didn’t matter right now; all that mattered was how Sharon felt, and Sharon wanted Lydia badly enough to force her, to insist. Lydia’s palm on the small of Sharon’s back, Sharon’s gloved hand coming to Lydia’s cheek. They were awkward. They were two people kissing for the first time, and kissing with passion, and kissing with echoes of past lovers, past lives, everything that had brought them to this moment, this perfect moment surrounded by snow flurries, hearing traffic on the street and passersby and the muffled sounds of the restaurant, kissing because they could. Kissing because they needed to.
Sharon pulled away too soon. All too soon.
“No one,” she insisted, needing to catch her breath.
She let Lydia go, then started their walk back to the philharmonic, leaving Lydia in her wake.
Lydia stayed late at the philharmonic, late in the way Sharon tended to stay late. Stuck in her office, lining up her pencils, staring at the ceiling. If she needed one, she would craft an excuse, but she doubted she would need one. No, Sharon would be too flustered to ask.
So, a mental rehearsal. Lydia would knock quietly, trying to seem embarrassed. About this afternoon. And she would comment on the anxieties of this part of the season, would joke a little, and thus, Sharon would have a way out. A way she could take if she so desired. And then, the night would play out in one of two ways. In the first way, Lydia and Sharon would come to an agreement, maybe even hug it out, and then, they would go home on separate trains, separate lines, back to separate apartments where they would continue their separate lives. Lydia would become one with her vibrator, and Sharon would go to bed at 8:30 sharp. Of course, Lydia hoped for the second way. Checking her watch, deciding to act now, she desperately hoped for the second way.
Sharon’s office door was still open. Lydia knocked twice on the jamb, modest little knocks. She hunched her shoulders, trying to look smaller. Trying to look nonthreatening. And there Sharon was in her office chair, laptop in front of her, still working even though the sun had set. She glanced up indifferently at Lydia, then looked back at her laptop screen, but once she realized the implications - a second glance, Lydia in her doorway - she looked thrown. Yes, just what Lydia had expected. Exactly what Lydia had thought.
“Hey,” Lydia said awkwardly, channeling her teenage self, all lanky limbs and field hockey rage. “Lots to do?”
Sharon furrowed her brow, struggling to process the question, then managed, “Yes, lots.”
“I don’t want to interrupt,” Lydia said, purposefully hesitating, trying to seem nervous, “but…about this afternoon.”
Staring up at Lydia, Sharon tried to look indifferent, but in her big, expressive eyes, Lydia saw anything but indifference.
“I know.” Lydia acted self-conscious, tucking her hair behind her ear, stretching her neck absentmindedly. “We’re in a tough part of the season. We’re all…stressed out.”
At that, Sharon winced, the smallest of winces but still a wince. Yes, Lydia thought. Good girl.
“Anyway,” Lydia said, forcing out a breath. “I just want you to know that I get it. We both need a break. It doesn’t matter. Didn’t mean anything.”
She pushed her hands into her pockets, eyeing the door.
“Well,” she said, tight-lipped smile, “I should be going.”
And she turned away from Sharon, turned away and took her first step toward the door, and as she took another step, she prayed, begged for Sharon to stop her, for Sharon to say something about Lydia having it all wrong. But then, she took another step, and she was in the doorway now, and this wasn’t what she’d wanted. This wasn’t what she’d planned.
“Wait.”
She stopped in the doorway, the corners of her mouth curling up. I stand corrected.
“You can be discreet,” Sharon said, Lydia’s back to her. “You will be discreet.”
For a moment, Lydia kept still, as if this were a violation, as if she wished she hadn’t heard, but then, she turned around slowly, faced Sharon, brow furrowed, a little embarrassed. Embarrassed in the way someone ashamed of her own want would be, but Lydia wasn’t ashamed of this at all. No, she wanted Sharon, and she would do whatever she needed to in order to have Sharon. And Sharon had played along so well so far. Good girl, Lydia thought, taking a step toward Sharon, then another. Good girl.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Lydia said, but she clearly knew what Sharon meant.
Closer to Sharon now, she watched the way Sharon swallowed, all stoic face and thick brows and wide eyes. Conviction. Sharon had made this decision, and she refused to go back. Refused to deny the truth.
“Yes,” Sharon said, “you do.”
She reached down, touched Lydia’s elbow, gentle fingers. Hands that could play sonatas, hands that could kill. She pictured Sharon’s hands between her legs, then pictured Sharon’s hands around her neck.
“It’s your turn,” Sharon said, as if Lydia needed an explanation. As if Lydia needed to follow Sharon’s script instead.
Yes, it was Lydia’s turn. Her turn to push one of Sharon’s curls behind her ear, the two of them in the half-light of Sharon’s after-hours office, greyscale faces, bags under their eyes. The end of a long day. For the past few hours, Sharon had agonized over that kiss - Lydia had too, but not in the same way - and now, Sharon wanted what Lydia was desperate to give. Wanted what she herself had already given Lydia once. So Lydia brought her hand to Sharon’s cheek, touching Sharon so gently, so tentatively, as if she wasn’t quite sure that Sharon wanted her. But she knew that Sharon wanted her. She knew, so she kissed Sharon, but she held back, not wanting this kiss to feel the way this afternoon’s had felt. No, she wanted to savor. Take things slow, draw this moment out. Kissing Sharon slowly, letting Sharon kiss her back. Sharon’s hands coming to Lydia’s low back, drawing Lydia closer, wanting to be kissed. Wanting to be adored. And then, Sharon picked up the pace, trying to lead, but no, this was Lydia’s chance to lead. Lydia’s chance to overpower. So Lydia pulled at Sharon’s dress shirt, all tucked in to her skirt, tugged out the ends and then brought her palm under the shirt, feeling Sharon’s bare skin. Feeling the band of her bra, each one of her ribs.
Sharon’s breath hitched, too much, too fast, but then, Sharon reached underneath her own shirt, feeling for Lydia’s hand, then pressing Lydia’s hand higher. Wanting Lydia to feel her up. And oh, her bra was so thin. How had Lydia not noticed that yet? So thin, thin enough for Lydia to feel goosebumps on Sharon’s skin through the material, Lydia’s thumb arcing over Sharon’s nipple, making Sharon sigh. Making Sharon feel. Oh, how reactive Sharon felt against her, how present. A poor little straight girl, so starved of love. So in need of someone like Lydia.
But girls like Sharon wanted this to feel forbidden. Girls like Sharon wanted Lydia to make them feel bad. So Lydia suddenly pulled away, then stepped back - no, staggered back. Confusion on her face, a little overwhelm too. Her cheeks red with embarrassment, and with desire too, mostly desire.
“I’m sorry,” she said, but she didn’t mean it. She didn’t mean it at all.
“We should go somewhere,” Sharon said.
“This is too much,” Lydia said, shaking her head, playing her part. “This is-”
“We should go somewhere,” Sharon said, more pointedly this time, as if Lydia needed to be scolded.
So Lydia looked back at Sharon, blank face, not her idea. Not her intuition.
“I can’t take you home,” Lydia said, shaking her head. “I don’t have a bed.”
“I have a room,” Sharon said, “at Hotel Adlon. By the Brandenburg Gate.”
For a moment, Lydia pretended to consider, pretended to talk herself into this.
“We’ll get a taxi,” Lydia said, nodding.
“Yes, we will.”
The philharmonic building felt suddenly so empty around them, the silence suffocating them both, making them want to go. Want to find somewhere else, somewhere safer. Somewhere discreet.
Turning away from Lydia, Sharon looked toward the windows of her office, all wide windows looking out at the dark city. Tension in her neck, brows moving, Lydia only partially seeing her face. Some kind of surprise.
“It’s snowing,” Sharon said, then turned back to face Lydia, gazes locking.
Lydia didn’t see the flurries at all.
There was an attendant in the elevator. Of course there was. Sharon gave him the floor number, thank you, and then, they all rode the elevator up, Lydia cursing the attendant, cursing his folded hands and far-out look and presence. Sharon stood alongside her, looking up in order to avoid looking at Lydia, Sharon’s heart beating so fast. This was taking too long. Lydia wanted to kill the attendant. Lydia wanted-
They reached their floor. Sharon led them out of the elevator, taking a right, heading to their room as if she knew this hotel well. Behind them, the elevator doors clicked shut, and then, Lydia took her chance, grabbing Sharon’s shoulders and forcing her against the wall, the two of them in this liminal hallway, all ornate walls and fancy rugs and Sharon’s body pressed against hers, Sharon panting, wind knocked out of her. Lydia kissed her, not letting her breathe. Sharon’s hands aimless, trying to find purchase, eventually digging into the shoulders of Lydia’s coat as she kissed Lydia back, want rivaling want. Lydia’s thigh edging up between Sharon’s legs, Sharon’s tongue skirting Lydia’s lips. They were never going to make it to this hotel room. There was no way they could.
But Sharon pushed Lydia away - Lydia thought Sharon would always be the one to pull away - and then slapped their hands together, the sound echoing through the empty hallway. She pulled Lydia forward, pulling against Lydia’s will. In front of one room, Sharon waved her cell phone over the lock’s sensor, letting them both in. This time, neither of them waited for any doors to close.
Lydia couldn’t see the hotel room, the lights off, only the wide windows with a city view letting in greyscale light. In the back of her mind, she thought of Michael Jackson dangling his child from one of these balconies, thought of the nearby gate, the bizarre and disconcerting history of exactly where she stood, but Sharon raked her hands through Lydia’s hair, and then, Lydia stopped thinking. No, there was nothing else but Sharon, the hotel room fading into obscurity, the city skyline blurring in her half-closed gaze. Nothing but Sharon’s mouth on hers, Sharon’s body against her own, Sharon’s breaths warm and quick. Where was the bed? Behind them, an all-white, king-sized bed, and Lydia pushed Sharon that way, pushed her back and back and back until her thighs touched the mattress, and then, Sharon sat down, breaking their contact, looking up at Lydia. Her big blue eyes, so intense with want, pupils large, face flushed. And then, she reached for the buttons on her shirt, but no. Lydia pushed her hands away. No, that was Lydia’s job, pulling apart the buttons on Sharon’s shirt, undressing her, then pushing her back down onto the bed. Taking over. Dominating.
But Sharon wouldn’t let Lydia take over. The two of them on the bed, clothes pulled off, Lydia unhooking Sharon’s bra, Sharon forcing Lydia’s belt onto the floor. For now, they would let want take over. They would let themselves be unhinged, let lust overcome them, the two of them mostly undressed, bodies pressed against each other, lips together. Sharon’s hand pawing at Lydia’s underwear, Lydia’s knee between Sharon’s legs. And Lydia looking down at Sharon, at the other woman lying back on the bed, and she stared at Sharon’s chest, stark contrast to all of Sharon’s modest shirts, almost a shock.
“You have perfect breasts,” Lydia said, breathless.
Sharon stared up at her, her face unreadable, either contempt or fascination.
“I don’t believe you,” Sharon said, and then, Lydia realized that this was a taunt.
So she would show Sharon. Her mouth around one of Sharon’s nipples, her thumb and forefinger against the other, making Sharon sigh. Making Sharon pull her closer. This time, they wouldn’t take anything slowly; no, she sucked Sharon’s nipple and stroked her hand over Sharon’s panties, feeling a wet spot, the same one Lydia had. The one Lydia had first felt while they rode here in the cab, needing to shift position in order to stay comfortable, and she watched Sharon do the same and smirked to herself. No inhibitions, no way to lie. They both understood what this meant. No pretenses.
Sharon forced Lydia’s underwear off. Two could play at that game. And then, Sharon wanted Lydia’s lips on hers, and how could Lydia refuse? Their bodies together, Lydia’s hand between Sharon’s legs, Sharon’s hand between Lydia’s. And oh, Sharon knew what to do, but with tentative fingers, as if she were trying to be ambidextrous. As if she’d only ever done this to herself. Lydia had been right. Of course she’d been right. Sharon’s two fingers circling Lydia’s clit, slowly at first and then quicker and then slowing back down again. Tempting her, teasing her. And now, Lydia knew what Sharon wanted her to do, but she didn’t want to give in. No, she would give Sharon something else. Her fingertips at Sharon’s entrance, wanting to ask permission but wanting even more to ask for forgiveness instead. She would be gentle. Only two for now. Her fingertips found Sharon’s g-spot with ease, and then, she curled her fingers and felt the way Sharon reacted, the way Sharon’s breath hitched. The other woman’s eyes closing, head tilted back. A new feeling. Even at this age, there were still new feelings to be felt.
And then, Lydia started to lose herself. Lost herself in the way it felt to make Sharon sound like that, to make Sharon ache with pleasure, her mouth on Sharon’s collarbone, biting down gently, wanting Sharon to feel. Wanting Sharon to know what she’d been missing. Wanting Sharon to keep coming back. And when she felt close, she whispered that to Sharon, felt Sharon nod against her, as if Sharon willed herself to be close as well. Then, Lydia let herself fall apart, let herself forget everything around them, forget everything but Sharon, and she felt the way Sharon contracted around her fingers, heard how Sharon’s breathing changed. The intensity, and then the slow, languid gentleness that followed, her fingers slipping out of Sharon, Sharon pulling her closer. The two of them breathless. Their eyes closed and their bodies together, trying to fight back against the overwhelm. Fighting back against the intensity.
Lydia hid her face against Sharon’s shoulder, trying to catch her breath. For a while, she didn’t think at all, but then, one thought came to her mind, and she almost laughed. She almost lost her composure.
We should do that again.
They hadn’t caught their breath for long when Sharon spoke.
“I don’t know what you did,” she said. “It was different.”
Involuntarily, Lydia smiled. Of course that had been different. She could imagine the types Sharon had sex with. Or, rather, she understood that Sharon had been single for six years, unsexed probably longer than that, and her last boyfriend’s only bedroom asset had been a slight curve in his cock that he hadn’t really known how to use. So, of course this had been different for Sharon. She figured Sharon had discovered the clitoral orgasm and given up after that.
Reaching out, Lydia took Sharon’s hand, guiding their hands between her own legs.
“I’ll show you,” Lydia said, stroking the back of Sharon’s hand with her thumb.
Was it too soon? But she didn’t care, wanted Sharon badly enough to not give them time to think.
“Two fingers,” Lydia said, “for now.”
She held her open hand out for Sharon, pointer finger and second finger left flat, and then, she curled them softly, just a small motion. Nothing like the intensity Sharon had probably seen in porn she would swear she’d never watched. No, this was small, painstakingly small, but they both understood the softest of sounds, the gentlest of melodies, the way that an instrument’s quality could be determined based on the clarity of its quietest notes.
“I’ll tell you when you find the right spot,” Lydia said, then nudged Sharon’s hand between her legs. Not wanting to wait.
Though part of her had expected Sharon to fumble, she still wasn’t surprised when Sharon didn’t, her two fingers so tentative but somehow not anxious. Not too far, feeling gently. And then, Lydia brought her hand to Sharon’s wrist, stopping Sharon.
“Right there,” Lydia said. “Can you feel?”
“Yes,” Sharon said, breathless. Her voice husky, deep enough to make Lydia’s breath catch.
She felt Sharon’s fingers curl inside of her, Sharon’s graceful violin fingers. She closed her eyes and thought of Sharon’s hands on her violin, every smooth vibrato, her gentle triads while warming up. Watching her was intoxicating in the way a smooth whiskey could be, so pleasant on the tongue that Lydia could lose herself without thinking. But now, she didn’t want to lose herself. No, she wanted to be fully aware, wanted to remember the warmth of Sharon’s palm against her, the way Sharon kept perfect time with each stroke.
“Slow, just like that,” Lydia said, opening her eyes and looking up at Sharon. “And kiss me.”
And Sharon knew how to follow orders. Sharon was so painstakingly good at listening to Lydia’s commands. And of course, Sharon always wanted to please. The curl of her fingers inside of Lydia, a curl so similar to that on the fingerboard of her violin, all of the exercises Sharon had done for finger independence. Lydia could remember watching Sharon warm up, exercising each finger, exacting control, and now, Lydia felt that control firsthand, the way Sharon understood what to do almost intrinsically, only needing a little bit of guidance. And with each flutter of a touch, Lydia thought yes, right there, right there, the perfect spot. The way the orgasm would build slowly, painstakingly slowly. An old lover had once told her that tantric tradition deemed these orgasms sacred, and now, with Sharon looming above Lydia, Sharon’s breasts against Lydia’s chest, Sharon’s fingers inside of her, Lydia understood why. She understood why this would be considered sacred.
“You’re so quiet,” Sharon said, lips brushing against Lydia’s ear, her breath warm on Lydia’s skin. “I feel you more than I hear you.”
And the sensations built slowly, Sharon kissing her neck, Sharon caressing her, Sharon touching her in just the right way. Better than before, less harried, Sharon taking her time now. As if she’d gotten Lydia out of her system, so now, they could savor each other, could savor this night in an expensive hotel room and let go of their expectations for tomorrow. Tomorrow? Right now, she couldn’t think about Julian and Andris and the flutists who hated her and the rest of the mess that was her life in Berlin. No, all she could think about was Sharon, and the curl of Sharon’s fingers inside of her, and the way Sharon kissed her collarbone. Everything else was irrelevant.
The orgasm impressed her, given that Sharon had probably made a woman come a grand total of once so far and that Sharon had needed to be taught. With Sharon pulling her closer, skin on skin, two warm bodies in an anonymous bed, she felt sated, a suddenly gentle bliss in the wake of such fervor. For now, they could both relax, except actually, Lydia didn’t want to relax at all.
She reached up and back, holding the headboard, trying to shake it.
“Seems stable,” she said quietly, looking over at Sharon. “Could support your weight.”
Sharon met her gaze, all big blue eyes and flushed skin, and smiled.
Something had dripped onto Lydia’s neck and dried there. She could feel the strange texture difference on her neck, the most minor distraction, and holding Sharon in bed, she resented that distraction. And she resented the other distractions that began creeping in, the way she could feel their bliss tapering, the two of them suddenly realizing that they needed to work together in the morning. And after what Sharon had just done, Lydia wasn’t sure she would be able to work with her in the morning.
It was one thing to kiss outside of a restaurant, another to make out in Sharon’s office. Those, Lydia could write off as a fling, a simple little fling at the end of her tenure with this orchestra. And hooking up in a hotel room? She’d done far worse things in far uglier places already; this hotel was a palace by comparison. But now, Lydia was starting to realize that one night would never be enough, and then, she needed to quantify just how much enough would be. Five nights? Ten? They were on the cusp of spring now, and Lydia would be gone by summer; they'd be lucky to have ten nights together at all. So, what should she do? Let the one night be, or pursue a few more, knowing her bliss would be cut short? She’d wanted to fuck Sharon before she left; she hadn’t realized she would want to fuck Sharon more than once.
She kept going back to the kiss this afternoon, the way Sharon had wanted no one to know. Though she’d expected Sharon to give in at some point, she hadn’t expected Sharon to give in so readily, so fervently. After months of lunches together - and one night at a bar, Lydia couldn’t forget that - Lydia had expected something, but not that. As if Sharon had been waiting for Lydia to make the first move, as if Sharon never would have done anything had Lydia not massaged her shoulders first. If anyone were to cross a line, it would be Lydia, so Sharon waited for Lydia to cross that line, then fell apart with pent-up want. But still, why not tell anyone? The quiet aggression of wanting, no, needing this to be private. Lydia would be gone shortly anyway. Why would Sharon care who knew?
And Sharon felt so good in her arms. She tried to focus on that. Perfect breasts pressed to her chest, Sharon’s legs tangled with her own. Sharon held on to her, truly held, gripping her arm and holding steady, as if Sharon never wanted to let her go.
“You’re thinking,” Sharon said, voice soft. Sated and soft.
Lydia smiled halfheartedly, looking up at the ceiling.
“What am I thinking?” she asked.
“I just meant that you’re thinking,” Sharon said. “I can tell you’re thinking.”
“Do you want to know what about?”
Sharon paused. “Maybe.”
“I’m wondering why you kissed me this afternoon.”
Against Lydia, Sharon laughed, a gentle little laugh, enough to make Lydia’s toes curl.
“I wanted to kiss you,” Sharon said, “so I kissed you.”
“But why now?” Lydia asked. “Why like this?”
Because you think my days here are numbered, she thought, suddenly embarrassed. Because you see me as just as much of a fling as I see you.
“Because I thought you wanted me to,” Sharon said. “You actually wanted me to.”
And Lydia could remember being a teenager, being in music school, being in college and seeing a fellow student across the room. She could even picture these specific girls now, these little crushes of hers, and she could remember how she would try to be nearer to them, but she didn’t want to scare them. She didn’t want them to call her a freak. And it was so different back then, how she did need to hide, how every love she felt needed to be felt in shadows. As she formed these little crushes, she felt the devastation of how, short of an obvious declaration, she would never know if these girls felt the same way for her. And she was fairly certain none of them had ever felt an inkling of what Lydia herself had felt. No, she would be practicing sight-reading with a brunette with blue eyes, and each time the girl looked over at her, Lydia wouldn’t be able to think, but that girl would go back to her friends and say she’s not such a weirdo, she just doesn’t have social skills and make Lydia feel like a monster.
It all was so much easier now, and for so many different reasons. Suddenly, she realized this might have been Sharon’s first time with a woman. Her first time having these feelings reciprocated. And Sharon was in her forties. Decades without love, and then, the brush of their hands on the subway that one night, Sharon’s breaths quickening, the sensation almost too much to bear. She wants me. She wants me, and I don’t know what to do. This afternoon, Lydia had felt those decades of want as Sharon kissed her, the Brokeback Mountain kiss that almost broke one of their noses, need turning animalistic but at the same time remaining so human. Please, please keep wanting me. And they wanted each other. How kismet, how cosmically predestined. If there was a God, then he had meant for Lydia to hold Sharon like this, the two of them becoming secret lovers in a room at the Hotel Adlon by the Brandenburg Gate.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” Lydia said. “So long.”
Sharon stayed quiet for a moment, then asked, “How long?”
Laughing halfheartedly, Lydia gave, “Maybe since the day we met.”
“I was nothing on the day we met.”
Lydia furrowed her brow. Something lost in translation.
“I hadn’t met a female concertmaster before,” Lydia said. “You were different.”
“Difference isn’t attraction.”
“No,” Lydia said, conceding, a little smitten, “it is not.”
They kept quiet for a while, curled up together, skin on skin, warm and alive. Beyond the windows, there was snow falling, only flurries, not enough to stick by morning. With Sharon’s eyes closed, her breaths growing longer, Lydia knew this would be the end, and Sharon would stay in Lydia’s arms until morning, and that was all. Her one chance, except she wanted many more, so many more. And there was a charity gala this Saturday, a fundraiser for something Lydia couldn’t remember, and both she and Sharon would be there. Another opportunity. After that, she could take Sharon back to this same hotel, and they would have another night. What next? The tour, except Sharon would be on tour, not Lydia. A different conductor. Lydia didn’t mind stalking. She could comfortably go to Rome and pretend that was a vacation, not a chance to see Sharon. And, oh, she could imagine tense little Sharon in Rome, the two of them in a hotel downtown, Lydia rubbing out the knots in Sharon’s shoulders, then bringing her head between Sharon’s legs until Sharon finally calmed down. Yes, there would be more. There was the possibility of more. There could be so much more.
When Lydia woke, she found the bed empty, the whole room silent, Sharon gone. No trace of Sharon, not even in the bathroom. Not knowing what to think, not knowing what to feel, Lydia called down to the front desk, asked for a complimentary toothbrush and toothpaste in broken German. She didn’t have time to go back to her apartment; she would need to wear the same clothes as yesterday. When she put on her underwear, she could feel one thick patch left behind, the carnage of desire, and as she hailed a cab, she felt that patch rub against her, as if taunting her. You have to work with her now, the patch said. You have to rehearse with her and pretend you haven’t made her come.
Julian had the first rehearsal block of the day. She sat in a balcony seat and watched again, waiting for Sharon to look up at her. But Sharon never looked up at all.
Lydia felt ridiculous carrying her suit bag with her on the train - taking a seat, arm raised comically in the air - but she needed to have the suit dry-cleaned, and it was easier, more practical to have it dry-cleaned closer to the philharmonic than to her apartment. She’d asked Sharon for a shop recommendation, so as she walked up the stairs, leaving the underground, she followed Sharon’s directions, almost picturing Sharon’s mouth in her mind. The way Sharon’s lips wrapped around English words, her soft, sweet lips, the lilt of her voice, the way the word accent desecrated the loveliness of her speech. She thought all women should speak English the way Sharon did, but no, she only wanted Sharon to speak that way. She only wanted Sharon to tell her which street to take, the name of the shop, sounding out the words. She only wanted Sharon’s voice, no other sounds, just Sharon’s voice.
Going into the shop, she held her suit in its bag and stared ahead at the drop-off counter. This place had a bespoke look, wood accents, staff wearing suits, as if only clothes of high value were kept on these racks. And standing before her - fingertips resting on the counter, blonde curls down today - was Sharon, all silk blouse and wool slacks, facing away from Lydia, none the wiser. Then, Sharon turned around to look, and when their eyes met, Sharon looked indifferent. Still aloof.
This old charade. Two could play. Lydia sidled up to her right, then let an attendant take her suit, take down her information. A little ticket, letting her know when she could come pick up her suit, Lydia nodding along the whole time while Sharon stood next to her. And she could hear the way Sharon breathed, hear that Sharon was nervous. Why would Sharon be nervous? Because she needed something, was waiting for something that had yet to come. For what, then?
The attendant left with Lydia's suit, the two women suddenly alone, Sharon still waiting for something. Reaching out, Lydia slipped her hand into the back pocket of Sharon’s slacks, and Sharon closed her eyes with disdain.
“Stop,” Sharon said quietly, as if Lydia should be embarrassed.
Lydia arced her thumb, not listening. Sharon sighed, then looked toward Lydia, knowing she wouldn’t win this fight.
“You shouldn’t come on Saturday,” Sharon said, then reached back, took Lydia’s wrist, and pulled her hand away.
“Yeah,” Lydia said, rubbing her wrist, “sure.”
“You shouldn’t,” Sharon said.
She tapped her fingernails against the counter, what a grating sound.
“And why’s that?” Lydia asked, facing her.
Sharon swallowed, kept looking ahead.
“You’re only a guest,” Sharon said. “An event like this, you won’t gain the board’s favor.”
Lydia furrowed her brow. Did Sharon really think Lydia only wanted to attend so that the board would like her? Of course, she would be attending for that purpose, but this was a charity ball, so she at least needed the veneer of altruism. Though she knew she couldn’t fool Sharon, she wished she could at least fool someone.
“I don’t care about the board’s favor,” Lydia said, as if they both didn’t know that was a lie. “I just want to see what you’ll be wearing.”
Her hand over top of Sharon’s on the counter, making the fingernail-tapping stop.
“And what you’ll have on underneath,” Lydia said.
Sharon took her hand back suddenly, and then, an attendant returned with two garment bags, both cloth, one lettered with Valentino in gold. Perking up, Sharon took both bags with a soft smile, a soft Sharon smile meant to placate those around her. And a little danke, one word of thanks, and before Lydia could say anything else, Sharon was gone, out of the shop, leaving Lydia in her wake. The attendant asked if Lydia needed anything else, but no, she didn’t, of course she didn’t, so she followed in Sharon’s wake, but Sharon must’ve taken a different turn. Frankly, Lydia didn’t know where she was, pulling out her cell phone, wretched Google Maps. She arrived at rehearsal five minutes late, and there was Sharon in her same seat as always, looking nonplussed. Looking wholly indifferent to Lydia.
Maybe Sharon had doubts now. But as Lydia raised her baton, she thought of old castles, cold in this weather, and her suit jacket resting over Sharon’s perfect shoulders. She thought of following Sharon to the marble bathroom, watching as Sharon reapplied her lipstick and then ruining that lipstick for her. Lydia wanted her face to be beet-red with makeup by the end of the night. She wanted to find traces of Sharon’s mascara and blush on her inner thighs in the morning. She wanted to take an eyelash left behind there and make a wish on it the next morning. And - she’d put a lot of thought into this - no matter what happened that night, she would go home with Sharon’s panties in her pocket. She’d decided that already, whatever means necessary. And on Monday, Sharon would need to ask for them back.
Suddenly, she felt like Julian, the forty-car pileup, losing herself. She stopped the clock, then looked to Sharon, and Sharon stared back at her, all aloof. But Sharon could only act aloof for so long. And on Saturday night, Lydia knew Sharon would be anything but aloof.
Her driver came around the entrance to Friedrichsfelde Palace half an hour after the festivities had started. All deliberate, all part of her plan. She’d plotted this already, mentally walking herself through her quiet, casual entrance, her schmoozing with the board, and then, finding Sharon and saving her from some aimless conversation about money. Her palm on the small of Sharon’s back, guiding Sharon away, into one of the ornate side rooms, finding somewhere quiet. Lydia would hop velvet ropes if need be. And then, they would be alone together, and Lydia could kiss Sharon in the way she’d wanted to ever since she woke up alone after their night together. And they would have another chance.
The driver left her at the entrance. Heading up the palace steps, she waved to the board members she knew, the orchestra musicians. Suddenly, she felt as if she belonged here. For once, she felt as if she had a place here, a good politician, someone who could act presentable and laugh at the right times. Who would stay for an hour, then leave discreetly, and leave with Sharon. The two of them together, and Sharon’s panties in Lydia’s pocket. It would all go according to plan.
The expansive ballroom made her feel small, so many people, a string quartet playing, waiters serving hors d'oeuvres and champagne in flutes. So many big dresses, so many suits. Sometimes, these parties made her feel like a teenager again, refusing to shower with the rest of the field hockey team, but tonight, she felt poised. She felt elegant, but not in the way the women in gowns were elegant. No, she was something else. Walking through this ballroom, she knew that the others were watching her, but she liked that they were watching. She liked that she could pull their attention toward her. Maybe they want you to stay, she thought absentmindedly. Maybe they do want you here. Maybe you do belong.
And then, she saw Sharon.
Her dress was black and shimmering, as if diamond-encrusted, and the deep neckline somehow didn’t look provocative on Sharon; no, the neckline made Lydia think of marble statues, of Pre-Raphaelite paintings, of Botticelli’s Primavera and broken chords and matches being struck. Her hair tied back in a bun, the curls pinned but still natural, her lips painted nipple-pink. Her long skirt didn’t billow but looked as if it would fan around her if she twirled. She wore no jewelry except for a pair of diamond stud earrings. And she stood with a few others, board members Lydia recognized and a few she didn’t, and Sharon plastered on that same smile, shaking hands, nodding along, playing the part. But as the rest of the crowd said quiet goodbyes, ambled off toward other conversations, one man stuck by Sharon, her smile starting to fade, her gaze looking out in search of champagne. The man wore a suit, his tie painstakingly straight, his hair coiffed in a way that found the midpoint on the devil-may-care to slicked-back scale. He was ever-so-slightly taller than Sharon, though that could’ve been a trick of the light. And Lydia desperately wanted to save Sharon from him.
She sidled up beside Sharon, slipping her palm to the small of Sharon’s back, fingertips against shimmering fabric. As she went to speak, Sharon reached back for Lydia’s hand, then took it off of her dress, let it go alongside them.
“Maestro,” Sharon said, stopping Lydia, “it’s so lovely to see you.”
When was the last time Sharon had called her maestro? And now, both Sharon and the man tried to face her, two against one.
“Let me introduce you to my husband,” Sharon said.
And then, Sharon looked toward the man, spoke in quick German, making him say ah and smile toward Lydia, all recently shaven face and Grey’s Anatomy good looks and a strange, seedy vibe that made Lydia think he liked cryptocurrency. He wore thick black glasses. He was wholly age-appropriate. He made eye contact with Lydia, smiled, and held out a hand for her to shake, and as they shook, Lydia realized that he was wearing his wedding band on his right hand. And then, she realized that she’d never seen Sharon wear a wedding band until now, right now.
“I’m so sorry,” Sharon said as the two took their hands back, the husband looking pleased, Lydia looking shellshocked, “but we’re needed elsewhere. It was so lovely to see you tonight.”
Then, Sharon said something to the husband in German, and the two of them turned away, maybe searching for champagne, maybe leaving altogether, and they left Lydia behind, left her staring at them. And she watched as Sharon took two flutes of champagne from a waiter, and the two clinked glasses, eye contact, Lydia knew the German saying. How many years of bad sex was it? Five, she guessed, and if she could, she would force Sharon’s gaze down, and then, let the husband experience that. Let him feel torn apart for lack of cunt. Let him annihilate himself. She didn’t care anymore. Nothing else mattered. Let me introduce you to my husband. Sharon had never once mentioned a husband.
For a moment, trapped in her own mind, Lydia lost sight of them, but she couldn’t let this go, so she reached into her pocket, the pocket she hadn't reserved, and took out her cell phone. It would be cowardly to leave now. No, she would stay, would stick around all night, and she would haunt Sharon. She would make Sharon pay.
She quickly typed a text message to Sharon, then sent it without hesitation.
YOU HEINOUS BITCH.