DOROTHEA

TWENTY-SEVEN

"Time, mystical time
Cutting me open then healing me fine..."

———

Tiny moments, good and bad.

May 10th, 2018 - Santa Clara, CA

Taylor's leg bounced restlessly as she sat on the stiff, starchy-white sheets of the California king bed.

It was almost eleven pm and she was waiting for Dorothea to finish showering in the en-suite of their hotel room. They arrived in San Jose only a few hours before, having taken a late afternoon flight from LA after stopping at her Beverly Hills place. They weren't supposed to swing by the house, but thanks to the alarming speed of online shopping, Taylor had managed to buy, ship, and receive several packages—impulse purchases—within less than twenty-four hours.

One of which was currently sitting in a ribbon-tied shopping bag at the foot of the bed.

Taylor eyed the loopy black velvet bow; the creamy white bag with the sharp black border running around the edge.

It was just as risky as it was impulsive.

Less than a day earlier, in their Pasadena hotel room after the second show, Taylor was wide-awake. It was three am. She should have fallen asleep effortlessly based on her exhaustion, but she couldn't. She took turns between watching the ceiling fan go round and round and the steady breaths rise and fall out of Dorothea sleeping at her side.

Neither of them slept well the night before that. After the nap in the car, Dorothea was up and down, which meant she was up and down. There was a point in the obscure twilight hours—not quite night, but certainly not dawn—when they were both awake and aware of the other being the same, but acted otherwise. They each stared the ceiling fan, their arms and legs entwined. At one point, Taylor caught the thud of Dorothea's pulse against her bare shoulder. She could still feel the rhythm of it hours later, long after they'd gotten out of bed. Like beating a drum in a cave.

After the second show, though, Dorothea relented to her own exhaustion. Taylor was relieved but longed for the same. Instead, her worry held its grip on her mind. It felt as though there were claws picking her thoughts apart and pulling out all of the ones she had worked so hard to bury. All she could think about was that night after the first show and the look of terror on her girlfriend's face, which would spiral into remembering all of the other moments she caught the woman not quite acting like herself.

The lingering glances in mirrors; the shirt-pulling. Stretching the fabric out past her bump, sometimes looking as though she wasn't even aware she was doing it. Over and over again, usually at the most stressful times of the day.

So at three in the morning, Taylor stared blearily at her laptop, scouring every website she could think of for maternity clothes. Stylish maternity clothes. Summer was quickly approaching, and so buying half a dozen dresses seemed perfectly reasonable. And of course, basing her selections on her late-night fantasy about Dorothea wearing them seemed just as logical.

Yet, Taylor also knew it probably wouldn't solve the problem. Because she had no idea what the problem was—or if there was even a problem to begin with? It seemed like there was something wrong. But then it seemed like there wasn't. Then there was. Then there wasn't.

As she sat in their bed, punching in the numbers of her Amex card by the glow of the laptop screen, she was desperate.

She just wanted Dorothea to be happy.