Amidst the Misery

Chapter 5: Batter Two

Jennie finds herself more attached to her phone as of late.

An incremental change in their dynamic had occurred in recent weeks, the rapport they had started to rebuild at Grounders having opened up the lines of communication. She feels the shift in atmosphere, even if it’s pixel-based and happening character by character.

(Lisa) 10:37

Ugh, client won’t budge.

(Jennie) 10:50

Couldn’t sway them with that fancy Ivy League degree?

As she stares at her impulsive tease, she realises some habits are hard to break.

It was a reflex for Jennie to rib Lisa about her alma mater. Though there was never any bite to it knowing how extremely hard the girl had worked to earn her scholarship and a coveted spot in both the Bachelor’s and Masters programs at Columbia. Architecture student Lisa would usually retort that art student Jennie was in no position to cast a stone about higher education elitism when she herself attended an upper echelon private art school.

Thankfully, architect Lisa seems unfazed by the return to form.

(Lisa) 10:51

No, I missed the intro course on Dealing with Clients Who Think They Can Design. I’ve spent my morning trying to convince him that gold-spotted bricks is a tad overkill.

(Jennie) 10:52

And the Manoban charm didn’t work? I remember you could sell tissue paper as canvas to an artist.

Jennie worries her lip, another slip, hoping the banter doesn’t come across as too familiar or flirty. Engaging in conversation with Lisa has always caused a natural pull of her lips; she’s having a hard time remembering that this is 2018 Jennie texting 2018 Lisa, and not their 2014 counterparts.

(Lisa) 10:54

You were convinced you’d fail the final hand-in if you didn’t have the right stretched cotton. I was simply pointing out that if you only had a toothbrush and tissue paper it’d still be a masterpiece.

(Lisa) 10:55

Frustrating that I can’t change his mind. Apparently my range of effect is limited to blondes.

Jennie holds her breath seeing the dots appear and disappear in quick successions. Lisa likely realised, belatedly, the meaning of her text. Jennie has never known ellipses to be such a cliff-hanger.

She grins, amused, imagining the crease of brow on the other end of the line, chastising impulsive thumbs. It would seem she’s not the only one caught up in old habits. She wants to draw out the tease but then Lisa’s next message deflects.

(Lisa) 10:56

Wait, don’t you work for yourself?

(Jennie) 10:56

Yes?

(Lisa) 10:57

Sounds ideal. Right now, I’d rather work for you too.

Jennie couldn’t keep the blush off her cheeks and was glad Lisa couldn’t see it through her screen. Though she was sure nothing more was meant by the innocent comment, and was so far from where her imagination should have taken her, it nonetheless set her heart afire to think of Lisa in any position under her.

After Grounders, they started to text more frequently, testing the waters with a few stray ones, and then more filtered in as the weeks unfolded. Tiny humans worked well as ice-breakers. Jennie had kicked things off by inquiring after the Warriors well-being, and whether the gallons of ice cream had been counterproductive to the day’s fitness agenda.

Lisa had lobbied back about the elasticity of their bottomless stomachs and ridiculously high metabolism—and that besides, the aftermath of their indulgence was the worry for other adults. Jennie’s decry of it being a cruel punishment for their hard-working, unsuspecting parents and caregivers went unheard.

That had presented the perfect lead-in for Lisa to share her own work challenges, moving their conversation onto the unique ambivalence she feels towards her vocation: how rewarding it is to work on social housing projects, how soul-destroying it is to interface with property developers. The fulfilment of creating quality architecture to house low-income single families, versus the frustration and futility she feels when weeks of labouring over the design of a floor plan is met with a compassionless request to make the apartment units smaller.

Lisa’s gripe had opened the floodgates for more stories in subsequent text threads about the dubious honour of working for parasitic, heartless money-grabbers. Stories like how the utter lack of empathy had incensed Lisa to compose a strongly worded memo on company letterhead, “You try living in less than 300 square feet of space, you turd. I doubt your ego would even fit through the door,” that she ultimately didn’t send, because unlike the subject of her derision, she had a higher sense of common decency.

Jennie squirrelled away every story, every anecdote and morsel of info, even if the topics revolved around the breathtaking inanity of white corporate privilege. It was one of the things she admired most about Lisa: her unflinching commitment to fighting the good fight against humanity’s more baser instincts.

She guiltily looks forward to reading about the young architect’s misery, even if the grievances of Lisa’s work interrupted Jennie from completing her own. It was the highlight of her day, if only because the more egregious the client’s behaviour, the more frequently the messages would come.

While there was a residual stutter to their exchanges, it somehow felt easier to re-establish social intercourse over text. Not being distracted by Lisa’s green eyes probably helped. Getting reacquainted with how her usual insistence on proper punctuation and grammar gave way to colloquialisms and contractions when she was stress-texting, helped. As did finding herself in the unexpected role of confidante, that Lisa had unwittingly started to tie her workplace’s emotional health to Jennie’s smartphone.

By mid-February, they are on friendly enough terms again that has Jennie smiling, and butterflies fluttering, whenever a notification of a new message pops up. Her cheeks are sore from the near permanent grin on her face throughout this latest exchange.

(Lisa) 11:03

Ugh, why did I go into a service-based industry? And one overrun with old, fat men who wouldn’t recognise good design even if it was white paint thrown on their overpriced black suits.

(Jennie) 11:04

That bad, huh?

(Lisa) 11:04

I swear, the more money they have, the worst their taste. They really should teach a graduate course on How to Avoid the Pitfalls of Rich People’s Tackiness.

Jennie feels almost bad for enjoying Lisa’s suffering too much. She is in the middle of typing her next message when another text comes through.

(Lisa) 11:05

If drafting boards still exist, I would be banging my head on one this moment.

She deletes her inconsequential response and lets Lisa’s follow-up ruminate for a bit instead. Her smile widens into a full ear-to-ear grin at the prompted image of Lisa’s head lying atop her drafting board, a recurring sight throughout her Columbia years. As Lisa progressed through the curriculum, Jennie would find her in veritable states of contortion over the drawing surface.

*****

She looked out of the large windows onto the main quad from her fourth storey perch. The campus was quiet at this hour and this time of term, the grounds empty of its collegiate and the usual din of knowledge acquiring and exchanging. The flowering dogwood trees were free to stretch and shake their blossoms undisturbed. Their leaves had recently turned a brilliant scarlet that was still visible despite the low illumination of the night, and had momentarily captured Jennie’s artistic sensibility.

Reading Week unfailingly meant students were tucked inside of the libraries and burrowed in whatever available crook and cranny they could find. A collective agreed-upon silence blanketed the campus in a layer of hush. Everywhere was quiet, except for the historic building where Jennie was currently standing, inhabited by those committed to surviving the rigour of an architecture education. These afflicted souls could be found here at all hours of the day or year. Stalwart guardians of the night with extreme work ethics.

Jennie turned her gaze back onto the studio floor to survey the worker bees. Sounds of cutting and scratching and breaking filtered back to her ears.

While creative spaces for fine arts and architecture share an open, experimental spirit, they differ in arrangement and types of chaos. Jennie would consider Columbia’s to be ordered chaos against the free-for-all at Parsons.

Neat rows of tables line the length of the room, with wooden planks atop, inclined anywhere between 0–45 degrees, and accessorised with luxo lamps hanging precariously off their corners. However, it was the scatter of materials—wood, paper, plastic, styrofoam—in disarrayed states of assembly, and every surface overlaid with all sorts of linework drawings, that made for the frenzied atmosphere.

The overhead fluorescents, their brightness inconsistently somewhere between a stadium pitch, an anti-septic clinical room and a seedy motel, added to the visual noise.

Jennie looked down at the lovable lump before her, smiling at her disheveled girlfriend. She tucked down the part of Lisa’s shirt that had ridden up a little, hiding her amusement at the thought of the shock every Badger would experience to see their former commanding captain now looking like a kindergartener who’s just been put down for her afternoon nap.

“Lisa,” Jennie gently stroked Lisa’s hair, cooing into her ear.

She laughs hearing the faint, “S’nice,” as she deepens the head massage.

“Babe … time to get up so you can go to bed.”

“That makes no sense, Jennie,” came the muffled reply from under an unkempt mane of chestnut.

“You’re drooling over your mylar.”

At that, Lisa bolts her head up from where it was resting on her forearms, suddenly alert and looking alarmingly around for any unsightly spots soiling her pristine fine lines. When her search came up empty-handed, she wiped the saliva that she did find at the corner of her mouth, and asked through a sleepy voice, “What time is it?”.

“Close to midnight.”

Jennie had moved her hand down to Lisa’s neck, rubbing out a known sore spot, and then continued her ministrations on her lower back, “I didn’t want you riding the train home alone.” She knew Lisa was beyond her exhaustion point when the future architect had failed to point out, as she usually does, that it was a silly argument given Jennie did just that to get here. “Besides, you know I can’t sleep when you’re not next to me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Lisa looked equally contrite about having bothered Jennie out of the warmth of their apartment, and not achieving enough progress on her drawing assignment.

When Lisa hadn’t come home for dinner, and had stopped answering Jennie’s texts after 10 pm, she knew her girlfriend must have fallen asleep on top of her work again. It had become a routine occurrence, forcing Jennie to take up post as her human alarm clock. Already in her pjs, she would throw on a coat, slip into her Uggs, and take the A train into Manhattan for the 45-minute commute.

After it had happened the first few times that Lisa had stayed pass a reasonable hour, Jisoo pitied her pacing and had shown up the next day with a keycard mysteriously produced to grant Jennie access to Avery Hall. Jennie had smothered her in a bear hug to show her appreciation, and had made good use of the borrowed privileges since.

Though she never found a permanent solution to replace the temporary holdover—she was making almost daily trips by the time Lisa graduated—the ethics behind the security breach were never given a second thought, not when the greater good meant Lisa would get a decent hour of sleep and, out of self-interest, be her cuddle buddy.

At one point, after her trespassing had been nearly uncovered, Jennie had secretly stalked the weekly ads for any listings near Morningside Heights so that Lisa could be closer to school, and she’d be within walking distance to retrieve her girlfriend without incurring a felony charge. Aside from the exorbitant rent prices not worth relocating to the area, ultimately she couldn’t give up their Brooklyn loft because of how much Lisa loved it.

Lisa for her part, with her infinite patience and high tolerance for pain, never once complained about the distance or the smells. (“Nothing builds character like enduring 90 minutes a day on the New York transit system.”)

Fortunately, after repeated sightings, the campus police had just assumed Jennie was a member of the student body, equally stricken to meet the high standards of the GSAPP department. For how often she visited, Jennie should have gotten an honorary degree.

It wasn’t all bad though. Between term deadlines, the distance was tolerable because Lisa would leave the studio at a decent hour and meet Jennie outside of Washington Square. They would sit at the park and catch up on their day or grab a bite to eat in the village, before heading home.

On days when Jennie had more free time, waiting for her oils to dry, or when she just simply missed Lisa too much, she would venture north to surprise her with lunch and they would stroll the hour away along the paths of the meadow fields of Central Park. (Sometimes it was less strolling and more heavy making out in the North Woods on the rocks by the stream.)

It was a rewarding compromise she was willing to make considering Jennie had started out her BFA at RISD. Aside from the isolation of being in Providence, the 3-hour drive proved too difficult to sustain her and Lisa’s need to be in constant physical touch. Though RISD’s fine arts programme was her first choice, she transferred to the New School at the end of the first term without hesitation—happy to return to the main island.

So Jennie didn’t mind making the trek from Bed-Stuy to Morningside. She learned to save her art readings for the subway ride, and could easily complete each week’s core texts then.

It was also a bonus point that a sleepy Lisa was an extra affectionate and vulnerable Lisa. The reverse trip home would involve unsuccessful attempts at getting her girlfriend to contain her PDA and not use Jennie as a human pillow. Despite the upper body strength required to do so, she couldn’t be miffed at the warmth of wandering hands and the open puppy look of adoration underneath droopy eyelids.

It’s a blessing that New Yorkers were some of the most blasé people on the planet, and accustomed to far more questionable social behaviour than two girls openly expressing their love. None of their co-passengers ever paid heed to them, too concerned with their own plight to get back to their beds.

They made a secondary home out of that middle car, and on nights when she managed to coax Lisa into a nap, Jennie would sketch the time away while light snores emanated from her lap. One hand languorously combing through Lisa’s hair, the other doodling with purpose. The clacking of the tracks kept her company as the contours of a detailedly-drawn hand, eye or back emerge on the page.

And during the times when Lisa had a bit more energy in her reserve, they would be digging contently into the street fries picked up from their favourite night vendor outside of 116th station, and Jennie would get an earful of professor so-and-so’s terrible habits, or an animated retelling of her and her studio-mates latest shenanigans.

It was quality time she would not trade for all the clam cakes and coffee milk in Rhode Island.

She was broken out of her thoughts by a blustered expulsion of air. Lisa released a bear yawn as she got to her feet and pulled Jennie into her arms, burying her head in her neck and inhaling the scent. Jennie felt the satisfied sigh more than heard it, accompanied by a low pulsing hum and the beginning of a pawing motion in her hair that the brunette would undertake under extreme fatigue. Lisa’s lowered defence mechanisms made this nightly ritual more like a negotiation with a giant teddy cub than a grizzly.

Jennie chuckled and gently pushed her girlfriend back before she could start kneading her breasts, Lisa’s next step in her wind-down bed routine. Even if Lisa’s classmates were either asleep or too deeply absorbed in their own projects to acknowledge the pair, accustomed to having Jennie around, she really didn’t want to give them a free show.

“Ok love, I know. Let’s go home.”

—

“Oh my god, this tastes so good,” Lisa garbled around a fry.

Despite her apparent earlier exhaustion, the architecture student came to life on the train when Jennie pulled out the newspaper cone of fries she had procured just outside the station. She chuckled seeing Lisa’s confusion that the late-night snack appeared out of nowhere, as if she hadn’t been clinging onto Jennie, staring wantonly at the grill while they waited for the vendor to fire up a fresh batch, before falling asleep upright.

“You didn’t have dinner, did you?” Jennie asked, feeding her girlfriend another fry. She felt a lazy shake of head under her chin, hair tickling her neck.

Lisa was still clinging on to Jennie, but in a sitting position this time, tucked into her side. Her arm was slung around Jennie’s abdomen while her head rested comfortably against her chest. (It was one of Lisa’s favourite positions for the vantage point. “The view is spectacular, Jennie.”)

Thankfully they were the only two occupants in the car. Lisa’s wandering hand caused Jennie’s breath to hitch several times when it moved lackadaisically upwards to softly sweep the under-curve of her breast. The fries made for a good distraction. Given the wetness building between her thighs every time a hot breath against her neck was met with a broad swipe of thumb, Jennie didn’t think she would object if Lisa took things further.

“Why can’t all food be double deep-fried?” Lisa’s question was nearly lost around the lick of her tongue on Jennie’s fingers as she took another bite. “Preferably high in starch and beer battered.”

“Lis, you can’t survive on a potato diet,” Jennie chided, to deflect from her growing arousal, even as she fed her another wedge of crispy and golden deliciousness.

Lisa pulled her head back and looked up at Jennie, as if her words had just kicked a puppy. Wide eyes and a jutted bottom lip were so adorably indignant that she was compelled to lean down and gently kiss the pout away. Her concession earned a deepening of the kiss with tongue, and a second-hand taste of the sweet, tangy mayo sauce.

“Fine, live a spud life,” Jennie yielded breathlessly when they pulled apart. She was impressed that the cone in her hand hadn’t toppled over during the negotiation. Lisa hummed her satisfaction at being the victor, and returned her head to its rightful place near Jennie’s breasts.

“Mmm, I like this pillow way better than the last.”

*****

(Lisa) 11:06

I used to equate my drafting board to a pillow. I got way more sleeping than drawing done on it.

Jennie smiles thinking Lisa might be recalling the same memory.

(Jennie) 11:07

I remembered.

(Lisa) 11:07

Maybe that’s why they don’t have them in offices anymore, too tempting for naps. But after that conference call, I could definitely find a very productive use for one right now.

(Jennie) 11:08

It’s probably a good thing for occupational health & safety that drafting boards are obsolete. There’d be a crisis in the profession with the amount of head injuries.

(Lisa) 11:09

But think of all the research subjects Minzy is missing out on.

Jennie pauses at the unexpected mention of her neurosurgeon mother.

So far, their texting had been generic and light. They’d typically hit their stride when it’s easy-going and non-committal texts. Complaints about clients and neutral subjects like professional etiquette keep the conversation flowing. They enter into easy patterns of give and take idle chit-chat.

For awhile in the beginning, they were navigating an in-between place of knowing but not knowing each other, with blinders on about what has changed during their time apart, like driving on a foggy road with no side mirrors and the rearview one half-covered. They could see what’s immediately in front of them, but not much of what’s closely beside or behind them. With limited visibility, the open road was both exhilarating and scary.

Lisa hadn’t inquired into Jennie’s development during the missing years. Her messages never probed for more, and Jennie hadn’t voluntarily revealed herself beyond what’s asked. Similarly their personal histories were skimmed over, likely a subconscious self-monitoring on both their parts to keep the banter friendly.

But lately, facts from their past are slipping through, escaping the lid initially loosely kept on whatever pertained to their formative selves. As their conversations pick up steam, extraneous intimate details are making their way to the surface. It widens Jennie’s smile whenever Lisa makes allusions to something shared in their past, as if they’re in on a secret.

She’s stumped, however, by this particular mention of her mother. They hadn’t yet touched on family. Does she acknowledge it? Does she move pass it?

They’ve been riding such a high crest recently that she doesn’t want it to break.

She gnaws on her bottom lip as she considers what it’d mean to tell Lisa that it took her leaving for Jennie’s relationship with her mother to be repaired; that they had set aside their differences about career choices as Jennie desperately sought and Minzy unreservedly gave maternal comfort in the wake of her heartbreak; that if it weren’t for the weekend visits home or her mother’s sage and onion soup she might have withered away from dehydration caused by endless tears. And how, after Jennie had emotionally stabilised, they both made an effort to continue to check in on one another, successfully maintaining at least a bi-monthly visit schedule alternating between New York General and Jennie’s gallery.

She doesn’t know how or when is the right time to reveal that the lost of one love ameliorated another; that it took the pain of absence to compel Minzy to be more present; and perhaps most guiltily, that although Jennie was deeply grateful to have her mother re-invested in all parts of her life, it wasn’t anywhere near an adequate enough consolation prize.

Jennie wants to tell her that even when she wasn’t around, Lisa was still the drawbridge between mother and daughter; that she had unknowingly continued her Nobel laureate-worthy peacekeeping mission while an ocean away.

Minzy and Josh had both loved Lisa like a second child. All the Kims shared an appreciation for the girl none more-so than for her extraordinary diplomacy skills to diffuse the tinderbox lit by Minzy’s constant harping over why Jennie couldn’t go into a real profession, like architecture or medicine.

(“Jennie is going to be a professional dreamer. She’s going to make people feel things. I think that’s one of the most noble jobs in the world.”)

Lisa’s words rang true at Jennie’s inaugural group exhibition.

Minzy finally began to grasp the depth of her daughter’s talent when her eyes set on Verte, Jennie’s first major painting. She was rendered speechless when she saw the way heartbreak seeped through fissures of acrylic, how emotion bled into and out of strokes of white and greys and blues.

Her mother had been transfixed by the way the cuts appeared up close as discrete incisions that seemingly don’t meet or mean much, yet from a distance, as an aggregate, looked like the markings of a birchwood forest, naked of its leaves, heaving its last breath. She felt air leaving her own lungs as her gaze followed the mist billowing up from a blue-stained ground and threatening to overtake the entire landscape, that if she squinted, could make out amber flecks of light reminding her of fireflies. A scene of ruin that was at once devastating and hopeful. It was left to the viewer which top or bottom half of the filled glass they wanted to see.

The elder Kim didn’t quite understand what was in front of her but knew that it somehow connected to Lisa. She had pulled Jennie into a bone-crushing hug in the middle of the gallery, uncaring of the curious looks she had drawn with her tears, and whispered her apologies in her daughter’s ear as she cradled her head.

(“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”)

It was the first cathartic release Jennie felt after months of crying. The painting sold two weeks after the opening. The only reason she was able to part with it was because it had served to retie her bond with her mother, and allowed her to let go of her pain, if just a little. Though months later she’d come to regret not keeping the painting, she was comforted that it would bring hope or peace to someone else.

That Lisa remained the glue binding her to unconditional love when she felt untethered and rudderless; Jennie is not sure she can say any of this. Someday soon, but not yet, and not over text.

Jennie decides, for now, she doesn’t want to prematurely curb their steady progress towards friendly normalcy. She tries for humour instead.

(Jennie) 11:13

Well, I’d pity anyone who has to go under the knife of Minzy Kim.

(Lisa) 11:14

Yeah. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere in the vicinity of your mother and sharp instruments.

Jennie is relieved that Lisa acquiesces to her tactical side-stepping, and lets out a laugh when she reads the next message.

(Lisa) 11:14

What do you think the ethics are of sending anonymous emails to clients with the subject line, You Suck, signed, Everyone?

(Jennie) 11:14

I would co-sign.

(Jennie) 11:15

One of my first commissions, I was so excited. Turns out, the socialite only wanted me to paint a rainbow mural for her spoiled kid’s bedroom. A BFA and an MFA to draw a multicoloured arc.

(Lisa) 11:16

Oh, right. I forgot about her. She was such a jerk, and cheap too. She only wanted to pay for five colours of the rainbow. You were a saint for doing it anyways, and throwing in the extra two.

(Jennie) 11:16

Children shouldn’t have to suffer for their parents’ shortcomings. Besides, my bi heart wouldn’t allow me in good conscience to paint an incomplete rainbow.

(Lisa) 11:17

It’s still the best rainbow I’ve ever seen, fwiw.

(Lisa) 11:17

Hey, sorry, I’ve got to go. Same client has just sent a follow-up email asking me to review his 50-slide powerpoint. Where did my life go wrong?

(Lisa) 11:17

Thanks for listening. You know, at least in London they were passive-aggressively polite about giving me ‘notes.’

Her sign-off draws another laugh from Jennie.

(Jennie) 11:18

Ok, stay safe. Keep your head away from hard surfaces.

(Lisa) 11:18

Ttyl :)

Jennie sets her phone aside, her brush too, though her smile remains. She goes in search of food, knowing well enough that little progress on her painting will be made now that Lisa’s on her brain.

—

It’s been like this since their messaging has gained momentum. There isn’t a consistency to when the exchanges would happen—a day or two, sometimes three spanning between them, and the messages would stop just as quickly as they start. And regardless if it is Lisa or Jennie who initiates, reliably each spurt would halt Jennie from whatever she is presently engaged in or planning to do, and derail her for the rest of the morning or afternoon.

Later in the week follows the same script. She is nearly done prepping a wooden frame—a test canvas to work out new colour mixes—when the incoming dings shift her focus.

At least this time the topic is marginally related to her task at hand. On her way to a meeting Lisa had noticed a poster walking past the Whitney that reminded her of another piece she saw at the Tate in London. Jennie spends the next twenty minutes, likely the length of Lisa’s walk, discussing the finer differences between American and British Pop Art.

She could imagine the clicking of Lisa’s heels against the concrete, the honks of cars and rings of bells of bike couriers in the background, her hurried steps to get out of the cold while her fingers furiously type out her surprise at discovering that it was a Brit who had coined the term for the art movement; that Richard Hamilton’s very English approach of using parody and self-deprecation had been the precursor to Warhol’s and Lichtenstein’s cheekiness.

Despite being the contemporary art expert and practitioner between the two of them, Jennie has a hard time keeping up with the flurries of texts. She’s admittedly distracted by the wiggling warmth of Lisa’s instinct to text her after seeing the ad for an upcoming Pop retrospective.

(She’s also distracted by visions of a leggy brunette wearing tailored slacks and a crisp, fitted white blouse underneath a slightly oversized blazer hanging off of her model frame, and how the whole monochrome set is punctuated by bright red luscious lips. If it’s anything like the aesthetic Jennie remembers, the people at Lisa’s meeting might not know what’ll hit them.)

Caught up in the excitement, she nearly suggests going to see the exhibition together, but thinks better of it at the last second and has to fight dwindling willpower to restrain her thumbs from extending the invitation. It’s always so easy with Lisa that she doesn’t realise how close and frequent their interactions of late tread into actual dating territory.

Instead she manages to squeeze in, between Lisa’s breathless texts, some tidbits about the female artists, British and American, working along the margins of the boys club. She lists off a few of the more egregious facts about inequality in the art world exposed by the Guerrilla Girls, who she has mentioned to Lisa in the past, admiring them for using their subversive wit to criticise the staggering under-representation of women at major and minor galleries across the world.

(Jennie) 09:58

I read a recent interview with them. In the 80s, galleries showed only 10% of women artists. No solo exhibitions. Today it’s 20%. I’m not sure if that’s progress or incredibly sad that it’s taken 30 years to get that extra 10. At that rate, it’s going to take close to another century before we reach parity.

(Lisa) 10:02

Guerrilla Girls are great! I love the absurdity of these women wearing gorilla masks and confronting the male curators asking where are all the women artists? I saw their posters at Tate.

(Jennie) 10:03

They’re awesome, right? My favourite poster is the one that asks if women have to be naked to get into the Met. Less than 5% of artists are women but 85% of the nudes are female!

Twenty minutes feels like it’s not enough time with Lisa. Jennie’s thumbs can’t seem to type fast enough. Admittedly, it’d be faster if the conversation was over the phone where they can voice the mini treatises more expediently, but then again, Jennie thinks, there might be too many pregnant pauses and awkward umms. Despite the risk of carpal tunnel syndrome, she’s happy for the current mode of communication, as they feverishly trade facts and figures, and her smile gets wider. The topic of female oppression is a favourite of Lisa’s that they had often visited during their late night train rides home.

Really, if Jennie is being honest, she enjoyed hearing about Lisa’s disdain for the gross disparities in architecture as much as seeing the pretty scowl that would accompany each diatribe. Never had she seen a look of reproach look so attractive. Best of all, it gave her a reason to kiss the furrowed lines away. She can visualise the crease between Lisa’s brow right now as the next messages come through.

(Lisa) 10:12

Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown have been work and life partners for decades. But unbelievably, he wins the Pritzker Prize for buildings that they designed together.

(Lisa) 10:12

That’s ridiculous, Jennie. Simply unconscionable robbery.

Jennie has missed this. Being able to talk to, or in this case text, Lisa about their passions. With their mutual training in the creative industries, she could always find a sympathetic ear and an invested conversation partner about aesthetics and visual culture. Just as Jennie knows that the League NY is an association for young, emergent architects, and not a rag-tag group of skyscraper superheroes, Lisa is the rare one in her inner circle who is aware that Hyperallergic is an online art forum and nothing to do with heightened discomfort around cats or ragweed.

Whereas, Jisoo is only ever interested in talking about anything with a motor while Hyuna’s attention span is short enough for a discussion on MMVA or the Die Hard trilogy, and little else. It’d have to be the apocalypse before either of them would listen to any sentences that include Rothko or Kahlo. Even Bob Ross would be too much of a stretch for them. Nevermind trying to tell them that Frieze isn’t a popsicle.

(“We get it, Jennie. Paint. Colours. Wow.”

One time she was fooled into thinking her best friends were genuinely listening to her wax poetic about Josef Albers’ thesis on the interaction of colour, that was until they broke out into Cyndi Lauper’s True Colours. She walked away from them with a long-suffering sigh as they were hitting the high notes.)

With Lisa back in her life, and the redevelopment of their conversational dynamic, Jennie feels buoyed for the return of a kindred spirit who understands the complexities and toil and reward of careers steeped in creative processes—of what it means to see life through the lens of beauty and with an acute empathy for what the world is and can be; to create alternative imaginaries through brush and paint, bricks and mortar.

The buzz of her phone has become synonymous with the murmur of content her heart feels to have its signals answered once more.

(Maybe Jisoo and Hyuna aren’t wrong. Maybe with Lisa, she can see true colours shining through. “Like a fucking giant gay rainbow, Jennie.” Just like the one she painted on the Upper East Side.)

When quiet followed the last text, Lisa presumably has reached her destination. Jennie thinks that’s the end of this spurt, that they’ll leave it on an upbeat note about the need to expand art and architecture discourse with a feminist inflection. But then, ten minutes later, she is surprised to see one last message pop up.

(Lisa) 10:32

The exhibit will be on until May. Maybe we can go together.

Jennie’s thumbs are flying before she can stop herself.

(Jennie) 10:33

It’s a date.

—

After Lisa signs off, Jennie manages another half hour of work to finish applying gesso to the canvas surface. She decides to take an early lunch and let the morning’s back-and-forth carry her thoughts through preparing her Thai salad and enjoying it in the sun-filled living room.

As she crunches on the bowl mix of red cabbage, arugula, bell peppers and mango, relishing the creamy peanut dressing and the freshness of the mint and basil, she thinks of the pleasant thrum that’s left behind after every interaction with the brunette.

Besides the big picture significance of their digital reconnection, Jennie values it for the little things.

Though it is far from the stated purpose of their telecommunication, Jennie feels like half her age again, fourteen and waiting for the cute girl to call. The giddiness of seeing her phone light up after hours or days of willing it to life, the flutter from reading the name on the screen, the pressure to come up with witty remarks so she could prolong the conversation, the dread of saying goodbye. The countdown until the next time.

For her part, Jennie sends images of things that capture her attention throughout the day she thinks might interest Lisa. It becomes almost a game of what reaction she can pull from her, an aww or a whoa or the coveted lol. Pictures of cute puppies and unique flowers are interspersed with the strange or gross things New Yorkers get up to on the MTA. Sometimes she’d send a photo without words and Lisa would reply with her own witty caption of what she thinks might be going on.

While Jennie’s only ever had a perfunctory interest in technology, she feels a deepening dependency on her mobile provider after every repartee. Her phone has become her new lifeline.

Outside of Jennie’s photojournalism, predominantly the focus of their chit-chat is on the present, Lisa’s job, and sometimes their mutual friends or the latest binge-worthy thing on Netflix. But every so often, like this morning, she’s thrilled to get a sliver of insight into Lisa’s recent past, for the tiny flower or tuff of grass that grows through a crack of concrete in the pavement. George Carlin had it right when he referred to such sheer will of life as a fucking heroic effort, and whether Lisa is aware that she’s doing it, Jennie nonetheless appreciates the small gardens that are being planted around her heart again.

Tiny things, like that Lisa lived in the east end, that she liked riding the upper deck of the London buses to explore one part of the city to another on her days off, that she was on the fence about triangle sandwiches, that she hadn’t yet met Prince Harry. That the public concourse overlooking the Tate’s Turbine Hall was one of Lisa’s favourite places to eat her lunch whenever she was near the South Bank area.

Though the nuggets of info don’t substantially add to Jennie’s knowledge of what happened in the past four years, they help to colour her view of Lisa’s everyday life—of what her new routines might have been like.

Learning that the Great British Bake Off is a religion of which Lisa had become a recent convert, she can picture a dust covered apron and an adorably confused face as Lisa attempts to replicate any of the baked goods from the show. The image makes her laugh because the girl was as terrible in the kitchen as at the potter’s wheel. Maybe motorised equipment is her Achilles heel. She was a good vegetable washer and chopper but that was the extent of her culinary participation and expertise.

Lisa had inherited Henry’ disdain for small domestic appliances, and generally anything related to food preparation. Paradoxically, for both their gentle natures, neither father or daughter had the patience to figure out the controls of kitchen gadgets. The two of them would have starved had Rosé not eventually, begrudgingly, picked up the slack. (“I can’t eat another fucking avocado sandwich, guys!” was the shouting that Jennie had walked in on one lunch hour.)

Seeing as cooking was already a Sisyphean task, Jennie’s stumped for how Lisa would undertake something as time-intensive and precise as baking. How far has Lisa come along that measuring teaspoons of vanilla extract might not give her palpitations the same way grocery shopping used to? The thought of a delicate hand holding a whisk gives rise to a disparate image of two different Lisas.

That is why Jennie’s phone has stayed within reach ever since their electronic communication proliferated.

She treasures the innocuous messages as though they’re the infrathin, what Duchamp conceptualises as the hard to define in-between state of being, like the warmth of a seat that has just been left behind. The passage of one thing into, and between, another. Lisa’s text slippages help her to reconcile the person she knew with the one she’s getting to know, the marrying of old and new Lisa.

Texting is a tightrope walk in general, to express and detect emotion through digital shorthand, to read intent or nuance behind a few characters, to separate serious from sarcasm, to not overly rely on emoticons and exclamation points.

(Jennie can appreciate the last point, she has to constantly check herself from answering everything Lisa writes with multiple heart emojis. Besides, the smiley emoticon is a pale substitute for how wide her actual smile usually is when they’re texting.)

Yet, while half her time is spent clutching her phone and the other half her heart whenever the three dots appear, she is glad for it. This satellite love, even if only known to one party, renews her, and keeps Jennie in Lisa’s orbit when she thought she had been flung far out of its reach.

They’ll eventually get past the difficult topics (Jennie hopes), but for now, despite the remote distance, she feels closer to Lisa than she has in years. Despite the stutters and the tiptoeing, she is grateful for every texting chance to re-learn Lisa. For the incremental degrees of intimacy they re-establish.

——

That is how she and Lisa end up on this side of the East River waterfront, looking up at the blue sign, where two giant fishes encircle the words ‘The One That Cod Away.’

An animated regaling of a sea documentary that Lisa was watching had prompted some off-handed remarks about fishing and Bear Mountain, and how Jennie’s lack of coordination also extended to rod and reel. Jennie countered that her skills laid elsewhere. Happy to never have to cast a line again after several frustrating fishless attempts, Jennie struck a deal with the Manoban, while they lured in dinner, she would grill their catch over the fire pit—which had fortuitously turned out to be an untapped talent.

With Lisa salivating over her shoulder as she smoked the trout and bass to a nice charred texture, she had come to learn then that Lisa’s dislike of fish was only limited to its nearness to her beloved avocado, but that she didn’t mind at all when it was steamed or pan-fried or especially grilled, with a sprig of rosemary and a squeeze of lime.

Apparently, Lisa’s appreciation for the taste expanded during her time in England to include beer battered and coated in flour, deep fried in grease, and paired with fresh-cut fries.

Since finding that out, Jennie had been on a mission to track down the perfect chippy shop, what the Brits call it, a term she had picked up from trawling an ex-pat’s Tumblr. She found TOTCA in a subtweet of one of her art blogs.

Jennie is fairly pleased with herself for discovering this hideaway establishment near Pier 6 with views out to Staten Island Ferry. More-so because Lisa is laughing mirthfully at her choice for their second friend date.

(With Hyuna’s words of caution still ringing in her ears, she’s scared to admit aloud just how many hours she’d actually spent online reading customer reviews and comparing notes about the best New York chippy.)

Jennie had been nervous that their slowly rebuilding online chemistry wouldn’t translate off-screen and in-person. But seeing the lightness in Lisa’s face and posture, she’s happy her worry is unfounded.

“Jennie, I didn’t need to cross the ocean to have fish and chips,” Lisa contests, even as her lips remain curled up unbidden. She looks cute with her beanie and parka, with her head tilted to the sign.

“I wanted to show you that we’re just as good stateside.” Jennie is grinning from ear to ear at her ingenuity.

“We’re in Brooklyn Heights. How authentic can it be?” Lisa challenges.

“Excuse you. We’ve got our own Queen here who gave her blessing,” Jennie defends, hand to chest taking mock offence. “Apparently Mr. and Mrs. Carter sat in a corner booth.”

“What, no Blue Ivy or the twins?” Lisa sarcastically replies, but lets go of her prejudice at Jennie’s pretend scowl. “Well, if it’s good enough for the Carters, it can’t be too terrible.” She shakes her head, laughing again.

Jennie ignores her, and excitedly makes her way to the door, holding it open for Lisa as she beckons, “Come on. I want to know why this is the national dish of Britain.”

—

The shop’s nautical theme continues inside. Blue leather banquettes offset white tiled walls that feature, on one side, a scuba diver graphic outlined in black vinyl, and on the other, three sets of net and fishing pole hanging off wall-hooks. Wooden tables are accentuated with fisherman’s lamps, while napkins and tablecloths feature an anchor pattern. Rubber rain boots lean against the back wall, though it may just be the owner’s personal pair, adding to the overall effect.

They stand underneath the massive overhead blackboard, heads tilted up in awe at what’s on offer on the menu, eyes flitting around to take in the elaborately-drawn white chalk illustrations of the sea creatures. Jennie didn’t know that this many varieties of fish existed besides trout and bass, let alone what they’d be called, if it weren’t for the equally fanciful chalk writing of their names. There’s flounder, pollock, sole, wild grouper, skate, whiting, tilapia, perch, and of course, cod, among others.

It’s sometime between analysing the fins of haddock and the gills of halibut that Jennie realises she and Lisa are standing close enough that their hands nearly graze. She’s now hyper-aware of how close the back of Lisa’s hand is to her right knuckles, and feels the tingles in her fingers all the way up her arm, echo down her spine and to her toes. For fear the electric surge might involuntary cause her to do something stupid like slip her fingers through Lisa’s, she moves her hand away under the pretence of pointing to the board and drawing Lisa’s attention to the intricacies of the grouper’s scale patterns.

“You should have gone into sea art,” Lisa utters semi-seriously, completely wide-eyed in awe as if absorbed in that one National Geographic documentary they had been discussing, “look at where you could be now.”

—

They’re currently tucked into a booth by the window that looks out onto the harbour. Ferries pass by unhurried while determined tourists stroll the pier despite the chill of the evening. They are sat across from each other, enjoying the view and the casual atmosphere.

Since neither of them could individually come to a decision about their meal, they opt to share the taster platter at the owner’s enthusiastic prompt, “Why not try it all?!”.

Their medley choice has the grills fired up. Smells of beef dripping waft in the air amid sounds of sizzling as the batter is plunged into the high heat. Jennie’s stomach growls in sympathy of the sensory overload to her nose and ears.

As they wait for their fare, they chat aimlessly and amicably.

“I can’t believe there are over 10,000 fish and chip shops across the UK,” Jennie says, reciting a fact she gleaned in her research.

“Yep. While here you’re never far from a bagel, over there it’s batter. So, that’s pretty brave of you to take me to one this side of the Atlantic,” Lisa says with a playful raise of her eyebrow.

“I have faith in Tumblr.” Jennie doesn’t back down from the challenge. She has no clue if it’ll actually be good or not, and has no prior experience by which to measure TOTCA’s quality, but she’s not ashamed to put all her eggs into the basket of pre-teen microbloggers. “If this doesn’t work out, I’ll take you to Absolute for a bagel another day.”

While Jennie feels fluttering warmth at the thought of another outing before this one is even over, Lisa’s eyes light up at the offer and reminder of their old hunting ground in Morningside.

“It’s weird. We have Jewish immigrants to thank for both traditions, but the two imports don’t translate across coasts. Bagels aren’t popular in England. God, you don’t know how often I’ve dreamt of a New York bagel.”

Jennie’s chin is resting on the palm of her hand as she soaks in their conversation, trying not to stare dreamily and blurt out, God, you don’t know how often I’ve dreamt of you.

“What do they have there?” She asks instead.

“Nothing that qualifies as one. They’re soft and squishy and not at all chewy,” Lisa answers making a face. “And they don’t even spell it bagel. It’s b-e-i-g-e-l.”

Jennie laughs. “Sounds posh.”

“Trust me, it tastes far from it. I mean, how can they even call it a bagel if there’s no crust and only comes in flavours of plain and more plain? It’s false advertising to label it as anything other than holey bread.”

Jennie can only grin stupidly at the strength of Lisa’s conviction. It would seem she’s just as passionate about decrying dough oppression as female one.

“One time, I was desperate and picked up a bag of store-brand bagels from Sainsbury.” Lisa’s face completely sours recalling the memory. “One of the biggest regrets of my life. I felt my New York street cred dying a slow, moist death with each bite.”

“And yet, you kept eating it?” Jennie asks incredulously, amused. “I feel like you have no one else to blame here, Lis.”

If Lisa catches the nickname, or Jennie’s horrified micro expression from letting it slip, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I didn’t want my money to go to waste,” Lisa reasons, shaking her head. “I hadn’t adjusted to the exchange rate yet then, and felt bad to be throwing away a $10 bagel. I cried yeast tears as I was eating it.”

Jennie laughs again, though it’s filled with relief for overlooking the term of endearment as much as the humour of Lisa’s face journey as she describes her misadventures in under-boiled dough. Lisa wasn’t often one for hyperbole so she finds the exaggeration all the more entertaining.

“Now you have me curious. If I ever make it over there with you, you’ll have to take me to try one.”

There’s an extended pause as they both realise the significance of Jennie’s ask, what it means for her to be brought into Lisa’s world in London, let alone a shared future where they’re taking trips together. Jennie feels her cheeks warm and wants to retract her impulsivity but Lisa seems to have recovered faster. She gives her a gentle smile.

“I can definitely take you to Brick Lane where they’ve got a surplus of exactly two beigel shops, though that’s two more than most neighbourhoods elsewhere in London. But really, it’s only worth the pilgrimage there for the best Bangladeshi food, not for bagels.”

Before Jennie can inquire if the curries come in mild to accommodate her white aversion to hot spice, their food arrives.

The waiter sets the table with two large plates of various deep fried and beer-battered fish, in smaller portion sizes; three wicker baskets of double fried chips that they can taste the crispiness from just looking; and several tiny ramekins of condiments, including tartar sauce, tahini, sriracha, mixes of horseradish and caper, beetroot and bourbon, and Jennie’s newest addiction, kewpie, the Japanese mayo she favours to the American version for its rich and slightly sweet flavour.

Lisa turns her nose up eyeing Jennie’s bizarre choice of dips, and keeps her side of the table classic with malt vinegar and salt and a helping of mushed peas, having adopted the British tradition of what Jennie waves off as underwhelming restraint.

After a quick run-through of what’s in front of them, the waiter helpfully supplies cue cards that boast mini illustrations of a fish on one side and an explanation of their origin and taste palate on the other.

It startles Jennie when Lisa gets up from the booth unannounced as soon as the waiter departs with an “Enjoy, and good luck!”. Her confusion morphs into surprise when Lisa comes around and sits next to her.

“It’s easier to compare notes like this,” Lisa says without making eye contact, hiding her shyness by turning her attention down to the cards, but Jennie doesn’t miss the dust of pink on her cheeks. “We can try each fish systematically one by one.”

Jennie can’t argue that logic nor does she want to protest the voluntary closeness, not when it feels like they’ve taken up sentry as their old selves, causing the fluttering in her stomach to increase.

While Lisa studies the cards, Jennie studies her.

With Lisa on her right side, nearer to the aisle, she smiles at their practised positioning. Jennie’s left-handedness and Lisa’s clumsiness prompted them to work out a system early on in their friendship to avoid clanking cutlery, tipped over water glasses, and Jennie’s elbows constantly being jabbed by passing servers. Once figured, they would slip into place like a seasoned pair of marionettes accustomed to particular strings being pulled; be it at the school cafeteria, restaurants, bars, or friend’s dining tables, their self-arrangement was an un-consulted, coordinated affair.

When she looks down to where their hands are both resting on the leather cushion of their seat, and finds that her right hand is a pinky away from touching Lisa’s left, Jennie feels tingles shoot up the length of her arm. She has to grip the banquette harder to keep from her heart’s desire to run a finger over the smooth skin and map out the rise and fall of knuckles. Her other hand itches for charcoal to trace the shadows of flesh wrapped over delicate bone.

It wouldn’t take much, just a lift of her pinky and a slight lateral movement and she’d be brushing against Lisa. Perhaps her deep want is sending airwaves out that Lisa’s nerves are picking up because for the breath of a second it looks like her hand is inching towards Jennie’s, making her heart clench in wait.

The moment is fleeting, however, and passes just as quickly as it came. She wonders if her eyes are playing tricks on her. When she looks up to shake off the vision, Jennie catches a pair of pensive green eyes casting an equally fleeting glance to her thigh before they meet her gaze with a timid smile.

For the other patrons in the chippy, static energy crackles from the old radio playing soft music in the background. For Jennie and Lisa, it vibrates through fingertips weighed down by superhuman efforts to remain unmoved. Before the tension could snap to untenable ends, they both jerk their heads back to the cue cards, as if 10 point type suddenly holds the answer to all of life’s questions.

The unbidden gazing reminds Jennie that their set chess pieces were optimal for leaving their unused hands to do other things. Their non-dominant hands would always be somehow physically engaged, for different reasons, whether innocently holding and reassuring or otherwise not-so-innocently moving across thigh or legs.

*****

“Fuck.”

The whimper escaped before she could stop it.

“Oh, god. Fuck.”

“Jennie, you have to be quiet,” Lisa whispered hotly in her ear, even as she thrusted in deeper—as if she wasn’t the perpetrator of the wanton noise. The angle was awkward but no less hindered Jennie from feeling the force of long fingers reaching her inner walls. “Otherwise, we’re going to have to stop.”

“Don’t,” Jennie managed a breath, “you,” and then another longer one, “fucking dare.”

She sent her girlfriend an unimpressed glare while trying not to scream out her pleasure. Jennie turned her head to bite into Lisa’s shoulder hoping a mouthful of fabric would prevent any more sounds from escaping, but also adding a bit of teeth to express her disapproval at the teasing.

Another late-night fast food run to the local 24-hour diner, their third this week as term-end deadlines creeped near, and Jennie was straining to keep her face and upper body composed while Lisa’s hand was treacherously moving under her skirt, hidden by the tablecloth.

She had a near death-grip on her fork from trying to keep her moans in while her girlfriend continued to calmly chew her food as she worked her up.

It had started out innocently enough, the hand on her knee. Something that’s happened a million times before that Jennie didn’t even take notice anymore, knowing she’d always find a comforting warmth there when they dine out together.

She’d only clued into something being amiss when Lisa started giving one word answers while her hand was precipitously moving higher up her thigh.

Every few seconds Jennie would catch her darting glances around the diner. She wasn’t sure why Lisa looked to be planning a heist of the joint. There wouldn’t be much to steal but flour and sugar.

Bright lights hummed above them and an old Blondie tune stuttered lowly out of the vintage jukebox. They were the sole patrons at the establishment. The only thing within their company this side of Queens were the pile high stacks of pancakes and generous portions of maple syrup, along with an assortment of banana, berry and chocolate toppings.

The waitress, Martha, a kind but tired looking woman in her 60s, had retreated to the opposite corner behind the counter after serving their meal, presumably working on a crossword.

Overall, a typical night for them and all students across college campuses fighting off sleep and looking to recharge for the next round of study cramming. Textbooks on the Modernists and the Abstract Impressionists were waiting for them at home.

So, Jennie was at a lost for Lisa’s paranoia or plotting.

“Lis, what are you doing?” Jennie asked but made no move to stop the hand, equally curious and slightly aroused from the built-up of warm passes along her thigh.

Another furtive look before Lisa leaned in, and whispered conspiratorially, “Item number four on the list.”

Jennie nearly choked mid-bite. “What?” She spat out as Lisa patted her back.

“Number four,” Lisa repeated, and said a little more loudly than they both preferred, “semi-public se—“

Finally cluing in, Jennie swiftly moved to cover Lisa’s mouth to stop her from finishing the word.

“Really? Here?” She whisper-shouted. It was Jennie’s turn to scan the place suspiciously. She caught the waitress’ eye and put on her best fake smile. Lisa ridiculously flashed Martha a thumbs up.

“Why not?” Lisa looked at her with dilated pupils as her hand squeezed for emphasis. “It’s one of your fantasies to risk getting caught.”

“You can’t be seriously considering …” Jennie let her protest trail off. She couldn’t deny feeling a shiver of excitement for the thrill of taking their private activities public—even if public only meant Martha, and under the scrutiny of her owl reading glasses held in place by the necklace chain.

They had spent the other night enumerating their joint fantasy list. Jennie was initially confused why Lisa was supplying her with her favourite cocktails list when she read, sex on the beach. When the nature of the items became clear, with a flush of pink, Jennie made her own additions.

“I mean,” Lisa started to say as her hand lifted Jennie’s skirt and moved to rest under the fabric skin-on-skin, causing Jennie to expel a shuddered breath, “I’m not considering it. I’m doing it.”

Lisa waited for any objections to proceed. When none were raised, she skated over Jennie’s panty, and both of them bit back their moans when her hand brushed against the moist patch.

With her quickened heartbeat and the rising temperature between her thighs, Jennie was in no position to be a prude. “Fine, okay. But be quick.”

“That’s not up to me, babe,” Lisa said with a smirk before she started rubbing over the wet spot with purpose.

Jennie felt herself immediately sinking into the seat and rushed to ruffle the tablecloth overhang to hide their lower half more fully. Be a duck, be a duck, she tried to counsel herself to keep calm up top as Lisa’s hand started moving lower with fervour, and grazed her entrance.

By the time Lisa had pushed in two fingers, Jennie was grinding against her palm searching for friction, and biting into her shoulder to keep her enthusiasm silent. God, it felt amazing. They’ve had sex in more compromising positions at home, but something about the threat of being found out, the illicitness of their under the table activity, heightened the experience and accelerated her arousal.

“Fuck,” she garbled again into Lisa’s shoulder, “more, Lis.” She didn’t know what more she was asking for, with their positioning, it was a miracle that Lisa could squeeze in two fingers at all, and the heel of her hand was already doing god’s work on Jennie’s clit. Yet, she needed something more, she was so close.

Abruptly Lisa’s movements stilled. Jennie was ready to yell at her when Martha’s voice broke through the rush of blood in her ears.

“She okay?” The waitress asked.

Jennie couldn’t see the woman but heard concern and confusion plainly in her voice. She was glad to have her back turned, face hidden in Lisa’s shoulder and concealing her red, and getting redder, cheeks. She was even more relieved that, for all appearances to Martha, she was napping off of Lisa.

“Uh, yeah. She’s fine. Just over-ate.” Jennie felt Lisa patting her head like a small child, and wanted to slap her hand away. “Carb overload. I tried to cut her off earlier but she kept asking for more.”

Jennie bit harder into Lisa’s shoulder in retaliation. Her girlfriend covered her yelp with a dry cough. There was an extended silence that frayed Jennie’s nerves, surely the seasoned waitress wasn’t buying what Lisa was selling.

“You’re so cute together. You remind me of my daughter and her girlfriend at your age.” If only Martha knew what they’d been up to, she wouldn’t be making the association. “Alright, sweetie. If you girls need anything else, just holler. I’m going to go do some inventory in the back.”

“We’re good, thank you. All our needs are being met.”

After the sounds of footsteps retreating, and then the swinging of the kitchen door, Jennie lifted her head up and swatted Lisa’s shoulder where it had just been while giving her another glare. She was met with pure mischief in Lisa’s eyes, and lips that struggled not to break out into laughter.

“Not funny.”

Jennie wanted to chide her more but then Lisa’s expression turned into the softest gaze. She cupped Jennie’s face with her free hand before giving her the sweetest kiss—literally, Jennie could taste the syrup on Lisa’s tongue.

“I love you, Jennie.”

Jennie would normally indulge her sappiness, but the dampness between her thighs and the throb of muscles still contracting around Lisa’s fingers prevented her from keeping her eye off the goal.

“That’s great. I’m happy for me. Now, focus.”

Lisa chuckled and didn’t hesitate to resume their prior activity, picking up her pace again with verve. Soon, she increased her speed, her fingers pumping with greater commitment that had Jennie releasing her fork and white-knuckled gripping onto the edge of the table instead. Then, with only a cocked eyebrow as warning, she timed Jennie’s climax perfectly moments before Martha returned from the back storage room.

Three deep thrusts and two hard presses of palm later, followed by a breathily whispered command of “Come, love,” Jennie came hard, shaking into Lisa’s side, and trying desperately to muffle her scream into Lisa’s overly-bruised shoulder. As she slumped unceremoniously into her seat, she was grateful no one else in the borough had a craving for all-you-can-eat pancakes at 2 am.

She was less grateful when they received their bill later and saw written on the back, in Martha’s neat scrawl,

My eyesight may be poor but my hearing is still pitch perfect.

*****

Jennie blushes deeply, drawn out of her memory by the rustling sound of newspaper as Lisa unwrapped the first fish. She has to take a swig of her IPA to hide her pinking, hoping the alcohol intake would explain away the rosiness of her neck.

Fortunately, Lisa is too concerned with the pollock to notice, seemingly unfazed by their familiar proximity, perhaps still subconsciously conditioned to having Jennie flanking her left.

Jennie puts her head back in the game. They quickly work out a system of divide and conquer, taking turns spearing and parceling each fish into manageable chunks. There’s a domestic intimacy to their endeavours, how Lisa saves the meatier portions for Jennie, how Jennie gives her more of the battered skin because she has a better appreciation for a good crispy coating. What starts out as clearly separate portions, with every swipe of sauce and bite into the delicate flavours and guzzle of beer to absorb the oil intake, the lines blur and hands criss cross to grab chips and flakes of fish from each other’s plate without knowing it.

For awhile, both heads are happily down as they tuck into their meal, emitting what would otherwise be extremely embarrassing sounds of approval. Every few minutes though, they come up for air to debate the merits of one fish over another; the moist flavour and meaty leanness of cod or the drier and flakier haddock or the nutty-like mildness of skate. Lisa prefers the first, Jennie the second, neither have the acquired taste to appreciate the last.

“How can you even tell the difference?” Lisa challenges when Jennie disagrees with her assessment of the soft and suppleness of cod. “You’re basically using any fish as a vessel for kewpie.” She accuses, looking pointedly at the sorry state of the mayo-stained napkin and the utter decimination of the kewpie ramekin.

“I just think haddock packs more of a punch than cod,” Jennie shrugs, unbothered.

“Yeah, but then where would we be if this place was called, The One That Haddocked Away?” Lisa quips.

“I’m surprised you’re even into this grease in the first place.” Jennie remarks with an amused grin. She looks at the wreckage of their tablecloth that had the unfortunate duty of catching all the overflowing oil. The newspaper backings have taken on a sheen that Jennie shudders to think what the inside lining of her stomach looks like now.

“Why not?”

Toned abs and muscled thighs immediately come to mind. “Um, the whole eating healthy, working out thing you had going.” She waves her hand vaguely in the general direction of Lisa’s personhood as if to imply, all that.

Her tongue subliminally pokes out to moisten a suddenly dry bottom lip as she recalls a glistening Lisa returning from her morning runs, wearing a sports bra, criminally short shorts and little else that could shut off Jennie’s overactive imagination. It always caused wandering hands and intrepid lips to impede any of Lisa’s attempts at making a post-workout protein shake. “My turn for exercise” would be Jennie’s call sign before she’d urge Lisa into the shower for a different type of rehydration.

Not helping Jennie’s cause, Lisa’s working a soft piece of cod into her mouth between plump lips then licks her fingers when she answers, “My cheat days.”

“I didn’t think you had room anywhere to store it.” Jennie looks down appreciatively, and far from discreetly, at Lisa’s abdomen area. There’s next to nothing that’s visible under Lisa’s heavyset sweater but Jennie has a very good memory and Lisa is a creature of habit. She assumes not much has changed under the hood(ie). “I mean, maybe six fries can fit, but I doubt anything else.”

Lisa chuckles, and pats her stomach after downing her lager. She wipes a bit of the excess froth from her mouth and says, “Believe me I’ve got room,” and then adds suggestively without thought, “and ways to expend the energy afterwards.”

Despite the charming smile, Lisa’s playful conceit doesn’t land as intended. Jennie no doubt believes her, having been on the receiving end of her high metabolism and incredible physique for years, but she doesn’t want to think about what that means in the context of the last four, if there was/is someone else or several someones with whom Lisa maintained her fitness.

She’s quickly losing her appetite and must compartmentalise the anxiety-inducing what-ifs to keep the atmosphere light. Memory of Martha and the diner seem like a distant dream at the moment. They used to joke that if it weren’t for their mutually high sex drive, neither would graduate art and architecture school with their sanity in tact. While other students consumed red bull by the gallons, chasing that high, Jennie and Lisa consumed each other and chased endless orgasms.

Jennie has to shut down thoughts of Lisa whimpering and writhing under another’s touch—and how the intensity of green when she came might cause a different set of knees to buckle or stop the beat of some other heart altogether, one that hadn’t broken hers. She shakes it off, enjoying their time together too much to be self-sabotaging with deep dives into the unknown. (Though a niggling voice in her head tells her that she could simply ask Lisa. But god no, that’d be too fucking scary.)

“I’m sure you do.” She returns the smile though hers doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Anyways, this wasn’t too terrible. I wouldn’t be opposed to a repeat,” Lisa concedes amiably a moment later, her gaze softening further.

Jennie smiles more genuinely this time at Lisa’s reluctant admission.

“It’s better than terrible,” she says, as she breaks off a flaky piece of haddock and unapologetically swipes it through the kewpie. “It’s got Queen B’s seal of approval.”

She tips her chin to the framed picture of the famed singer and rapper, hanging off the far wall and adding an air of credibility and royalty to TOTCA’s nautical shMinzy-chic aesthetic.

Nevertheless, despite the diversion and Jennie’s attempt at an upbeat tone, Lisa must clock her shifted mood because she perceptively places the pollock onto her plate and gently urges, “Here, try this. It’s pretty good. That is if you can still taste anything past the coating of mayo on your tongue.”

—

“And then what did you do?”

“Nothing, I just walked away.” Lisa smiles while shrugging her shoulder.

Jennie laughs brightly at her nonchalance about being approached by enthusiastic fans, having been mistaken for that actress in the post-apocalyptic show that Lisa had never heard of.

Her good mood returned when conversation shifted to travel stories and unusual encounters. Lisa was on a business trip to Copenhagen to research some architecture for a building she was designing, and had inadvertently stayed at a nearby hotel close to where the Nordics’ largest pop culture event was taking place. Unaware that Comic Con was in town, she had been startled by teenage girls screaming at her, albeit not her name.

“And you kept the jacket?”

“I tried to say no but they insisted. I didn’t want to disappoint them,” Lisa feebly defends. “It’s nice leather.”

“But you signed their fan art? You forged a celebrity’s signature?”

Lisa shakes her head to clarify, “I still had no idea who they thought I was. So I signed my name.”

“Wait, you signed Lisa Manoban?”

Lisa shakes her head again.

“No, I went all in. Full first name.”

Jennie bursts out in laughter again, thinking of the poor teenagers’ disappointment when they realise they had accosted some random architect named Alexandria outside of the convention centre, with the wrong A name and the wrong ‘a’ letter profession.

“Maybe it’ll be worth something someday when you become famous for your tower designs.”

“Highly doubtful. But it was a beautifully drawn picture of two girls. I didn’t know the characters but, the way the art was coloured and detailed, they looked like they were made for each other. How could I not want to support that type of love?”

She looks at Jennie meaningfully, and they share a quiet, knowing smile. Jennie eventually breaks the tension, not wanting to read too much into it.

“Of course you’d be approached. I’m the famous artist, yet you’re the one signing autographs.”

—

“Wait, so Onew and Carter??” Lisa asks in disbelief. “Rosé had mentioned something in passing but I thought she was just pulling my leg.”

“Yup,” Jennie nods, smiling widely. “They reconnected recently.”

“What about Yeji and Lia?”

“I guess post-college life wasn’t working out. The rose-coloured glasses finally came off and they were tired of putting up with their boyfriends bullshit.” Jennie answers, before leaning in as if to disclose a secret, “they ditched them for each other. They basically did a swap.”

“Wait, what?? Yeji and Lia too?” Lisa asks, both stunned and amused. “Gees, who knew our friend group was so gay.”

“Yeah, poor Hyuna and Dawn. Theirs is the only heteronormative relationship. I wonder what it’s like to be a straight minority. The struggle must be real.”

Jennie’s semi-serious speculation receives an answering hum.

“I’m not Lee’s biggest fan, but I’m happy for them,” Lisa says graciously. “Maybe this’ll keep him from causing unnecessary heartache.”

Carter had not so subtly expressed interest in Jennie during junior year of high school, while back for a home visit from college and completely oblivious to her recent romantic developments. The elder Lee had sent her flowers and showed up in front of her homeroom with a box of chocolates and a declaration. Not wanting to reject him in front of a crowd of high schoolers, Jennie had tried to diplomatically usher him away somewhere more private.

Unfortunately, Lisa had witnessed the hallway interaction from afar and misinterpreted Jennie’s non-answer and her arm around his elbow as acceptance. A silent few days, a near blow with a startled Carter, and several tears later, Jennie comforted her girlfriend she had nothing to worry about.

“He never stood a chance,” Jennie repeats the same reassurance a decade later.

Lisa gives her a shy smile, acknowledging the truth.

“So how’d Hyuna take it?”

“Not well,” Jennie laughs, “she walked in on them.”

“No way. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that.” But then Lisa scrunches her nose in thought at the visual, shudders and quickly retracts, “actually no, I never want to see their bare asses.”

“Exactly, O was so traumatised. It took several beers before Jisoo could make any sense of her babbling. She kept repeating, my eyes, my eyes, but then would also cover her ears, my ears, my ears.”

Jennie mimmicks the gestures. They both chuckle.

“I can just imagine.”

“Apparently it had been going on for months. After Hyuna’s discovery, Onew in his Onew way sent out a group text to announce that he’s all about ringing Carter’s bell now.”

They both shudder this time. The smiles on their faces, however, remain and contradict the horror of the prompted images.

—

The conversation flits back and forth between past shenanigans and present developments in their friends lives, Jennie happily going into detail about what everyone is up to besides their day jobs. By the time she’s wrapping up an anecdote about Tyro, they’ve made a substantial dent into their fare.

With each new tasting, gulp of beer, and crunch of fries, the gap between their bodies have gotten incrementally smaller, sitting closely enough for Lisa to know if Jennie had tried the dill pickle sauce. But neither one of them notices the almost non-existent space by the time they’ve moved on to the more delicate flavours of whiting. It’s supposedly the fish of choice in Australia, and Lisa unsurprisingly takes to it for its likeness to cod, though softer and moister. Jennie prefers its lighter nuttiness to skate.

“So good,” Lisa says between bites.

Jennie didn’t know what to expect when she planned the outing, but nerding out on fish with Lisa feels oddly like a success that she can confidently check off in the win column. Jennie smiles at the pile of flashcards that have been thoroughly thumbed through and sporting the marks of their enthusiastic comparative analysis.

“Excuse me.” A clearing throat breaks them out of their concentration.

Jennie looks up to see a bulky man in a trucker hat and dark coat looking curiously at them.

“Yes?”

At Lisa’s curt answer, he averts his gaze and looks searchingly down to the narrow space between them. He darts his eyes from Jennie’s body to Lisa’s then back again.

At the man’s continued staring and non-verbal response, Lisa’s guard comes up, her shoulders square. “Do we have a problem?”

“Um, yes?” He questions sheepishly, more than answers, but still hasn’t made eye contact, focused intently on where their bodies nearly meet. He starts to say, “Your seat—” before being cut off.

“What’s wrong with our sitting arrangement?” Lisa asks in a clipped tone, her hackles raised from his odd behaviour. “Or is it that we’re two girls?”

When he still doesn’t answer but continues to burn a hole between them, Jennie thinks he is either the most polite homophobe they have ever come across or an enthusiast of plush banquette furniture.

The stretched out minute has Lisa out of her seat before Jennie can stop her. She stands toe-to-toe with him. Though there’s a good eight inches in height difference, he seems to have shrunk under her challenging glare, and takes a half step back at the sight of clenching hands by her side.

Jennie rises too, not wanting things to escalate to an undesirable outcome from what has otherwise been an enjoyable evening. She stands next to Lisa. Unthinkingly, unknowingly, Jennie places a gentle hand on the small of her back, rubbing in a soothing motion, before she changes tact to brush her fingers gently across Lisa’s knuckles, both actions a subconscious habit that always worked to calm her.

Lisa must not realise it either, still glaring at the man, but the slight relaxing of her shoulders and un-tightening of her left hand signal that her body definitely registered the habitual touches.

Then, as if finally catching on to Jennie’s presence and remembering the conflict at hand, Lisa takes a measured step in front of Jennie to shield her, body angled to block the blonde from view. Jennie wants to both roll her eyes at Lisa’s misplaced chivalry and also melt into a puddle at the overture.

“Nothing’s wrong with it. I’m sorry to bother, but,” the man pauses to point behind them, “you were sitting on my scarf.”

Following the direction of his finger, they both whip their heads around to only just notice the piece of black fabric, that sure enough lies limply on top of the leather. In their haste to sit earlier, neither Jennie nor Lisa saw it.

The man goes on to explain, “I forgot it after we finished eating, and only remembered it when we were half way home,” and with a hint of a smirk, he draws out the next part, “We swung back here so I could grab it. My husband is waiting in the car with our son.”

Jennie scrambles to retrieve it for him while Lisa tries unsuccessfully to keep the red in her chest and neck from engulfing her entire face.

“Here you go,” she says as she genially hands it over, “sorry about that.”

“Thanks.” He puts the scarf on and hurries to take his leave, but not before wishing them well with an amused smile. “You have a good day. Enjoy the rest of your meal. Sorry again, didn’t mean to interrupt you and your girlfriend.”

“Um, yeah. You too,” Lisa stammers out, as Jennie struggles to reign in her laughter after the door dings shut following his exit.

They both ignore the last bit of his parting.

*****

“Lisa, let him go!”

“No.”

“Ow!” The scrawny teen squirmed some more as he felt his arm being twisted further behind his back, a knee digging deeper.

“Not until he apologises.”

“It was an accident, Lisa,” Jennie tried to diffuse, “I’m okay.” The gym teacher had only just stepped out. It’d be bad form if she returned to find one of her top students in a scuffle.

Lisa softened her gaze when she looked at Jennie, but her temper flared again when she eyed the blossoming blue and purple of Jennie’s cheek.

“He hit you with the basketball,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t mean to. It slipped!” He pleaded.

He didn’t know Lisa well, only that she was good at throwing a baseball and also one of their school’s highest achieving students. She had a quiet and unaffected cool about her, seeming to stay away from most high school drama. She kept a mostly low profile unless it involved her best friend Jennie. And while it remained a topic of debate of the hallway rumour mill about the nature of their relationship, he learned the hard way that she was fiercely protective of anything involving Jennie.

He felt the pressure let up a moment later and turned around to see Lisa now standing a foot away, with Jennie’s face cradled in both of her hands, a thumb brushing lightly in a soothing circular motion around the apples of her cheeks. Jennie’s eyes were closed as Lisa played nurse to assess any other damage. The moment so small and intimate, only enough room for the space of their shared breaths, it seemed intrusive to be watching.

The intramural game had stopped and all eyes were on the three of them, but the two girls were only locked onto each other.

“It’s not that bad. I’m okay,” Jennie whispered her reassurance even as she winced when Lisa grazed the tender spot, “Onew’s just a klutz. And I have terrible reflexes.”

“Yeah, sorry man.” He got up off of the gym floor, and while dusting his pants, mumbled, “if I had known the lesbian would go crazy—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence before he was socked in the groin. “Motherfu—“ Luke cried, and was back on the floor again, protectively covering the sensitive region from further siege. But when he looked up, he was surprised to see it was Jennie who was retracting her fist, and Lisa’s medical attention newly diverted to the injured knuckles.

“I’m going to assume you meant lesbian in the most flowery, puppy-running-in-a-field, and happiness-embracing of terms, and not as any sort of disparaging remarks,” Jennie lectured him with a withering glare, as Lisa continued to absently massage her left hand.

“Yeah, of course. I would never want to mess with your girlfriend.” He defended, still groaning.

At Jennie’s glare, Lisa stepped in as the arbiter this time. “Onew, you better quit while you’re ahead.”

She then laced her fingers through Jennie’s hand and led her away.

He groaned some more, but didn’t move off the floor. As their steps retreated, he overhead, “Babe, next time use your non-painting hand,” followed by the faint reply, “This is why I don’t sport.”

*****

“You were always quick on the draw,” Jennie says as she joins Lisa standing a few steps outside of the chippy.

“I just assumed he was going to say something not so nice.” Lisa mumbles into the collar of her scarf.

With her hands tucked into her pockets, she lifts her shoulders to burrow deeper into her parka. She waits patiently as Jennie dons her hat and gloves.

“He sure showed you.” Jennie's tease is met with a faux glare.

After Jennie had recovered from her laughter and Lisa from her embarrassment over the misunderstanding with the stranger, they polished off what little remained of their taster platters, and decided to end their date with a walk along the pier. Although the February air is nowhere near moderate enough for a leisurely stroll, neither seemed ready to call it a night yet. Lisa had smiled her agreement when Jennie made a hopeful bid to extend their companionship.

She is still chuckling quietly to herself while Lisa scowls adorably as they set off towards the boardwalk. Despite the carb-load that should be weighing them down, there’s a jaunt to both of their steps.

Few words are exchanged for a while as they take in the night. This area of the waterfront has seen significant redevelopment lately, so she knows the cranes and scaffolding must be a feast for the architect’s eyes. Jennie only opens her mouth to answer Lisa’s intermittent questions of when which building came up; otherwise she works hard to keep her attention forward and not on the small puffs of breaths coming out of lovely rosy cheeks.

They walk closely together though no parts of their body actually touch. Jennie feels the warmth nonetheless, her skin prickling from the buzz of having a good time with Lisa again. While Grounders was like a dip of her toes into familiar waters once more, tonight feels like she’s waded into the shallow end of the ocean, after the sun had crested and was remaking its descent back towards the horizon, leaving behind a soft glow on the surface from its dying embers.

She basks in it, soaking in the feeling.

“Well, thank you for always having our backs.” Jennie revisits the topic after a long beat.

Lisa nods, and waves her hand to indicate that it’s nothing. “You would do the same.”

Jennie tips her head in acknowledgment though it’s not necessary. They both implicitly know that their mutual ferocity when it comes to protecting each other has never been a point of contention.

She remembers the rage she felt when Lisa was upset that a poorly-informed teacher had dismissed her arguments about gender and sexuality during a heated class discussion on reproduction rights. Jennie let her anger simmer and then used her creativity, recruiting a gleeful Jisoo, to egg Mr. Lucas’ office in retribution.

After Jisoo had procured access to the staff-only area, the two of them had skipped class—the same period Lisa had with Lucas—to painstakingly lay down six dozen eggs, some boiled, others not, on top of the carpet. They had spread them precariously around such that each one had to be individually picked up to make a clear walking path between desk and door. It was Russian roulette whether the egg was cooked or uncooked, whether it would break or not if mishandled.

“Wait, that was you and Jisoo?” Lisa asks, astonished and impressed, hearing the full story for the first time.

Jennie nods, chuckling at the memory of hiding around the corner as she and Jisoo tried valiantly to hold in their snickering laughter when they heard intermittent loud curses after Lucas entered his office. Her stomach hurt from holding it in when he walked out with yolk all over his shoes and hands.

“I couldn’t let his small-mindedness stand. Jisoo was only happy to put her lock-picking skills to good use.”

“I had no idea.”

That was the intent. Lisa had plausible deniability when a seething Lucas tried to confront her about the prank the next day. He hastily retreated when Lisa threatened to go to the Principal over his obsession with her eggs. Since then, other students would randomly leave an egg on top of his desk, and Jennie may or may not have grafittied his chalkboard with doodles of an ovoid-shaped nature.

The incident an hour ago in TOTCA underpins for Jennie the latent strength of their bond, the instinct to protect persisting despite the strain of the years that still lay between them. She finds comfort in knowing that their ingrained reflexivity to fight for the other’s well-being hasn’t lost its edges.

—

As they walk past Piers 4 and 5, Jennie is reminded of the public art project installed the summer after their senior year of high school, by one of her favourite artists, Olafur Eliasson.

“Hey, do you remember the waterfalls?” She asks.

Jennie doesn’t have to specify which waterfalls for the immediate recognition to cross Lisa’s face. At 90-120 feet high, the four man-made structures erected in the East River and New York Harbor were a sight hard to forget.

“How could I not? You made us cross the Brooklyn Bridge several times because you couldn’t decide which was the perfect vantage point to take in all four waterfalls.”

After exhausting themselves zig-zagging between Manhattan Greenway, Pier 1 and Pier 11, Lisa had finally caved to Jennie’s desire for a 360 degree experience, and shelled out for the water taxi tour.

Jennie remembers being squeezed happily in between a Swedish couple and a young Japanese family as they all took in the multi-sensory experience: the mist and roaring movement of the water as it plunges into the river, the leftover smells of the morning’s merchant trade in the harbour, and the bright neon lights that came on when dusk neared, the falls washed in blues and pinks and illuminated against an orange sky.

She remembers standing on the upper deck with her front to the railing and Lisa’s chest against her back, feeling the security of arms around her waist and the tickle of hair against her neck. She remembers laughing heartily when her girlfriend procured a giant pretzel out of nowhere. Apparently Lisa had been stowing the emergency item in her tote in the likely event that a humpy Jennie made an appearance.

She remembers feeling so content in the moment, being tourists in their own city—another summer spent with her love, and enjoying the last vestiges of their adolescence as they transitioned out towards young adulthood with college looming around the corner—and thinking how spoilt she was if things were to get any better than this.

Lisa must remember it too because there’s an unabashed smile now gracing her face and shining through her eyes.

“I remember someone got handsy, and we lost track of time and ended up disembarking in Midtown.” Lisa jokes but then her eyes widen owlishly in poorly concealed horror when she realises those words were said aloud.

Though equally surprised, Jennie saves them from further awkwardness by delicately moving past the slip.

“It was a good day.”

—

A little while later, they stop to rest at a railing, leaning on their side to take in both the view and each other.

Jennie notices Lisa’s jaw hinge in concentration. The brunette seems to internally debate something and opens her mouth to speak but the words get lost to the wind. Their conversation loses momentum almost entirely then, neither knowing what else to say, and too individually absorbed in processing their memories and new time together.

The lights of Lower Manhattan can be seen across the harbour, prettily reflected in the water. Most tourists have shuffled back to their hotel. Only a few brave couples are still out, squeezing the last drip of romance out of this Valentine’s Day. It hadn’t even occurred to Jennie what exact day it was until she spotted a girl clutching her roses as she walked arm in arm with her boyfriend, their blissful smiles and passing chatter full of affection.

(Jennie had never cared for roses but was suddenly aching for one.)

Lisa’s eyes are soft, her smile small but undeniably there. She’s beautiful under the boardwalk’s lamp, a few strands of hair loosely moving in the breeze. All Jennie wants is to reach out and help put them back in place behind the small ear that’s currently tipped red by the cold. It closely matches the crimson of her lips from over-biting in thought.

“Today is another good day.” Lisa finally picks up on Jennie’s last words. “Thank you,” she says the last part in a near reverent whisper that was only audible because of how attentive Jennie had been looking at her mouth.

They’re staring at each other intently when Jennie makes her decision. After weeks of texting, and sharing another meal together, she thinks they can graduate to the next level of intimacy. She doesn’t want this to be the fourth time that she sees Lisa and the fourth time that they don’t willingly touch.

As someone whose livelihood depends on feeling her way through the world, whose craft is centred on an embodied engagement with her surroundings, who interprets her heart through her hands, not being able to touch—and not being to touch Lisa—amounts to an amputated existence. It’s not one she wants to endure any longer, if it can be helped.

Jennie is rocking on her feet, her hands in her back pocket, when she plucks the courage to ask, “Do you think I can … ?”

She rises on her toes, leaning slightly into the taller girl’s space, and makes her intention clear, waiting for Lisa to object. Lisa does not. With a bite of her lip, she quietly nods her assent.

It nearly knocks them both over when Jennie springs to life, immediately swinging her arms out to wrap them around Lisa and bringing the former lovers chest to chest.

At first, Lisa doesn’t move her arms from her side, perhaps still recovering from the shock and force of Jennie’s enthusiasm. But then with the tiniest pull of breath comes the sound of shifting fabric before Lisa returns the hug.

Touching at last, they share relieved sighs that burn a warmth through layers of parka.

Jennie takes a few deeper breaths to savour the moment: the vanilla and pine scent that’s both foreign and somehow still familiar, the soft crinkle of lush curls against her neck, the even softer hand on her lower back that despite its lightness feels like an anchor, and perhaps, the most affecting sensation, an imperceptible dampness on her cheek. She doesn’t need to turn her head to know that the glisten of tears in her eyes will be mirrored in Lisa’s.

She chances moving one arm across Lisa’s shoulder to tighten the hold, her other hand coming up to grasp the back of Lisa’s neck and bring her closer. There’s a hitch of breath that she’s unsure if it’s hers or Lisa’s at the contact, but then they both settle into the embrace for a stretch of infinite time.

“I’ve missed you,” Lisa confesses softly into her hair.

A quiver of a breath leaves Jennie, surprised to hear those words. She didn’t know how much she needed to hear them. They feel like a balm to her battered heart.

“Me too.”

Though it’s nothing near what Jennie felt when they first kissed, an altogether different intensity and longing, the hug still feels like a sort of homecoming.

And for the briefest of a soul-renewing minute …

The world sharpens into focus.

Two hearts beat in rhythm.

Jennie never wants to let go again.