"If you end up falling in love with someone, it's because of them. If you end up hating someone, it's because of you."
———
She always waited until the last minute to get ready.
It wasn't that big of an issue. Lots of people were the last-minute sort, the yank clothes off of hangers and stuff it into suitcases sort. There would never be a situation where they broke character and yet everything always worked out for them in some magical, time-bending way. As if the other half who planned and prepared and considered were just a bunch of uptight suckers wasting their lives being uptight suckers.
Taylor sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, her legs crossed at the ankles, bare feet pressed against the rug. She thought about going downstairs but she couldn't bring herself to move. She knew it didn't matter; they were about to spend the next several hours together and then end up right back at the apartment where they would spend another blurry swath of time together. Ten or twenty minutes alone, even thirty, the other woman wouldn't notice.
Taylor picked up her glass of wine and sipped it. There was the sound of a drawer opening, followed by the rattling of small plastic things. She knew exactly what the other woman was looking for because it always started with her searching in the wrong place. The words, second drawer, were hovering behind the seam of her lips. But she remained silent.
The rattling noise became louder, more frantic. It was suddenly cut short by a bang and the whoosh of another drawer opening.
"Second drawer," Taylor called out. A moment later, a figure appeared less than five feet away from her, wrapping her nose in a silky, invisible cloud of perfume.
"Thanks." Jane held up a tube of mascara beside her unclear expression. As she turned back towards the bathroom, she muttered, "Not sure what it was doing in there."
"Besides being with all the other tubes of mascara?"
Her long, dark hair circled around in a dramatic sweep. "It's always in the top drawer," Jane stated.
"I didn't realize there was more than one," Taylor sighed, lifting her wine glass to examine it.
Jane paused in the doorway. As she breathed in, all of the lines defining her bare back stretched as her delicate shoulders rose, "Can you get me a glass of wine, please?"
Taylor stood, her voice coming out like liquid sugar. "Of course, Babe."
As she left the room, a familiar feeling tweaked from within her chest. It reminded her of stepping onto a frozen puddle. There was the initial pressure, usually by a foot, followed by the squeaky crunch that transformed the surface into a spiderweb of cracks. Sometimes the ice was thin enough to break the whole thing into pieces. Other times, it remained intact but would appear permanently different.
Every relationship became like that, but they didn't all end up in pieces.
Sometimes, without realizing it, they started to melt.
As Taylor entered the kitchen, her eyes were immediately drawn to the coffee mug on the island. She was several feet away but she already knew there would be a cold, milky brown surface peeking up at her. Jane had never once finished a cup of coffee in the two-and-a-half years since they'd gotten together. She also never watered her plants, although she bought them with every intention of doing so. Yet they were all green and healthy, bouncy, even, thanks to Taylor. But it was only because Taylor was afraid of what their guests would think if they saw an army of dead plants decorating a quarter of their living room. Jane never cared what their guests thought.
She picked up the mug, along with the plate of mystery crumbs beside it, and the sweatshirt that had fallen off the back of the chair. As soon as her hand wrapped around the fabric, the scent went straight to her nose. It was bright, yet also soft. Sweet and flowery, but not so much so that it gave her a headache. It was so familiar that she sometimes barely registered it.
It was Jane.
She took the open bottle of Sauvignon Blanc out of the fridge. As she filled the glass that she'd taken out of the dishwasher, the sound of quick footsteps came from the foyer. When she looked up, she expected to see one of the cats, but instead it was Jane in a sundress that nearly touched the floor.
"Need help finding something else?" Taylor asked, not meeting her eyes.
"Don't think so." Jane slid onto one of the stools beneath the island. She rested her chin in her palms, then grimaced. "Oh god, Tay, that's not the wine from the fridge, is it?"
"I wasn't going to open a new bottle," Taylor retorted, laughing under her breath.
"You could have at least chosen the Prosecco next to that bottle of kombucha you never drank,"
"You asked me for a glass of wine!"
"Whatever. Same thing,"
"Not quite." As Taylor slid the glass across the counter, Jane's slate gray eyes shot up towards the ceiling, and she let out a short laugh. "J., you don't have to drink it!"
"It's fine, I don't care." Jane picked up the glass by the stem and took a sip as she looked down at her phone.
Silence stretched between them. Taylor knew that was her cue. It was the familiar signal of another disagreement ending, although not necessarily. It would come up again, but instead of being about a drink it would be about the dishes in the sink. Or the hair on the bathroom floor.
But the words were building up in her throat in that reckless, I-don't-give-a-fuck-about-anything-but-this-right-now way. "If it's fine and you don't care, then why did you make such a big deal about it?" Taylor asked.
After a long pause, Jane's voice sounded. It was mechanical. "I don't think I made a big deal about anything."
Taylor watched Jane's finger slide from the bottom of her phone screen to the top. Then again. The silence returned.
Taylor traced her finger through the condensation on the wine bottle. "Are you ready to leave?"
"Why not?" Jane said, not moving.
Taylor suddenly felt the urge to jump across the counter and shake her. Robot Jane was the worst Jane of them all. She would've rather had Whiny Drunk Jane, Hangry Jane, Always-Fifteen-Minutes-Late-To-Everything Jane. But Robot Jane was like being stuck on an endless merry-go-round of indecipherable exchanges and deafening silence. She could never fix it the same way twice. It made her want to scream.
"We don't have to go. We can just stay home," Taylor offered.
Jane shrugged. "I don't care."
Taylor gripped the edge of the counter with both hands. Less than an hour ago, they were tangled together on the couch, laughing at the SNL episode they missed from the night before. Jane was folded up and resting against her side, as if the side of Taylor's body had been made perfectly for her. Her hair was all over the place and every time she laughed Taylor felt it coming off of her.
But moments like that were like perfume. As sweet as they were, they would eventually fade into something less strong, or even disappear.
"I'm gonna grab my purse," Taylor decided, not bothering to put the wine back in the fridge as she turned to leave the kitchen. It would still be on the counter when they got home later, warm and gross, staring back at her like the countless cups of unfinished coffee. And just like the coffee, she'd be the one pouring it down the drain.
As Taylor reached for her purse off the hook by the front door, a sweet-scented breeze filled the air. She turned to see Jane reaching for her own purse with a remorseful look.
Jane met her eyes reluctantly. "Are you mad at me?"
Taylor looked at her for a moment. She wasn't mad, but she was definitely confused. Every once in a while, there were times like this. Times that it felt like she was staring into the eyes of a stranger instead of the woman she knew everything about. It was weird and even somewhat disorienting. Was this really the woman she'd been spending almost three years of her life with? It was one thing to become blind to her perfume, but was she really becoming blind to an entire person?
Taylor slid her hand through Jane's arm and around her waist. "Why would I be mad at you?"
Jane bit her lower lip. "I did that thing you hate."
"What thing?"
"You know..." Jane looked off to the side. She suddenly huffed, "Never mind. I'm just making us late."
As Jane started towards the door, Taylor embraced her and pulled her close. The woman's soft, punchy-sweet scent engulfed Taylor's senses, and just like that the stranger was gone. She pressed her nose against her hair, her voice muffled. "You know I don't care if you make us late."
"That's such a fucking lie," Jane muttered into her shoulder.
"But I still love you."
"Why wouldn't you?"
"Why can't you just say it?"
Jane wriggled, but Taylor kept her arms around her. After a few seconds, Jane sighed heavily, "Okay, whatever. I love you, too."
They broke apart, but their hands remained together as Taylor unlocked the front door.
Taylor couldn't recall when the smell of Jane's tangerine perfume disappeared. It might have been as soon as they stepped outside into that balmy August air or as they got into the Febreeze and garlic-scented Uber. Or perhaps it wasn't until they arrived at the restaurant twenty-five minutes later. But it didn't matter because at the time she wasn't thinking about Jane's perfume at all. Instead she was thinking about the open bottle of wine attracting fruit flies from the plants on the windowsill, the clothes covering their bedroom floor, all of the money they wasted on fancy imported coffee that was only half-consumed, the way Jane made the slightest slurping noise whenever she sipped something.
She was thinking about how stupid and childish it was that Jane couldn't just tell her that she loved her.
As they exited the Uber across the street from the restaurant, this churned through her. She could see Jane's hand out of the corner of her eye, offering to be held, but she'd pretended not to see it because she was preoccupied with bitterness. She loved her more than anyone else and she made sure Jane knew that. It didn't matter how many cracks there were, or if it melted a little bit here and there. As long as everything remained intact, she loved her the most. And even if it didn't, she was almost certain that wouldn't change because it was like tangerine perfume. Love would forever and always be associated with Jane.
This was the thought that consumed her as they crossed the street and as it did it filled her with contempt and maybe, perhaps, just the tiniest bit of regret. When she looked up at the back of Jane walking ahead of her, she thought, Am I asking for too much?
She didn't hear the car coming because she was too consumed by that one ugly, stupid, selfish thought.
Just like that, there was nothing to ask for. There was no more getting ready at the last minute. There were no more cups of half-drunken coffee or plants on the windowsill or strands of long, dark hair on the bathroom floor. There were no more hugs to be escaped or laughs to be felt or a mechanical voice to lose her mind over. There was no more agonizing over the I love you. They were now just three words she'd wasted the last two-and-a-half-years obsessing over only to never hear them again.
All of those things were now memories, and for now, they lingered.
But just like perfume, they would eventually, probably, fade away.