She had been in two minds as to whether she should take her wedding ring off before leaving the house. On the one hand, taking it off would send a signal to men and women alike that she was up for a bit of action, while, on the other, leaving it on might attract the type of person who liked a challenge – the type of person, that is, whom Imelda wanted to attract. In the end, she decided to leave it behind: she reckoned she would be enough of a challenge as a ‘single’ woman out for a good time.
The place she had chosen was not at all the place she would normally have visited – and not just because it was a lesbian bar. It was in one of the rougher parts of town and, though reviews were generally positive, “seedy” and “dive” were two of the words that occurred regularly in the comments. She realised that among the regular clientele she was likely to appear as the epitome of chic, but that thought merely added to the sense of anticipation that was building up inside her.
Naturally, she had dressed up for her evening out. She was wearing a burgundy cowl neck blouse that offered generous cleavage and tight black leather leggings with a leaf-shaped buckle belt. To complete the look, she’d put on large gold hoop earrings and a matching fancy link chain choker. For her shoes, she had opted for allure over practicality – after all, she hardly expected to be dancing the night away. Specially for this night out, she had bought a pair of black, square toe, ankle-strap heeled sandals.
Before entering the lesbian bar, Imelda decided to have a drink in a more regular joint. She had a number of reasons for doing this. First, it was still relatively early in the evening. Secondly, bold as she was, she could use the courage that the alcohol would give her. And thirdly, who knows? she might meet someone there who she could hook up with. Maybe a woman, perhaps even a man! But she knew the latter was unlikely. After all, who could measure up to her Collin? Or who, for that matter, if she was searching for the man of her dreams, could be mentioned in the same breath as her own son?
Sitting on a stool at the bar, it wasn’t long before Imelda was being chatted up by a guy in a suit. It wasn’t that he was particularly obnoxious (quite the reverse – he was polite and didn’t make douchebag comments, and could hold his liquor); it’s just that she wasn’t interested. She wished she could have held a banner or worn a sash that said, “I may be dressed to kill, but this isn’t my hunting ground”, but things were what they were. She didn’t brush the man off, but he couldn’t help picking up the vibes she was giving off. After fifteen minutes or so, he excused himself and went back to the guys he was with.
Glancing at her phone, Imelda saw that it was eleven o’clock. Time, she thought, to make a move. Even in her three-inch heels, she could easily make the walk to the lesbian bar; it was only a couple of blocks away. She knew she was near because she could hear the music blaring out. She was expecting this because it was a feature of the place that a lot of people commented on, and to be honest she was pleased. Okay, so she would be expecting some meaningful conversation somewhere down the line, but she was quite happy to be able to blend in and have the chance to find her feet in what was after all an alien environment for her.
She nodded to a couple of women who’d gone outside onto the sidewalk to smoke, but they didn’t take much notice of her. She took that as a positive sign. It seemed like she’d blend right in. Maybe she wouldn’t be the only one who had dolled herself up.
“Electric” may be a bit of a cliché when it comes to describing atmospheres, but it perfectly described the charge she felt when she entered the club. Oddly, the first person she saw when she entered the dimly lit interior was a man, one of the bartenders, but a cursory glance was enough to persuade her that he was gay. He was bald, with the obligatory facial hair, and, judging by the way he was interacting with the patrons, he was very much part of the furniture.
Walking up to the counter, Imelda waited her turn to be served, standing beside two women who might or might not have been an item: both were dressed casually, neither of them seemed to take any notice of her. Her heart was pounding (she couldn’t quite tell why – maybe it was because she was wondering whether it was a mistake to have come here, maybe it was because she was excited because she felt as if anything might happen – or nothing).
When her time came to be served, she greeted the barman with perhaps a touch more enthusiasm than she was actually feeling, then placed her order for a Bacardi and coke. He asked her whether she wanted sugar-free coke, but she said no, just regular coke with lots of ice.
Armed with her drink, she decided to wander among the throng, to see if there were any unattached women, anyone who might catch her eye. It seemed as if everyone was either in groups or paired off – some of them swaying along to the rhythmic beat of the music. Feeling a little discouraged, and fearing that her visit had been made in vain, Imelda thought of leaving the drink she had scarcely touched on a table and making her way back to the door.
Somehow she didn’t seem to fit in here. But what had she been expecting, anyway, she asked herself. That a beautiful, sexy and desirable woman would dump whoever it was whom she was with and take up with her? She wasn’t even a real lesbian. Maybe their gaydars (or whatever lesbians had) told them that she was an impostor. Did they think she might be an undercover cop working on a drugs bust? All sorts of strange notions took possession of her mind.
They do say that the darkest time is just before the dawn. Suddenly Imelda felt a hand on her arm. Turning round (she wished in retrospect that she hadn’t turned round so fast, so eagerly), she found herself face to face with a woman she hadn’t spotted before. She must have been around thirty. She didn’t look like a lesbian. Maybe, Imelda thought, she’d found the only other straight woman in the club.
Above the din of the music, the woman introduced herself as Cody. The first thing that struck Imelda about her was how slim she was. Not very tall, either, around Cindy’s height. Maybe because she didn’t have much else to cling onto, Imelda took this as a good omen. Cody certainly hadn’t dressed up for the occasion. She was wearing a camisole top (maybe cream, it was difficult to tell) and a pair of jeans. The bead necklace and bead bracelets she wore gave her a bohemian air. Her mousey hair was mussed up. Imelda couldn’t tell if she had had it styled that way or if she just hadn’t push a brush through it recently.
Cody stood on tiptoe and spoke into Imelda’s ear, placing her hand on her shoulder for support.
“I know a place we can go and talk,” she said.
Receiving a nod from Imelda, she led the way out of the club and onto the sidewalk, where a new group of smokers had assembled.
“I never got your name,” the girl said, as they began to walk side by side the opposite way from that which Imelda had come just fifteen minutes or so earlier.
Introductions made, they walked for perhaps ten minutes before Cody let herself into an apartment block, which must have been built many years ago.
“The elevator isn’t working,” she said with the hint of a smile. “We’ll need to walk. Hope you’re okay with that.”
Imelda thought about taking off her heels, but she couldn’t be sure about the state of the stone staircase, and besides she didn’t want to get her feet dirty. She’d have to make do the best she could.
“I live on the top floor,” Cody said as they reached the first landing.
“I can see how you keep so fit,” Imelda joked, her heels clacking as she made her way carefully up the staircase.
When they got to the sixth and final floor, Cody turned at her doorway and put her hands together in appreciation of Imelda’s efforts. The apartment was high ceilinged and airy. Cody led her guest into the living room, which doubled as an artist’s studio, with all the associated paraphernalia: an easel, palettes, brushes, picture frames and canvases – some complete, others unfinished and still others yet to be used.
On one wall hung industrial landscapes (docks and mine workings mainly), and on another hung portraits of women. All the women were naked or partially naked, and all bar one of the paintings featured one subject only. The exception (a more abstract piece) caught Imelda’s attention; it showed two women standing, their breasts and stomachs melded into one another’s, their dark hair (mussed up like Cody’s) covering their faces. The women’s bodies looked as if they had been subject to an MRI scan, with purple, blue and yellow predominating. One of the women was holding the other woman by the wrist, but it was hard to tell who was the aggressor.
“You like it?” asked Cody, as if she already knew the answer.
“It’s wonderful,” replied Imelda, without any trace of flattery or dissimulation.
While Cody was getting Imelda another Bacardi and coke, Imelda sat on the couch and closed her eyes. In her imagination Cody was painting her. She was naked, standing facing the wall, looking over her shoulder at the artist. Thoughtfully, Cody had brought something to eat (some Moroccan hummus and slices of carrot and cucumber). Imelda didn’t realize how hungry she was until she started eating, but didn’t want to appear to be ravenous – at least, not for the kind of food that sustains the body. She didn’t want Cody ordering in and spoiling what she believed could be a magical night. There would always be time to eat something afterwards, she thought…
FIVE
Cody came and joined Imelda on the couch. She sat close to her, but they weren’t touching. Imelda could make out the outline of the younger woman’s nipples against her camisole, but only faintly. If she had worn that top, her nipples would have been visible from the house across the street!
Imelda was still wearing her heels. She had thought about taking them off, but had decided against it. Wearing them made her feel empowered, and, after all, this girl had hit on her shoes and all! Maybe she even had a thing for shoes and feet. Time would tell.
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