Outing of the Heart (31 page)
Read Outing of the Heart Online
Authors: Lisa Ann Harper
After a slight pause Tenille replied: âYes, I think so.' She made an effort to be more communicative. âThis is my second visit.' She must sound stilted, but she wasn't sure how to carry on a conversation with a stranger ⦠in a sauna. Somehow, this girl was different. She liked her voice; smoky, a bit gruff, hesitant in its youthfulness. Judging from before, she reckoned mid-teens. Young and full of promise. That was how she would like to be. Not that young, but with her career still ahead. So far she had precious little to show for herself. She sighed deeply for lost opportunities; the time she had frittered away. âOh, I'm sorry, what did you say?'
âI was asking if you do aerobics?' Sidonie had let her breath go, sufficiently emboldened to ask another question.
âNo. Just the weight training circuits and I enjoy swimming for the cool-down. And you? You look very fit.'
Away from the noise of the gym, Sidonie was able to hear for the first time, the softness and delicate delivery of the voice. There was no toughness, just the unmistakable sound of pampered indulgence. An inward groan arose. Nothing in common then.
“We must move in different worlds.”
“Dodo-brain. Of course you do. She's no dyke. Probably married with three kids.”
Her alter ego was relentless.
“No she's not,”
Sidonie objected.
“No stretch marks.”
“You can see that good?”
“Yes. Well, perhaps not quite. But she doesn't strike me as having kids.”
“Oh, smart-ass. You can tell by looking? If you ask me this is all just wishful thinking,”
“I'm not asking you.”
Sidonie was irascible now, knowing her alter ego was speaking the truth; a truth she didn't want to acknowledge.
âNot me, I prefer sports. Volleyball and in the summer, Softball. Team sports I guess. I like swimming, but I'm no longer competitive. The youngsters are too good for me now.'
Despite reservations regarding their circumstances, Tenille could not refrain from the spontaneous question: âWhy do you say âyoungsters'? You are hardly old.'
Laughing, she replied: âNo, I'm not old, but I don't have the same dedication I once had.' She was beginning to relax. âI guess I've moved on. I just relish the feeling of using the whole of my body and not being held back by earth's restrictions. The feeling of being totally free in another element.'
Tenille was silent; intrigued by the way she expressed herself. She wished she could see her eyes again
. “I'm naked.”
she remembered and felt too self-conscious to continue. Wrapping around the towel, she sat up.
Since Sidonie had not taken her eyes off that horizontal figure the whole time they'd been talking, she did not miss the sight of the voluptuous swell of the woman's breasts as she sat up to cover herself, in preparation for standing. She was entranced. The breasts were perfect. Firm and very round, but small in their attachment to her body, the fullness would drop naturally into the palm of the hand if you were to reach out and â¦
“Sid. Stop it.”
The nipples were dark and round in the relaxed state ⦠but when aroused â¦
“Control yourself girl.”
She watched the woman leave, just as two others entered and took their places on the benches below, chatting about husbands and sons.
Tenille showered off and dressed in her inevitable jeans, this time with a black sweater over a new dance top. It was white Lycra, crossover style, purchased to go with the green skirt since her black leotard was in service for the gym. She would get herself a proper outfit, now she'd seen them.
Moving over to the wall dryer, she slipped in a quarter for fifteen minutes of hot air and noticed the girl was already dressed
. “She must be content to towel dry. But then, she has a short, boyish cut, it suits her.”
The parting was on one side; a cowlick wanted to fall across her right eye. For the rest it was slicked back, but already beginning to curl naturally into a blonde crown, giving a golden halo to her head. Tenille thought it was lovely.
Sidonie moved towards Tenille at a casual pace then stopped, just behind her left shoulder and looked in the mirror.
âCan I give you a lift to anywhere? There's a nasty change in the weather out there.' She jerked her head in the direction of the exit: âOr do you have your own car?' heart pounding in apprehension of a âYes.'
âOh no. That's okay. I've heaps of time before my next appointment. I was only going to find somewhere to have a coffee. Perhaps you know of some place handy?' She remembered the second question and added: âNo, I don't drive.'
Trying to think rapidly. She needed an up-market, intimate bistro, close by. Damn. She never frequented any type of waterhole in this neighborhood. It wasn't her stomping ground. Her beat was downtown, in the gay ghetto. She could hardly suggest one of those places, she thought ruefully. Too well known to take a straight pick-up.
âEr ⦠where's your next appointment? Perhaps I could drive you to a coffee lounge there?'
âOh, that's downtown. I wouldn't want to have you go out of your way.' She had finished with the dryer and was now swiftly brushing those dark, shimmering tresses. Sidonie thought:
“She'll be all done soon and phut ⦠out the door.”
âNot a problem. I'm going downtown myself.' She didn't want to appear overly persistent so quickly settled on a compromise. âHow about we find out where each is going and we split the difference, so to speak.' Did this sound silly? juvenile? she worried.
âWell, I've to be at Yonge and Eglinton by four. What about you?' She stopped what she was doing and turned around to look at the girl, wanting to see the real thing, not a reflection. Bad move. She was so close, her breath caressed her cheek. Backing off, she bumped into the chair, so hastily turned round again.
As she worked, Sidonie continued to watch intently. She assured her it wouldn't be out of the way and suggested The Serving Spoon, on Bloor, a specialty coffee outlet. As she spoke, dexterous hands caught up the flying curls into an apple green, taffeta scrunchie. The woman continued to pin her hair to the back of her head and the nape of her neck, neatening it into an attractive coil, no longer flying and wayward, except for a few wisps that refused to be held and had slipped over her ears. With her hair like this, one's gaze was drawn more directly to acknowledge the flawlessness of her cream-colored complexion and the lustre of her eyes, reflecting so much light they dazzled. The lids, because of her slightly foreign cast, were heavy and naturally shaded, giving an arresting and adorable appeal. Sidonie's consciousness was enthralled. The severe hairstyle made her even more alluring, an aura of being unattainable. But she had already seen her bare fleshed.
“Sid, these thoughts, will be your undoing. Find a different tack, we're supposed to be thinking about coffee,”
she rebuked herself, scared her eyes would give away her inner thoughts and she'd frighten her off.
âHow does that sound? Of course, if you need a little quiet space to yourself, I'll be happy just to drop you off â¦' she let her voice trail away as she smiled, tensely.
âNo, no,' Tenille responded hastily: âIt would be nice to have some company.' She had finished and was now moving over to her belongings. Sidonie stepped back to let her pass. Only then did she realize how much she'd been crowding her. For herself it had not felt close enough
. “Watch it Sid. You're being a jerk.”
âOkay, then, The Serving Spoon it is.'
Tenille shrugged into her jacket and collected her holdall. Sidonie, who was in blue sweater and jeans, already had her parka over her arm and Adidas bag in hand. Tenille followed to the lobby where Sidonie leaned against the door and pushed it open for her to exit. âOver here,' jerking her head again.
A refreshing, blustery wind blew in their faces. Tenille looked up at a darkening sky, the clouds in merry chase, but all set to whip into a serious storm at the slightest provocation.
âThis one,' Sidonie informed her, averting her eyes, her pulses racing terribly. She opened the trunk, threw in her grip, then took the holdall and placed it carefully, her stomach in knots. This woman was about to sit beside her in her car. Admittedly it wasn't a Prelude, but she would be here in the flesh.
Once settled, Tenille volunteered more information. âI don't really like going places on my own, but since moving to Toronto, I'm having to get used to it. It's that, or stay home and I don't like doing that too much.'
âNeed some breathing space from hubby and the kids, eh?' She tried to make it sound casual, driving with care through the Sunday traffic, holding a steady pace. No taking off at warp factor at the lights.
Tenille laughed at the idea. She was settling down; having fun.
âNo, not that. I'm separated.'
“Darn. Straight as they come. Just my luck.”
She would be wasting her time all right. Well, she could enjoy looking, but then it would be:
“Thanks, but no thanks. Bloody hell.”
So frustrated she scowled, clenching her fist as she thumped the wheel.
âIs something the matter?' The soft voice broke her introspection.
She turned briefly towards the woman and saw a look of concern in the dark, deep set eyes, appearing even more dramatic in the amber glow of the late afternoon sun. She smiled to put her more at ease.
âNo ⦠It's OK. No â¦' The woman smiled back, hesitantly, but still watched. âYou know, I don't know your name.'
âOh sorry. How remiss of me. Tenille Fenech.'
âHow pretty. Fenech. That doesn't sound English.'
âNo. Maltese.'
So that explained this dark beauty's sultry radiance. The sensuality of the Mediterranean. Not like her own Anglo-Saxon tameness. How different they were. The rest of the journey continued in heavy silence, small talk exhausted, it seemed. The café-bar was located not far from where Tenille lived and after parking on Walmer Road, they walked back to Bloor Street and she recognized the area. Remarking on this led naturally to giving out her address and talking about work.
The smell of exotic coffees assailed them. Customers came and went, but they were the only ones to sit. Out of the bewildering selection available, they each chose the same. A Mocha/Java blend in a macchiato with hot milk. With that Tenille had a giant sized, walnut muffin which, in the end, she couldn't eat, her appetite deserting her.
âWhere do you work, Sidonie?' She tried her name out for the first time. It brought a deep color to her cheeks, making her eyes brilliant.
âSid, please. Sidonie was my mother's choice, but friends call me Sid.' She looked back into those enchanting, beguiling eyes, wondering if the unspoken message might get through.
“Syd.”
She knew this to be a man's name. To call this girl
“Syd”
it didn't seem right. She would stick to Sidonie.
She launched into stories of the track and hot walking.
Tenille wouldn't have guessed. Racetracks were rough places from what she'd heard. Yet this girl had an appealing softness.
“Hard and soft,”
she mused
, “all in one.”
âDo you have to work Sundays too, Tenille?' Sidonie experimented with the sounds on her tongue. So feminine.
She recounted her dancing hopes and fears, told of her disappointment and the new prospects. The information flowed from her as she looked across the table into those startlingly blue eyes, which right now were staring back at her in rapt attention.
âRaoul is the one who suggested I begin to work out. He feels it will help my dancing.'
She nodded in agreement. âRaoul?'
âHe's terrifically handsome,' she observed and looked past Sidonie as if seeing his image. She put two and two together and figured she knew how the land lay. âActually, you know his sister.'
âI do?'
âYes. Nina Losada, on reception.'
âOh yes, Nina.'
âWell, Raoul and she look very alike, but in him the Spanishness, if I can put it that way, is more striking.'
“Did she have to go on about him? She must be really smitten.”
âHave you decided when you'll go to the gym?'
âAs you can see, it's a long way for me and Wednesdays and Thursdays I dance. I think I'll stick with Friday evenings and possibly the odd Sunday. When do you go?'
âMy nights are Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Some of us are working toward a body-builders' competition,' she clarified. It pained her to notice that she hadn't call her Sid, after all. So ⦠she would only get to see her once a week ⦠anyway, what did it matter?
âHow interesting. No wonder you're so good looking,' she observed, then hastily amended: âI mean looking fit.' Deep color rushed to her cheeks again, as she realized the inappropriateness of the remark to this girl. She might misconstrue her words, or worse; not. The blush swept down from her throat to her neck.
Time had flown. Looking at her watch, it was late. âI must leave immediately.'
âI'll take you there.'
âNo, I can't let you do that, you've done so much already.'
Sidonie looked directly at her, an intense light illuminating the eyes to a strobe blue. She said quietly and deliberately: âIt's my pleasure and it's no trouble.'
She felt the power of that âdead-centre' gaze and the conviction behind the words. She would not have offered if she hadn't meant it. They arrived at the studio, just on time.
âThank you so much.' She turned as Sidonie handed her her grip. âPerhaps I'll see you ⦠again ⦠Friday?' Her heart was lurching.
âPerhaps.' Keeping her voice cool, she quickly turned away, not wanting to prolong this parting; it was getting to her. She jumped into the driver's seat and gunned the motor, turning hard left.
âI was asking if you do aerobics?' Sidonie had let her breath go, sufficiently emboldened to ask another question.
âNo. Just the weight training circuits and I enjoy swimming for the cool-down. And you? You look very fit.'
Away from the noise of the gym, Sidonie was able to hear for the first time, the softness and delicate delivery of the voice. There was no toughness, just the unmistakable sound of pampered indulgence. An inward groan arose. Nothing in common then.
“We must move in different worlds.”
“Dodo-brain. Of course you do. She's no dyke. Probably married with three kids.”
Her alter ego was relentless.
“No she's not,”
Sidonie objected.
“No stretch marks.”
“You can see that good?”
“Yes. Well, perhaps not quite. But she doesn't strike me as having kids.”
“Oh, smart-ass. You can tell by looking? If you ask me this is all just wishful thinking,”
“I'm not asking you.”
Sidonie was irascible now, knowing her alter ego was speaking the truth; a truth she didn't want to acknowledge.
âNot me, I prefer sports. Volleyball and in the summer, Softball. Team sports I guess. I like swimming, but I'm no longer competitive. The youngsters are too good for me now.'
Despite reservations regarding their circumstances, Tenille could not refrain from the spontaneous question: âWhy do you say âyoungsters'? You are hardly old.'
Laughing, she replied: âNo, I'm not old, but I don't have the same dedication I once had.' She was beginning to relax. âI guess I've moved on. I just relish the feeling of using the whole of my body and not being held back by earth's restrictions. The feeling of being totally free in another element.'
Tenille was silent; intrigued by the way she expressed herself. She wished she could see her eyes again
. “I'm naked.”
she remembered and felt too self-conscious to continue. Wrapping around the towel, she sat up.
Since Sidonie had not taken her eyes off that horizontal figure the whole time they'd been talking, she did not miss the sight of the voluptuous swell of the woman's breasts as she sat up to cover herself, in preparation for standing. She was entranced. The breasts were perfect. Firm and very round, but small in their attachment to her body, the fullness would drop naturally into the palm of the hand if you were to reach out and â¦
“Sid. Stop it.”
The nipples were dark and round in the relaxed state ⦠but when aroused â¦
“Control yourself girl.”
She watched the woman leave, just as two others entered and took their places on the benches below, chatting about husbands and sons.
Tenille showered off and dressed in her inevitable jeans, this time with a black sweater over a new dance top. It was white Lycra, crossover style, purchased to go with the green skirt since her black leotard was in service for the gym. She would get herself a proper outfit, now she'd seen them.
Moving over to the wall dryer, she slipped in a quarter for fifteen minutes of hot air and noticed the girl was already dressed
. “She must be content to towel dry. But then, she has a short, boyish cut, it suits her.”
The parting was on one side; a cowlick wanted to fall across her right eye. For the rest it was slicked back, but already beginning to curl naturally into a blonde crown, giving a golden halo to her head. Tenille thought it was lovely.
Sidonie moved towards Tenille at a casual pace then stopped, just behind her left shoulder and looked in the mirror.
âCan I give you a lift to anywhere? There's a nasty change in the weather out there.' She jerked her head in the direction of the exit: âOr do you have your own car?' heart pounding in apprehension of a âYes.'
âOh no. That's okay. I've heaps of time before my next appointment. I was only going to find somewhere to have a coffee. Perhaps you know of some place handy?' She remembered the second question and added: âNo, I don't drive.'
Trying to think rapidly. She needed an up-market, intimate bistro, close by. Damn. She never frequented any type of waterhole in this neighborhood. It wasn't her stomping ground. Her beat was downtown, in the gay ghetto. She could hardly suggest one of those places, she thought ruefully. Too well known to take a straight pick-up.
âEr ⦠where's your next appointment? Perhaps I could drive you to a coffee lounge there?'
âOh, that's downtown. I wouldn't want to have you go out of your way.' She had finished with the dryer and was now swiftly brushing those dark, shimmering tresses. Sidonie thought:
“She'll be all done soon and phut ⦠out the door.”
âNot a problem. I'm going downtown myself.' She didn't want to appear overly persistent so quickly settled on a compromise. âHow about we find out where each is going and we split the difference, so to speak.' Did this sound silly? juvenile? she worried.
âWell, I've to be at Yonge and Eglinton by four. What about you?' She stopped what she was doing and turned around to look at the girl, wanting to see the real thing, not a reflection. Bad move. She was so close, her breath caressed her cheek. Backing off, she bumped into the chair, so hastily turned round again.
As she worked, Sidonie continued to watch intently. She assured her it wouldn't be out of the way and suggested The Serving Spoon, on Bloor, a specialty coffee outlet. As she spoke, dexterous hands caught up the flying curls into an apple green, taffeta scrunchie. The woman continued to pin her hair to the back of her head and the nape of her neck, neatening it into an attractive coil, no longer flying and wayward, except for a few wisps that refused to be held and had slipped over her ears. With her hair like this, one's gaze was drawn more directly to acknowledge the flawlessness of her cream-colored complexion and the lustre of her eyes, reflecting so much light they dazzled. The lids, because of her slightly foreign cast, were heavy and naturally shaded, giving an arresting and adorable appeal. Sidonie's consciousness was enthralled. The severe hairstyle made her even more alluring, an aura of being unattainable. But she had already seen her bare fleshed.
“Sid, these thoughts, will be your undoing. Find a different tack, we're supposed to be thinking about coffee,”
she rebuked herself, scared her eyes would give away her inner thoughts and she'd frighten her off.
âHow does that sound? Of course, if you need a little quiet space to yourself, I'll be happy just to drop you off â¦' she let her voice trail away as she smiled, tensely.
âNo, no,' Tenille responded hastily: âIt would be nice to have some company.' She had finished and was now moving over to her belongings. Sidonie stepped back to let her pass. Only then did she realize how much she'd been crowding her. For herself it had not felt close enough
. “Watch it Sid. You're being a jerk.”
âOkay, then, The Serving Spoon it is.'
Tenille shrugged into her jacket and collected her holdall. Sidonie, who was in blue sweater and jeans, already had her parka over her arm and Adidas bag in hand. Tenille followed to the lobby where Sidonie leaned against the door and pushed it open for her to exit. âOver here,' jerking her head again.
A refreshing, blustery wind blew in their faces. Tenille looked up at a darkening sky, the clouds in merry chase, but all set to whip into a serious storm at the slightest provocation.
âThis one,' Sidonie informed her, averting her eyes, her pulses racing terribly. She opened the trunk, threw in her grip, then took the holdall and placed it carefully, her stomach in knots. This woman was about to sit beside her in her car. Admittedly it wasn't a Prelude, but she would be here in the flesh.
Once settled, Tenille volunteered more information. âI don't really like going places on my own, but since moving to Toronto, I'm having to get used to it. It's that, or stay home and I don't like doing that too much.'
âNeed some breathing space from hubby and the kids, eh?' She tried to make it sound casual, driving with care through the Sunday traffic, holding a steady pace. No taking off at warp factor at the lights.
Tenille laughed at the idea. She was settling down; having fun.
âNo, not that. I'm separated.'
“Darn. Straight as they come. Just my luck.”
She would be wasting her time all right. Well, she could enjoy looking, but then it would be:
“Thanks, but no thanks. Bloody hell.”
So frustrated she scowled, clenching her fist as she thumped the wheel.
âIs something the matter?' The soft voice broke her introspection.
She turned briefly towards the woman and saw a look of concern in the dark, deep set eyes, appearing even more dramatic in the amber glow of the late afternoon sun. She smiled to put her more at ease.
âNo ⦠It's OK. No â¦' The woman smiled back, hesitantly, but still watched. âYou know, I don't know your name.'
âOh sorry. How remiss of me. Tenille Fenech.'
âHow pretty. Fenech. That doesn't sound English.'
âNo. Maltese.'
So that explained this dark beauty's sultry radiance. The sensuality of the Mediterranean. Not like her own Anglo-Saxon tameness. How different they were. The rest of the journey continued in heavy silence, small talk exhausted, it seemed. The café-bar was located not far from where Tenille lived and after parking on Walmer Road, they walked back to Bloor Street and she recognized the area. Remarking on this led naturally to giving out her address and talking about work.
The smell of exotic coffees assailed them. Customers came and went, but they were the only ones to sit. Out of the bewildering selection available, they each chose the same. A Mocha/Java blend in a macchiato with hot milk. With that Tenille had a giant sized, walnut muffin which, in the end, she couldn't eat, her appetite deserting her.
âWhere do you work, Sidonie?' She tried her name out for the first time. It brought a deep color to her cheeks, making her eyes brilliant.
âSid, please. Sidonie was my mother's choice, but friends call me Sid.' She looked back into those enchanting, beguiling eyes, wondering if the unspoken message might get through.
“Syd.”
She knew this to be a man's name. To call this girl
“Syd”
it didn't seem right. She would stick to Sidonie.
She launched into stories of the track and hot walking.
Tenille wouldn't have guessed. Racetracks were rough places from what she'd heard. Yet this girl had an appealing softness.
“Hard and soft,”
she mused
, “all in one.”
âDo you have to work Sundays too, Tenille?' Sidonie experimented with the sounds on her tongue. So feminine.
She recounted her dancing hopes and fears, told of her disappointment and the new prospects. The information flowed from her as she looked across the table into those startlingly blue eyes, which right now were staring back at her in rapt attention.
âRaoul is the one who suggested I begin to work out. He feels it will help my dancing.'
She nodded in agreement. âRaoul?'
âHe's terrifically handsome,' she observed and looked past Sidonie as if seeing his image. She put two and two together and figured she knew how the land lay. âActually, you know his sister.'
âI do?'
âYes. Nina Losada, on reception.'
âOh yes, Nina.'
âWell, Raoul and she look very alike, but in him the Spanishness, if I can put it that way, is more striking.'
“Did she have to go on about him? She must be really smitten.”
âHave you decided when you'll go to the gym?'
âAs you can see, it's a long way for me and Wednesdays and Thursdays I dance. I think I'll stick with Friday evenings and possibly the odd Sunday. When do you go?'
âMy nights are Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Some of us are working toward a body-builders' competition,' she clarified. It pained her to notice that she hadn't call her Sid, after all. So ⦠she would only get to see her once a week ⦠anyway, what did it matter?
âHow interesting. No wonder you're so good looking,' she observed, then hastily amended: âI mean looking fit.' Deep color rushed to her cheeks again, as she realized the inappropriateness of the remark to this girl. She might misconstrue her words, or worse; not. The blush swept down from her throat to her neck.
Time had flown. Looking at her watch, it was late. âI must leave immediately.'
âI'll take you there.'
âNo, I can't let you do that, you've done so much already.'
Sidonie looked directly at her, an intense light illuminating the eyes to a strobe blue. She said quietly and deliberately: âIt's my pleasure and it's no trouble.'
She felt the power of that âdead-centre' gaze and the conviction behind the words. She would not have offered if she hadn't meant it. They arrived at the studio, just on time.
âThank you so much.' She turned as Sidonie handed her her grip. âPerhaps I'll see you ⦠again ⦠Friday?' Her heart was lurching.
âPerhaps.' Keeping her voice cool, she quickly turned away, not wanting to prolong this parting; it was getting to her. She jumped into the driver's seat and gunned the motor, turning hard left.
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