Know When To Hold 'Em

Every day after work, when the office emptied a rush of tired business-casual employees into the summer heat of the parking lot, Jean would sit in her car and wait. Last to arrive each morning, her rusty Suburban filled its usual spot at the end of the lot, shaded by the leafy birch that speared the sky between the downtown business plots of the small borough. She chewed at a shortened nail and watched the cars file out, and her coworkers shout goodbyes in passing. She waved, smiled, and waited.

There was a chance that Mara would disappear with the rest, pulling away in her sporty white car with a fresh blast of ABBA drifting out behind her; always the original, never the soundtrack. Jean listened past the hip hop and country radio that accompanied the exodus, bracing for disappointment. She felt the warm flush of anxiety spread up her chest as an unsympathetic voice skulked through her mind.

Pathetic

It whispered.

As the last barrier pulled away, Jean looked across the lot, jerking her keys from the ignition at the sight of the white car still parked at the opposite end. Mara was there, pulling her hidden stash from the trunk as she yelled across the space between them.

"Jeannie! Get over here already."

The plastic bag, tucked into her purse as she walked away, was central to this dance they had perfected. Jean knew it held packs of Fortune menthol, mailed from overseas by Mara’s mother, and an abundance of individually wrapped mints that Mara sucked on whenever she smoked. To Jean, that faded bag held the promise of time.

They never planned together for this end of day corner of the world they were crafting, never openly voiced an invitation until they were alone; Jean viewed it as a tenuous structure, built on anticipation and shored with need. Tenuous, and dangerous.

Rule: Don't Be Needy

When Jean approached, Mara was already sitting in the shady thin strip of grass that separated the parking lots, the edge of her cropped sun dress tucked tightly under her knees. She had kicked her heels off, and her calloused feet rubbed indents through the cool damp green. Unwrapping a candy directly into her mouth, Mara propped a cigarette with her teeth and tipped her Kate Spade sideways, searching for a lighter that Jean knew she didn't carry.

She was ready, lighter in hand since she had stepped from her car, and she watched closely as Mara cupped her fingers around the cigarette and pulled the heat in. If Jean were brave, she would carry matches instead and add her hand to that protective haven, in a thrill of touch, to help Mara keep a smaller flame alive.

Freak

Shaking off the voice, she relaxed and settled into the routine. Sometimes they chatted about work, scoffing at the best of gossip and the worst of customers. Often they talked about traveling to Iceland for the hot springs Mara had always wanted to visit, or Tokyo, where Mara had been once, years ago. She insisted that Jean would fall in love with the neon noise, if she had the right person to guide her through it. On serious days, conversation drifted to children and how Mara wanted little girls to dress up in bows and sparkles, and how she knew that any kids Jean ever had would be amazing, and happy, and safe with her.

Jean was mostly quiet, existing in smiles and nods and fascination as Mara incanted a whirlwind of dreams and adventures for them. On the rare days that Mara drove away with the crowd at the sound of the 5:00 train whistle, Jean would lie alone on her back with her eyes closed and slip easily into that world. She lived, and re-lived, a complete other-life in that small stretch of grass between the bank and the pizza shop.

It was not a surprise when the cell in Mara’s lap lit up with a video call. It was nearing 5:30, and the reward of stolen minutes always came with the risk of a call. Mara cleared her expression before answering quickly.

Hate him

Jean pulled tufts of grass from the ground between them and looked away.

“Hey babe! I’m just talking, I’ll be home soon.” Mara held her cigarette hand out behind the phone, well past the frame of the call.

“Where are you?”

He asked the same questions every time. Jean expected it, and knew what came next.

“I’m at work." Mara leaned toward the camera and posed a charming smile. "We were stuck late and I’m just letting the day go. I’ll be home soon.”

Her voice was not as saccharine as the one she used with difficult customers, but Jean thought the cheer sounded forced compared to their interrupted conversation. She wondered if he could recognize the difference. A tinny laugh shivered through her thoughts.

Delusional

“Yeah, okay baby. Who are you with?” He asked her every time.

“Just Jean.”

The wind had shifted, and Jean tensed as the smoke drifted across Mara’s face, into view of the camera.

“Show me.”

Every fucking time with his control, paranoia, and possessive demands; Jean knew that her urge to grab the phone and hang up on him was stupid, and better stifled than engaged, but the feeling agitated through her hands all the same.

She reached around behind the phone to discreetly take the cigarette from Mara’s fingers, careful not to touch her, and held it posed as her own when the phone turned to face her. Not willing to smile, she waved the cigarette in a stilted gesture of greeting and tried for a neutral expression. His grey face and dark brows lifted in something like relief as he took Jean in, and Mara pulled the screen back.

“Don’t stay too long, get home.” He groused at her.

“Okay, love you babe, bye!”

The phone was off and down before he could respond, and Jean handed the cigarette back. Mara spritzed herself with the sweet pea body spray she kept in her purse, and unwrapped a new candy. Jean hadn’t noticed the first one disappearing, and wondered if she had swallowed it or spit it out when the call came in.

“He just wants me to be safe. Always thinks I’m going to get kidnapped or something.”

Her laugh was bright and dismissive, an invitation to brush the moment aside and return them to banter and fun; Jean went back to breaking soft blades of grass, reluctant to respond. She knew they had met online some years ago, and that he was well over twice Mara’s age. She knew the Facebook photo of their airport wedding, with a nineteen-year-old Mara smiling hesitantly and looking tiny in jeans and a too-big corduroy jacket, had left Jean feeling cold inside.

She had tried to imagine once how Mara had felt in that moment, with her family half-way across the world, and the weight of his hands on her shoulders holding her still for that photo. Jean could not smile when he called, and would not coo at his version of protectiveness. She reached for a cigarette of her own as Mara finished her second, and hoped that it would entice her to delay a little longer. It usually did.

Manipulative

Jean pulled a long drag and kept the lighter in hand as Mara reached for the pack, settling a fresh menthol between her lips. Maybe Jean would pick up a book of matches after all. She allowed herself a searching study of Mara’s features as the ritual was completed once more, looking back down when they separated. Maybe Jean’s brand of manipulation was better than whatever Mara had waiting at home.

Needy

Selfish

Maybe Mara was just a friend, and Jean was twisting a fantasy into something that felt real.

Jealous

Useless

Jean snapped the lighter closed and declined a mint in the silence that lingered. She focused on the buzz of her nicotine blood to overpower the snarls in her head. Maybe she didn't care about the maybes today.

"What was your favorite food in Tokyo?"

________________

Jean never bought the matches in the end; another failed start that morphed into a permanent daydream for her other-life world. Despite her inertia, there had been a rising tension between them that Jean could not place, and a change in atmosphere that was only partly explained by the dissolution of summer.

Mara stayed late less often in the colder darker afternoons, but the draw between them during working hours seemed to fill that empty space with a stronger, more frightening awareness than anticipation and longing. Something felt less one sided between them; more this-life than other-life.

Comments at work began with “Jean and I” more often. In mixed company, Mara would reference past conversations, tentative plans, small observations of Jean’s tastes or interests; the questioning and interested looks of their co-workers were dismissed with a gesture, and phrases like ‘You would have had to be there’ or ‘It’s a Jean thing'. Jean had started to feel uncomfortable around the others, like she was the popular girl who made everyone else feel small and left out of the joke, and at the same time, didn’t understand the punchline herself. Mara’s attention felt heady, but what they had been building together for all these months was not strong enough to withstand the scrutiny and judgement of others. Jean was not strong enough.

Still, when Mara had confidently told Jean to be at her house a few hours early, to set up for that night's work event, it had not occurred to her to say no. Jean did not remember if she had known that Mara’s husband would be away on a business trip; if she had known they would be alone, she might have guessed how it would affect the evening, and test her commitment to the rules.

Stupid

An obnoxious heat churned in her stomach as she opened the tallest kitchen cupboard above Mara’s head, pressing a foot carefully between the legs of the step-stool. She held her breath to make sure that no part of her brushed against the woman below her outstretched arm.

Rule: Don't Touch Her

Not at work, not in the summer-green grass, and not here, alone in Mara’s house. There was so much room for error, and so little room to navigate around each other. Jean was not naïve enough to think that anything less than her own fear and trauma set the conditions and terms of these rules, but they were imperative regardless of origin.

Jean's blunt fingers slid from pitcher to pitcher as directed. She felt proud of her height at that moment. She tensed her shoulders and broadened her chest, reveling in her small moment as a provider, and lowered the weight of the glass carafe carefully into gesturing hands. The recessed lights above them were soft in their half dimmed setting, but the shine on Mara’s black hair was bright enough to make Jean ache.

She considered what it would smell like, to inhale the perfume of shampoo and hair oil from the back of Mara’s head; the thought made her want to lower her fingers through those long strands and press them to her mouth, to test the softness.

Creep

She forced herself to only breathe out, slowly, stepping back as Mara stepped down. Giving space before Mara inevitably filled it was as habitual as it was crucial.

Habit had its place, but Jean was learning that there was no accounting for impulse in this.

As Mara reached for her hand, Jean did not hesitate, violating every carefully laid precaution in an instant as she guided her down the last step of the stool with a steady grip and tense arm. She felt strong, braced against the push of that smaller hand. When Mara slid French-tipped nails against the hair of her arm, glancing off of her elbow in a furor of movement around the kitchen, Jean only felt dizzy.

The voice was cruel and confusing in her mind as she returned the metal step to the pantry in silence.

Pathetic

Her bare feet slid from stone to rich carpet as she moved further down the hall, away from the fading chatter and movement in the kitchen.

Coward

The sensory illusion of Mara’s fingers was replaced with tremors when she made a fist, and her hand felt dry and empty in their absence.

Weak

Jean could still hear Mara through the heavy bathroom door, her movements endless as she prepared food for a dozen people. Jean assigned the sounds to their own imagined scenes: The tapping was a ladle on the edge of a simmering pot, and the glass that rattled together was the door of the refrigerator, pulled open too fast, clinking beer bottles and condiments in their shelves. Between each sound was a flash of curved hips, the sideways smile of a speculative mouth, the kitchen towel that had been sliding from Mara’s shoulder to the floor all night long.

Jean turned on the ceiling fan and pulled the tap as high as it could go, watching the cold water bubble against the silver drain as she tried to narrow her focus and drown the images and distant sounds in the flow's susurrus motion.

Run

It was too late for that. Jean delayed longer than she could justify before she dried her hands, avoiding the mirror as always, and shut the room down in abrupt movements. She left determined, but not sure of what.

"Did you use the spray?"

Jean was stopped at the end of the hall by a formidable Mara.

"What spray?"

"Babe!" The dish towel jumped through the air in her hand. "If you do a number two you have to use the spray, we have company coming over."

Mara shook her head and hurried away, opening the oven and reaching tongs under the tinfoil to edge the readied lumpia around a warming tray.

Jean felt her scalp tingle in a sickly cold shiver. She knew the tips of her ears burned pink, and she could feel a warmth spread across her collarbones as she dragged her nails up and down her clavicle in a distracted attempt to stay calm.

Babe. We have company coming over.

Even the voice was at a loss. Somehow, in the space of one evening, ‘Jeannie’ had become ‘Babe’, and Mara’s words were inclusive, almost possessive. Domestic.

"Uh. No." Jean mumbled, swallowed dryly, and started again. "No, I was just washing my hands."

"Perfect, good, you can do the finger foods. Roll them, no folds!"

Turning her back to the kitchen and focusing on the dining table, Jean started to carefully roll slices of deli meat as instructed. She knew distantly that she should actually wash her hands first, but she could not stand to talk if Mara questioned her exit, and using the kitchen sink was not an option. Jean needed space. Jean needed time, and answers, and more oxygen than her strained lungs could process. The tingling sensation spread down her spine, and she recognized the start of a panic attack.

Babe. We have company coming over.

The entire office would be there within minutes. Jean looked around the open floor, took in the miniature karaoke machine, the carefully spaced chairs in the living room, and the platters of home-cooked food they had spent hours preparing together. She wondered if anyone would be surprised to step into a party instead of the trust building pseudo-seminar that team events usually offered. She breathed in, rolled an h'orderve, breathed out, and rolled another.

She wondered if any of them, even Mara, knew what this night was really about. Jean shivered through a new kind of heat jolting inside her. They were playing house. The mortgage was in his name, but tonight the house belonged to Jean and Mara, and they had company coming over.

“Hey, hon?” Jean breathed the endearment, not knowing if she actually wanted to be heard.

“What’s up, babe? Oh, these are perfect.”

Mara dropped the towel from her damp hands and wrapped her arms sideways around Jean’s waist. Her hug was tight, squirming, and she bounced on the balls of her feet, trilling like she always did when excited. Her eyes stayed focused on the food, fussing occasionally with one hand as she turned the tray in search of the best effect; her other arm stayed tight around the back of Jean’s hips, pulling her close, pressing their sides together in a seamless bond of heat and energy.

“This is good.”

Jean had meant to pose a question, but found herself calmed by the finality of the statement.

“Yeah, babe.” Mara answered and smiled up at her. “It’s real good.”

________________

The guests arrived, puffed jackets and boots piling up to block the door. Jean had been wrong to think that team-building would mean anything other than families and friends and rolicking music in their house. There were five or so children, obsessed with the karaoke machine and in a constant state of commotion. The occasional spouse crept in from the garage to grab a beer or plate of food before escaping the cacophony again. Jean stayed in the kitchen, scraping plates and replenishing drinks, overwhelmed by the energy of the room and the burn of pleasure in her stomach. When she easily directed the receptionist toward which drawer held the reusable straws, she received a raised eyebrow in return.

“You must spend a lot of time here.” Grace Libton smiled, but her eyes were sharp and cold.

Jean hummed and turned away, feeling bold as she allowed the assumption to stand. She moved back to washing dishes until she was alone, then turned to find the one person she wanted to see.

The crowd had started to thin as the night progressed, but Mara was still running the show. She was in her element, moving with ease and energy between the remaining groups, asking questions, telling jokes, and laughing louder than anyone. Jean dried the silverware with her back to the sink, watching as Mara battled sticky-fingered children for her turn with the microphone, and celebrated her victory with an off-key rendition of The Gambler. Jean's mind drifted as she listened, thinking back through the long summer they had spent together.

And he drank down my last swallow

Then he bummed a cigarette

And asked me for a light

Mara loved her, and Jean did not remember why she had denied it for so long. Her fear had prevented her from claiming it, but the love was there, as reckless and devastating as Mara herself.

You've got to know when to hold 'em

Know when to fold 'em

Know when to walk away

And know when to run

There would be no more running, for either of them. When they made eye contact across the room, Mara held the microphone in both hands and lifted her elbows past her ears, belting a repeat of the final lines.

She was breathtaking.

Flushed with laughter, she dropped the microphone into tiny, eager hands, and stumbled into the kitchen, pulling Jean past the center island and onto the long empty space of the sectional. Jean sat, giddy with the atmosphere and the contact, and sighed when Mara sprawled across the cushions. Her head dropped back onto Jean’s lap.

Reckless

Jean smiled until her face ached.

Rule: Don't Draw Attention

“I’m so tired.” Mara’s whine was low. She sounded happy.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to outdance an eight-year old.”

“Shut up, Jean. Don’t make me sound old.”

Her smile was like a living thing in that upside down view; her face was all teeth, with only a small edge reserved for the glint of her warm eyes. She reached back for Jean’s hand and lifted it to where her long hair fanned, free and loose, across Jean’s thighs.

“Play with my hair?” She sighed, already closing her eyes.

There was no room for rules in their new world, no preservation of self, or of sanity. Jean was surprised to find, as she wound her hand tightly in dark silky strands, that this world also held no fear. She slid her fingers through Mara’s hair gently, massaged lightly at her scalp from time to time, and watched as the woman in her lap sank further toward her in drowsy relaxation. Jean could not have imagined the peace she would attain in such an intimate touch, when just the temptation of it had left her trembling in panic hours before.

Jean’s serene gaze lifted to the room around them and found Libton staring openly. The other woman looked repulsed, her eyes moving quickly from Jean’s roving fingers, to Mara’s face, and back again. The wine in her hand was tilting slowly toward the ground, and Jean gestured for her attention.

“Careful.” Jean called over the music, and pointed toward the glass. “Your drink? We just put in new carpet.”

Libton blinked, her expression surprised, and then sullen, as she disappeared through the entrance to the garage, grabbing her snow boots and jacket along the way.

Jean laughed, fearless and terrible, and returned to doting on Mara. Mara, who broke every rule, and gave Jean permission to break them too, guiding her through it like the gentle push and pull of the moon. Mara, who welcomed her into her home and made it theirs, in front of everyone.

Jean needed her, and Mara showed her that it was okay to be needy. Jean suffered to touch her, and Mara lay in her arms, across her legs, and said ‘touch me’. No judgement could hurt them, when faced with power like that.

Jean knew that there would be adversity in their future, but she was not afraid anymore. She leaned down to breathe deeply from the bouquet of hair in her hands, and closed her eyes to everything around them. She thought of Mara’s husband, and remembered the lines Mara had sung for her, just minutes ago.

'Cause every hand's a winner

And every hand's a loser

And the best that you can hope for

Is to die in your sleep

He had been dealt a winning hand, but he had still lost the game. Maybe, Jean thought, the stolen ace that he had kept trapped up his sleeve for all of these years meant that a peaceful slipping away, cocooned in the warm, guiltless oblivion of sleep, was more than he should hope for, and more than she would grant him. The rules had changed, for all of them.

There was nothing that Jean would not do for Mara, to protect her, to free her, to keep her this close. They had built a dream world together, crafted with cigarettes and secrets, with rituals of anticipation, and need, and Mara had shown her how real that world could be; it was up to Jean to clear the obstacles and bring them across the final threshold, together. Mara did not need to ask any more clearly than she had, and Jean would not let her down.

Deranged

Unstable

“Capable.” Jean whispered. “Determined.”

“What’d you say?” Mara’s eyes stayed closed as she stirred beneath Jean’s hand.

“Nothing hon. Rest for a bit.” Jean gently carded her hair, and smiled. “I've got you now.”

________________

Rule: Know When To Hold 'Em

Rule: Never Let Her Go