Snow-Blind

by Jean Roberta

My life is not a Victorian novel, and this story didn’t happen on a dark and stormy night. It happened in a snowstorm at twilight on the broad Canadian prairie.

I had to drive from the government town of Forgetville to the university town of Riel in the middle of February to meet with my advisor in the History Department. I didn’t see how to get out of the four-hour drive, even after I heard the weather warning. My life felt like the prairie in winter: cold, flat, bleak, with razor-sharp wind for excitement.

Looking out at the billows of snow sparkling in sunlight, I was reminded of a big, inviting bed covered with rumpled white sheets. I would have loved to roll around in my venerable brass bed (inherited from my grandmother) with a hot, horny woman. The only sane way to live in this part of the world is to stay home with a sweetie until spring. Animals do it. But human beings don’t have that much sense, so I had to hit the road with my thesis-in-progress.

I set out on February 13. I didn’t have a date for Valentine’s Day anyway. I had been single for months.

I was still getting over my stupid fling with Donna that had ended about the time of the first snowfall in November. A long drive would give me enough time to think about my life, and how to change its direction.

The day of my trip started out clear and sunny, although the temperature hovered below minus-twenty. There was hardly any traffic on the road. My mind drifted back to the night I met Donna at a party thrown by Leonard, a flamboyant gay artist who was locally famous for his portraits of the locally famous.

Donna was a magnet for all the eyes in the room. She was wearing clingy black pants and a draped orange top that showed off her cleavage. Her spiky black hair was dyed red at the tips, so it looked like smoldering embers. She and Leonard were dropping sexual innuendoes on each other that probably fooled the straight guests. I’ve never been good at that kind of role-playing.

I wanted to get my hands on Donna from the moment we met, but I figured I wasn’t her type. I thought I was too tall, too thin, too freckled, too nerdy. My hair has been reddish-brown all my life, and I keep it medium-short in a style that I hope transcends passing fads. I never went through a blue-hair, mullet or bald head phase. I wear glasses. My skin doesn’t tan easily. I actually like myself well enough, but for other people, I seem to be an acquired taste.

I got my hands on Donna sooner than I expected. Actually, she grabbed my hand as soon as we were introduced, then held me by the arm in a way that sent tingles all through me. “Albertine,” she said. “I’ve heard you’re smart. Do you think the federal government will legalize same-sex marriage before the next election?”

I groaned. Leonard rolled his eyes at her. “Give the woman a break, Donna,” he simpered. “Or get her another drink.” My glass was almost empty.

“Good idea,” she answered. “I bet you drink scotch, Albertine, with water or ice so you can taste it.”

I laughed. It was true.

“I’ll ply you with booze to get you to talk,” she promised. “Then I’ll see what else you want to do. I bet you’re a lot of fun when you loosen up.”

To my amazement, Donna was glued to my side for the rest of the evening. She was always touching me somewhere, or rubbing against me like a cat.

At the time, I couldn’t believe my luck. Looking back, I couldn’t believe what a fool I was.

Later that evening, Donna invited me to spend the night with her in a cheap motel. She said her kitchen was being remodeled, so she didn’t want me to see her house, even after I told her that renovations didn’t scare me.

When we entered the room, I wanted to show her that I had a few ideas of my own. I pulled her into my arms and kissed her red mouth, not caring if I smeared her lipstick. She gave me some tongue, and pressed herself against me from her collarbone to her crotch. She tasted like wine with mint in the background, and smelled like an earthy mixture of spices. I thought I could become addicted to her.

She seemed like a performer, even when we were alone together. She stepped away from me to pull her top over her head and throw it on the bed, arching her back like a stripper in a club. She was wearing a black satin bra that she quickly took off so I could admire her full, bouncy tits. Her nipples looked as if they had lipstick on them, so I kissed each one. Sure enough, they tasted like her lips.

For several reasons, it was hard for me to stay calm while remembering our first night together. I turned off the movie in my mind for awhile to focus on the road. But it just wasn’t interesting enough to hold my full attention.

Donna was full of surprises that night. When she let me pull off her pants, I saw that she was shaven, and had a silver ring in one of her outer labia. She also had a butterfly tattoo on one shoulder, a rose on one calf, another rose above one breast, and a blue star on one butt-cheek.

I thought she would have made a perfect courtesan in some ancient culture in which some parents sold their little girls into sex-slavery, or at least sent them away to be trained in the arts of love. Young Donna would have been one who showed promise, so she would have been permanently marked as a handmaiden (or mouth-cunt-and-ass maiden) of some unspeakably decadent goddess.

How harsh and appalling. What a turn-on.

Donna seemed to love being naked so much that it must have frustrated her immensely to live in a place where she had to be covered up most of the time. She seemed more interested in my reaction to her than in my pale, slim body, and that suited me fine. I’ve been complimented on my small, perky breasts and long legs, but I thought I looked totally white-bread compared to her.

We rolled around for awhile on the tacky flowered bedspread in the anonymous motel room. When I wanted to explore her, I slid down to her hairless, decorated pussy that looked like an exotic pet. I was relieved to find out that it tasted like other pussies: good, fresh and salty, not weird at all. Her clit was sensitive and responsive, and I loved teasing it with my tongue and teeth.

I couldn’t resist sliding two fingers into her wetness. I circled around her inner folds until I felt her cervix and tickled it.

By this time, she was bucking and moaning like a woman out of control. “Come on, baby,” I told her, glancing up at the puckered red nipples on her heaving breasts. I wished I could touch her everywhere at once.

“Wah!” she shrieked, almost strangling me with her legs. I got a good grip on her butt to prevent her from dislodging me. It was awesome.

Donna climbed on top, and gave me a kiss that would have made me stagger if I hadn’t been on my back. She squeezed my nipples until they were hard as stones. She spread my thighs apart and pressed one hand against my wet bush. My smell seemed to ooze out from between her fingers and waft through the air.

She was good with her tongue, but even then, it was all about her. I didn’t mind. I loved her style, and I thought she was better than anyone I had been with before. Not that I had vast experience.

By the time she pulled the pocket vibrator and the butt-plug out of her purse, I would have been more surprised if she had left all her toys at home in a bureau drawer. Having fun was obviously her chosen art-form, calling and lifestyle.

By morning, we were both exhausted. I was sore, but I liked knowing that I wouldn’t be able to forget her for at least a day. “I’d like to see you again, honey,” I told her hopefully. I was running a hand through her wild hair, enjoying its silky texture now that most of the gel was gone.

She gave me a lazy smile. “For sure, Allie,” she answered. “Did you think I would just forget about you?”

I groaned. “It’s what we do here.” This was an old, tired joke in Forgetville, originally named for an early twentieth-century public figure whose French name, Forget, was meant to be pronounced “for-jay.” I knew too well how easy it was for English-Canadian tongues to mispronounce French names.

I went on. “And I didn’t think you were the marrying kind, even though it’s legal here.” My impression of her was more ironic than I knew.

I invited Donna out for dinner at a steak-and-lobster restaurant the next Friday, and she toasted me in scotch. Over appetizer, salad, main course and dessert, I learned more about her life.

Donna told me she was the manager of Second Skin, a women’s-wear store in a mall, and that she liked her work. She told me that she had her first lesbian relationship in high school, and that her girlfriend was taken to a psychiatrist by her worried parents when they found out. Donna said she had been forbidden to see her ever again, and that it would have been easier to get over the death of a loved one.

Donna, my new Significant Other, told me that she had dated men for years in an effort to become “normal.” I really wanted to soothe the lingering pain from her past. I admired her for coming to accept herself and for landing on her feet. So many of us don’t.

We discussed piercings and tattoos. “I want you to get a rose tattoo like mine over your heart,” she said. “With a ‘D’ in it somewhere, to show the world you’re mine.” I couldn’t be sure she was joking. I couldn’t be sure she was serious.

We went to my apartment that evening, but she said she couldn’t spend the night because she had to go to work early in the morning for inventory. She seemed to leave an echoing silence behind her in my bedroom.

After a month, I stopped asking why we still couldn’t go to her house. One Monday, I drove to Second Skin just before closing-time and parked across the street. I felt like a private investigator on a stakeout. Maybe I had good instincts for once, or maybe I just didn’t trust my luck.

I could see movement in the store, behind the “closed” sign in the display window. As I watched, a rust-colored Lexus pulled onto a side street. A suave-looking man in a suit stepped out of the car with a little blonde girl who seemed to be in middle childhood, somewhere between Grade One and puberty. She looked conscious of her posture, and I could guess that she had been taking dance lessons for years.

Donna opened the door of the store, wearing a jade-green sweater set and a retro skirt covered with surrealistic flowers that suggested a 1960s rock-icon acid trip. She smiled in a way that needed no explanation.

I felt sick, but I needed a confrontation. I jumped out of my Toyota, slammed the door and dodged traffic on my way across the street. I arrived breathless, and had to pause for a moment, my balled fist between my breasts. I gathered myself together. “Donna,” I said, looking her in the eyes. “Is this your family?”

For a second, she looked like a puppy who has just been caught peeing on the carpet. When she recovered, she looked amused by her own nerve. “Albertine,” she said calmly, “this is my husband Ian and my daughter Carly.” She turned to him. “Honey, this is the professor I told you about.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” said Ian, smiling blandly. His gaze traveled down from my eyes to my chest to the crotch of my pants. He stuck out his hand.

“Go to hell,” I told them all. I didn’t want to apologize for swearing at a child, so I didn’t wait for a response.

I pulled away from the curb with a satisfying screech of tires. I’m sure I was protected from an accident on my way home by some supernatural force.

Time went on, and winter arrived on schedule. I taught my classes, graded essays, and worked on my thesis. Pain like acid reflux festered in the area of my heart.

Driving onward, I felt the acid rising again. The sky had turned dull white, and snow flurries filled the air. The scene would have been picturesque if I had been a little plastic figure living in a paperweight filled with liquid. In the real world, the snow looked like a warning.

I stopped at a small truckstop café for a cup of coffee to keep me awake. The place felt like a haven of warmth and light where a few local farmers sat hunched over steaming cups or glasses of their favorite booze, making small talk.

I still felt haunted by the aftermath of my affair with Donna, or her skilled fucking of my mind. Two lonely weeks after the family scene at Second Skin, I realized that she was never likely to phone me (or better yet, show up at my door late at night) to tell me that she had never loved Ian, that she was only staying for the sake of her beloved child, that he was a violent prick who would have beaten her if she had told me how she really felt, etc. I had to give up my fantasies and face reality.

I phoned Leonard to ask why he hadn’t told me the truth about Donna. He seemed surprised. “I thought you knew she was married,” he responded. “Her husband is in the legislature. Social Democratic Party. Ian Fisher, lawyer. Everyone knows him.”

A fresh gust of rage flooded through me. I couldn’t speak.

“Didn’t you and Donna talk to each other?” I could hear the smirk in Leonard’s voice.

“Not about straight marriage! When a woman comes on to me, I don’t ask if she has a husband and kids!” But I should have, I thought. Leonard didn’t need to tell me that I should never again think with my clit and jump to conclusions.

“Aw,” he said soothingly. “I’m sorry you got your hopes up, dear. I thought all you dykes liked playing with bi women. They don’t make any demands on you.”

I snorted.

“If you want company, Albertine, would you like to go to the bar with me on Saturday? I’d be honored, and you can check out the crowd. You never know who you might meet.”
I knew he was inviting me to the only queer nightclub in town.

“Sure,” I sighed. “Why not?”

Recorded music was shaking the floor on the disco side when we arrived. We ordered drinks and settled back at a corner table to watch the passing scene.

Leonard was lithe, graceful and flirtatious. I dreaded the moment when he would float away on the arm of a macho dance partner, leaving me conspicuously alone.

I stiffened when Donna walked in with a woman I didn’t recognize. “Her new friend,” Leonard told me in a stage whisper.

I couldn’t see clearly. I was wearing my contact lenses for the sake of my looks, not my sight. I squinted at Donna’s date, my replacement. “A blonde,” I sneered. “She looks young.”

“She’s fairly new in town,” Leonard informed me. “She got hired at the Public Library a few months ago. She phoned me about the new exhibit in the library gallery. She knows a lot about Canadian art.”

“But she’s here with Donna,” I pointed out. “How brilliant could she be?”

Leonard’s silent disapproval made me angrier than I would have been without his cool vibes beside me. I felt alone and misunderstood.

The blonde art-lover was wearing tight, low-slung jeans cinched with a wide, black leather belt. A slight bulge of her flesh caught the light between her hips and the edge of a skimpy purple knit top.

“Bare skin,” I remarked, hardly caring whether Leonard was listening to me. “How appropriate for this time of year. And I wonder if she really thinks she has the body for those pants.” Fat piggy, I thought. I didn’t say those words aloud, however. That would have been juvenile.

Something about the blonde’s innocently tousled wheat-colored hair, her pink cheeks and her honest breasts, hips and ass made me feel possessed by the ghost of a bitchy queen who had died in the bar from an overdose of spite. Leonard, the actual queen at my side, simply raised an eyebrow.

We each took a swig of our drinks as the silence grew between us. “Frustrated, are we?” asked Leonard. “Well, look around, girl. There are lots of women here, and some must be available. Work on your charm. By the way, her name is Pearl. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.”

Pearl! I thought. She has a cheesy name too. I didn’t tell Leonard what I was thinking. I just sat with my scotch and my sarcasm.

As though to torture me further, the d.j. put on a slow song, and all the couples on the dance floor moved into each other’s arms. Watching Donna’s possessive hands on Pearl’s exposed flesh and her thinly-covered back made me feel nauseous.

“I’m sorry, Leonard,” I told him. “I have to go. I must be coming down with something. I think I need a good night’s sleep.”

Leonard clutched one of my hands in both of his. He looked sympathetic, but he was trying not to grin. Damn him. “Get well, soon, dear,” he told me. “I’ll call you.”

I walked out into the fresh air, reminding myself that I was free, single and in the prime of my life. I knew that I could satisfy a juicy woman who would adore me and pay me back in spades. I told myself that fate or the universe would soon drop her into my lap. But not tonight.

So now I was sitting alone in a prairie café where many a trucker must have stared into his beer, thinking of someone far away, and where generations of farmers had complained to each other about the unpredictability of weather and crops.

The wind was growing louder outdoors. It was eerie and sensuous, like the voice of a woman calling me out to join her. I was reminded of the mysterious Snow Queen in a fairy tale by Hans Christian Anderson that my mom had read to me at bedtime when I was a preschooler. That character had made me shiver in a warm room, long before I had any idea of what my reaction could mean.

I wanted to reach Respite, the next small town, before the blizzard would make driving impossible. There was an old, cozy hotel in Respite, and that was where I would have to spend the night.

I walked into pelting snow that wet my face and clung to my eyelashes. I had to sit in my car for several minutes, warming up and drying out.

My windshield wipers couldn’t keep up, and the road was barely visible. I drove so slowly that I felt as if I were in a horseless carriage at the turn of the last century. Other cars appeared as ghostly headlights in a blinding white curtain.

I silently thanked whatever invisible guardians might be listening when I reached Respite without an accident. All the residents seemed to be safely indoors, probably huddled around their fireplaces. The hotel was the biggest building in town aside from the grain elevator, so it was easy to find. It rose out of the storm to welcome me like a lighthouse.

I parked in the parking lot and staggered through the snow with my canvas bag. I entered the lobby, and was surprised to see a face I remembered from Forgetville. It was Pearl.

For some reason, I couldn’t ignore her. “Pearl,” I said familiarly. I enjoyed startling her. “Aren’t you Donna Fisher’s friend? What are you doing here?”

She looked flustered. So far so good. “Yes, uh, not exactly. I grew up in Riel. I’m going back to visit relatives, but my car isn’t going anywhere for awhile. I phoned the garage, and they’re sending someone over in the morning. If it clears up. And you are --?”

“Albertine Lamoureux,” I told her. “I’m working on my Ph.D. in history, and I have to go to Riel to meet with my advisor.”

She smiled trustingly. “Did you live in Riel before?”

“For years,” I told her.

“Don’t you miss it? It’s friendlier than Forgetville, and the river is so pretty.”

“Oh yes,” I said. I was surprised to find that we agreed about something.

“So we’re both going home for Valentine’s Day,” she mused. “It’s obvious that we aren’t attached to anyone. Lone wolves with serious careers, that’s us.”

Pearl’s hair still clung wetly to her face, and I noticed that it made her look wild and wholesome, like a true daughter of the land. I wondered whether her ancestors had been crazy Scandinavians who came to the bald northern prairie because it reminded them of their home.

I felt like taking a risk. “Will you join me for a drink in the bar, Pearl?” I asked. I was working on my charm. I thought it might be useful to me some time in the future.

“Gladly,” she answered. “I wonder if they have single-malt scotch. There’s nothing like a good scotch to warm you up, but it has to be drunk on the rocks, not with some fizzy mix.” She obviously had better taste than I had guessed.

Sitting in the dimly-lit bar, I noticed that Pearl seemed to shed light all around her; she was luminous. Her name seemed perfectly appropriate when I thought about it. I didn’t really care whether it was fashionable this year.

As soon as we had ordered our drinks, she tackled me. “How did you know my name?” She was polite but direct. This was a woman who was always likely to call a spade a spade.

“I saw you in the bar with Donna.”

”Donna,” she repeated. Her mouth twisted as though she were tasting something sour. “She goes out a lot. With a lot of people.”

“Didn’t you know she was married?” I needled.

“When a woman comes on to me, I don’t ask if she’s married to a man!”

“So you had no clue,” I gloated.

“I guess I’m naïve,” she confessed. “I’m not from Forgetville, so I didn’t know who she was. I bet you knew what she was all about from the time you met her. I bet you’re not easily taken in.”

“Not for long,” I told her.

“I guess sometimes I act as blonde as other people expect,” she said. “I’ve been getting that all my life. I mean, I’m not complaining, but I still get treated like a child by people who don’t know me, even though I’m thirty-five and I have a Master’s degree in Library Science.”

I felt the lightbulb going on over my head. I had been blinded by the appearance of things, as though by winter sunlight bouncing off the crystals in snow. When would I stop jumping to conclusions about other people?

I wanted to make it up to her for my former crassness. The bar was next to the restaurant, and supper-time was approaching, so after our drinks, I invited her into the next room for a meal.

“Pearl,” I called her, savoring her name. Marguerite, I thought. Same meaning but prettier sound. “Did you move to Forgetville to take the job in the library?” Somehow I knew she hadn’t. Only one thing would persuade this woman to leave a place where she felt at peace.

“No.” She paused. “This will sound stupid.”

Not really, I thought. Not to me. You’re not speaking to a wisewoman in the village of prairie dykes. I made some comforting sound with my tongue. “We’ve all made mistakes,” I assured her.

“I feel as if I can talk to you,” she told me. “I was involved with Tracy Lunge, a serious hockey player, you know?”

“I’ve heard of her,” I said. “Don’t know her personally.” Gossip doesn’t count, I thought. I want to hear something reliable.

“I know we had nothing in common, but I really thought we could make a life together. Her on the rink and me in the library. What a team.”

I could see that she was on the verge of tears. I really wanted to hold her and rock her in my arms. What would it take, I thought, to make her feel that way about me? I wouldn’t treat her heart like a puck by slamming it around in public.

“She wanted to live in Forgetville for awhile and then move to a bigger city where she would have more opportunities. I figured I could always find a job. There are libraries and bookstores everywhere.”

And you’re such a generous person, I thought, that you probably would have followed her to a bookless Inuit village near the Arctic Circle if she had wanted to go there.

I reached across the table to hold her hand. “Pearl,” I said, “I can guess how this story ends. I’m a historian, I’ve read a lot. There are only so many plots in the human library. It wasn’t your fault even if it was completely predictable. She found someone else, didn’t she?”

“Yep.” Pearl bit her lip, and it made her look adorably vulnerable. “Another jock. Almost as soon as we got here. Forgetville is full of sporty dykes. They have their own culture. I should have known.” She allowed herself a drop of bitterness. “Jesus, Albertine, they don’t read. I mean, not at all. None of them.”

I laughed. I considered the risk I was about to take, and realized that if I didn’t take it, I might lose the chance forever. “Pearl, do you know how much I would like to hold you right now?” I kept my voice low to avoid attracting attention. “You are fascinating, and you’re too good for the bimbos around you. I’m serious. You should rise to your own level and leave the swine to wallow in their own mud.”

Her big smile completely transformed her face. “But who else is at my level? How can I be sure I wouldn’t be alone up there?”

“I can give you what you need, honey.” I grinned lewdly. “We can talk books, but I can get physical too. I bet you love sex.”

She broke eye contact before I did. “Well, yeah,” she admitted. “Who doesn’t love getting what they want?” She sighed loudly. “Oh, Albertine. I love figuring out how to please another woman, and we’re all different. Sometimes I want – well, I like toys, bondage, fantasies, role-playing. I’d like to try everything at least once. I get all the book catalogues and I’ve read about all that stuff.”

“You like surprises, don’t you, baby?”

She looked slightly worried. I loved all her spontaneous expressions. “Good ones,” she hinted.

“This will be good, my dear. After we’ve finished here, we’ll go to my room. I want you to co-operate, but I’m a gentleman and I won’t push you into anything.” She smiled her agreement.

I had to control my impulse to wrap an arm around her shoulders in public. We managed to go upstairs in the elevator and down the hall without attracting attention.

Once we were alone, I told her to close her eyes. “You trust me, don’t you, Pearl?”

“Yes,” she told me. “I’m a trusting fool.”

I slapped her beautiful, sassy butt. “If you keep putting yourself down, you’ll get a lot worse. You’re a good girl.” I stood close to her, breathing in her warm smell.

“Now focus on my voice,” I told her. “And tell me what you feel.” I stood as close to her as I could without actually touching her. I held both my palms half an inch from her breasts, which were covered by a cotton shirt and an ivory bulky-knit sweater. This exercise would be a test of her sensitivity.

“Oh,” she said.

“Do you feel that?”

Her face grew steadily redder. “It feels like – are you touching my breasts?”

“Almost, smart girl. Later on, I’ll find out if I can cover them with my two hands, and I’ll inspect them thoroughly for lumps. We can’t be too careful with your health. Then I’ll find out how your nipples react to being squeezed. I’ll try rubbing them with silk and velvet, maybe a little sandpaper. I bet they’re getting hard right now.”

I could see a tremor run through her. I knew I was on the right track. I moved my hands down to her belly, which she automatically sucked in. I knew she wasn’t doing it out of fear, but to make herself look as slim as possible, to impress me. I was impressed.

I cupped my hands in front of her crotch, and she shifted her position. “What do you feel now?”

“Ohh,” she said. “You’re near my snatch, aren’t you?”

“It’s a magnet for my hands, Pearl,” I told her. “Just feel me. What do you think I want to do?”

She was now as red as a beet. “Fuck me,” she sighed. I couldn’t be sure whether this was her answer, or an urgent request.

“Little slut,” I laughed. “I will, don’t worry, but I want to do other things too. Does your clit swell up a lot when you’re excited? I’ll find out. I want to know if it likes being tickled and kissed, and how wet you get when you want something to fill you up inside, but you need to learn how to wait patiently.”

I moved my hands slowly, watching her reactions to see if she was following me. “I wonder how you’d react,” I mused, “if you were the village schoolma’am and you got kidnapped by a gang of outlaw dykes. Train robbers and cattle rustlers and experienced prostitutes. They would know how to find all the valuables you might be hiding, and persuade you to join them.”

Pearl’s breathing grew louder. I felt as if I could get myself off, just from watching her.
“Bend over and touch your toes,” I ordered. She did.

“I won’t keep you like this for long because I don’t want you to get dizzy. So you have to answer quickly. What do you feel?” I held my palms just over both her lower cheeks.

“You’re near my bum.” I could see that this position made her feel more helpless than before.

“Yes.” I felt wicked. “Do you like it up your back passage?”

“Yes, but, if --”

“If I’m careful, right? If I lube you up like a greased pig and coax your greedy little hole to take it? Is that what you’d like?”

“Yes.” She was almost whispering.

“Stand up. Open your eyes.” I let her see my overjoyed, grateful smile. I held her and rocked her, feeling her heart beat and her breasts rise and fall with her breath.

“Pearl, I just want to rip your clothes off, but not tonight. I’m old-fashioned, so I think we should save it for an old-fashioned date on Valentine’s Day. I’m not leaving Respite without you, so we’ll either be here or in Riel. If we make it, I want to take you out for dinner and a movie there. You know Francesco’s, don’t you?”

“It’s my favorite Italian restaurant.”

“I thought you’d like it. Then we’ll go drinking and dancing at the Rainbow Club.
I’ll lay on the charm and try to take advantage of you. If charm doesn’t work, I might need to use handcuffs. I wouldn’t want you to slip away.”

“I won’t, Albertine. You’re the woman for my life.”

“In that case,” I said softly, “think of me tonight. But don’t play with yourself. I want you to save it for Valentine’s Day, so that will always be our anniversary. And maybe someday –“ I was afraid to speak my dream out loud for fear of jinxing a vision that seemed too good to be true.

I knew that Pearl was thinking what I was thinking: a winter wedding on Valentine’s Day, with outdoor photos against a dazzling white background of snow. Or indoor photos bathed in golden firelight or candlelight. “Someday,” answered Pearl. “And I don’t really care where.”

We gave each other a long kiss goodnight, and went to the sweet torture of our separate beds.

The next day dawned crystal-clear and sunny. As soon as I woke up, I threw on my bathrobe and tiptoed to Pearl’s room.

Pearl opened her door, smiling and blinking like a kitten waking up. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my sweet bitch,” I told her.

As always, she understood me. “Mm,” she answered, melting into my arms. “Same to you,” she answered. “I hope you know I’m in heat.” She wiggled playfully.

“I won’t let you cool off,” I promised. I had a feeling that we would be saying the same things to each other for years to come.

_______________

email Jean Roberta

Jean Roberta is a woman of a certain age who teaches English at a Canadian prairie university and embarrasses her friends, relatives and students with her erotic writing and opinionated editorials. Her erotic stories have been widely published in anthologies such as "Wicked Words 3" (Black Lace, UK), the "Best Lesbian Erotica" series (Cleis Press, USA) and "Shameless" (Seal Press, USA) as well as websites and print journals. Her lesbian novel, "Prairie Gothic" is available from Amatory Ink (www.amatory-ink.co.uk).

© 2006 by Jean Roberta