Page 25 of Obedience

***

In desperate need of air, Dylan walked home from Greta’s apartment. It usually took over an hour to walk home from the city centre, but it was time she needed to process what had just happened. The whole thing had gone beyond anything she’d imagined. Though Greta Vincent was a stranger to her—and if she were honest, the woman came across as a bit of a dick—she was under her skin now, and she knew there was more to it. More to her.

For two years, Dylan had never had an orgasm with Greta. Their faces had never pressed together, their breaths never combined. Yet that day, all those things had happened, and they were glorious. What the fuck was she supposed to do with that? How could she continue to lie awake at night, her mind a loop of Greta? How much longer could she stare at the blinking cursor on a blank screen, at the space that should contain her dissertation, while thinking of Dr Greta Vincent?

***

Ignoring the clatter of the glass panel as the front door slammed behind her, Dylan headed towards her mum’s room, needing her nearness.

‘Hi Dylly,’ Priya said, her soft voice floating from the kitchen.

‘Hey Pri,’ Dylan replied forlornly, dropping her rucksack onto a kitchen chair, as Priya finished washing her hands in the kitchen sink.

While scanning Dylan’s face, Priya blew out an exasperated sigh. ‘Right!’ she said decisively. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Please talk to me Dylan. I know there is something—’ Priya didn’t manage to finish her sentence before Dylan cracked. She gave in, succumbing to the emotion and stress pushing under her skin and thrumming in her chest and mind. Slumped in the chair sideways, in the middle of her dated kitchen, Dylan sobbed. ‘It’s okay, hen. Come here, it’s okay,’ Priya held her tight. Her tiny five-foot-three height able to properly reach Dylan while standing behind her chair.

Pressing the side of her face into Priya’s chest, Dylan sobbed, ‘I’ve fucked up, Pri. I’ve fucked up so bad.’

‘What on earth has happened? Is it a lass? Is that why you’ve been training yourself silly and been so absent?’

‘Kind of.’ Dylan pushed the heel of her hand into her eye.

‘Oh sweetheart, everything is fixable, and if it’s really not fixable, there are always options… I know you, Dyl. There’s not a chance you will have messed something up so badly that it can’t be sorted and certainly not deliberately.’ Priya kissed the top of Dylan’s head. ‘Okay?’

‘Okay.’ Dylan nodded. ‘You need to go, Pri. It's late,’ she said through her subsiding sobs.

‘I’ll stay a few more minutes. Go and have a shower and wash the day off your skin. Everything will seem better then.’ Dylan reached her arms around Priya over the chair, squeezing her tight. ‘Seriously, you need to stop with those weights…one of these days you’ll crush me and Margs to bloody death!’ Priya joked. Dylan gave a humourless chuckle and ran her hands down her face, rubbing roughly as she sniffed. ‘Don’t let your mum see you like this, Dylly. Go shower, baby. I’ll wait until you’re feeling better.’

With her arms wrapped around Priya, Dylan pressed her face into her tunic. A dull ache sat deep inside her chest. It was a longing for her mum—for her guidance, wisdom, hugs, and her unconditional love and support. She missed her mum deeply. Although she was right there—-in the same house, warm, alive and breathing—she missed her.

She ached for her.

She grieved for her.

***

Lying in the bath—the water as hot as she could stand—Greta watched the day dance behind her eyelids. The sights, the smells, the sensations, the words, all of it torturing her. Her stomach tightened as a familiar, twisting pain flared inside her. How had things gone so wrong, so quickly? Her heart pounded against the heat of the water as guilt enveloped her. She was wracked with it. Guilty for her loss of control. For pulling Dylan in and then shoving her away, again. She felt guilty that she was the most alive she’d been in years because of the feeling of Dylan coming against her hand. She craved the unbelievable sensation of Dylan bearing down, grinding onto her hand; muscles tensing, her walls tight as they wrapped around her fingers. She could feel the proximity of their mouths, Dylan’s wet breaths on her palm and the Herculean strength she’d needed to keep her hand still over Dylan’s mouth and not pull her into a kiss, even as the rest of the ‘rules’ had gone to shit.

Greta wanted it. She wanted her. She wanted Dylan, but the situation was untenable. It was completely preposterous. She wanted Muriel. If she hadn’t fucking died, none of this would be happening. Imagining Muriel lying opposite her in the bath gave way to the tears she had tried so desperately to fight back. The bath Muriel had chosen in the bathroom Muriel loved, in the apartment she had designed. The cruelty of the unrelenting pain was too much. Greta had fenced herself in, shackling herself to her misery so that no one else would ever be able to hurt her or leave her again. Closing herself off from love was the only way to exist, to not risk a loss so massive ever again because she wouldn’t survive it. It would finish her. Greta had her parents and her work; she didn’t need anyone else.

Except for Dylan.

No, Remi, she needed Remi.

No, Dylan.

Fuck. She needed Dylan.

***

With her hair wrapped in a towel and a dressing gown pulled tight at the waist, Greta stared at her reflection in the mirror. Age seemed to have settled into the lines of her face overnight. Usually, years were just a number, but tonight, the weight of them felt heavy. She never felt her almost fifty, but lately, she felt old and fucking exhausted. She applied her expensive toners and creams in a practiced routine, yet Dylan’s face sat in her mind, wrinkle and blemish free, desperate to be kissed. She longed to bite Dylan’s full lips, then soothe them with her tongue.

The heavy, burdensome millstone of grief was a weight too great to lug around any longer. Life without her wife had been hollow and meaningless. All of her desires, every single one, remained out of reach. Something, or someone, she couldn’t have. A desperate urge to go back clawed at her throat as her thoughts spiralled. Perhaps with enough caution, a way to keep seeing each other existed. Greta was in no way linked professionally to Dylan. She wasn’t her tutor, her mentor, or her boss. She wasn’t anything to her but the words she spat at her in the hallway rang in her ears like a bell.

“You’re nothing to me”.

She had become so fucking cruel. Using the burden of her grief, she falsely justified her cruelty and anger. If Muriel knew how cold the heart she loved had become and how much anger Greta carried, she would be ashamed of her, but she couldn’t know because she was dead. She was gone.

***