Secret Bird
by Politic X

Part 6
See part 0 for header information.


Dana raises her eyebrows.  "That's some feat."

"Yep.  She's determined."  I swallow hard.
Whatever's bothering Dana is electrifying the air,
and I'm afraid to breathe.

"She seems to care about you a lot."  She drains
her glass and sets it on the wall.

"It's mutual."

Dana nods silently.  We're both lost in thoughts,
and there's an uncomfortable silence.  The tension
is heavy.  When we finally speak again, it's
simultaneously.

"So, is she gay or what?"  Dana asks.

"Do you have a tattoo?"  I ask.  I hear her
question too late, and it's lost under the flurry
of my words.  "'Cause I think I saw one peeking out
from under your blouse tonight."

"Is she gay?"  Dana asks again.  Her body is turned
to mine, and I suddenly realize how close we're
standing, as if we're huddling in the cold.

"No."  I'm trapped in her scrutiny.  "Why?"

"Because I was wondering if she's your date
tonight."

My skin flushes hot and sweat breaks out under my
arms.  "No, I - I don't have a date tonight," I
stutter.  "We're friends.  She's ... Stephanie dates
men and women, but not me."  I can't look at her,
so I turn away.  Her body's still angled to mine,
though, and I feel her watching me.  I force a
smile, trying to be braver than I feel.  "She's
kind of crass sometimes, but she's a great friend.
Always looking out for me."  Dana touches my arm.
It's just a touch, but I'm nervous, and I start
babbling like an idiot.  "You know that book -
'What Color is Your Parachute?'  She wrote a play
in college called 'What Color is Your U-Haul?'"

Dana erupts into laughter and I feel relieved.  The
tension between us begins to ease.  "You need to
get her to do her Forrest Gump take on her play."
I'm terrible at imitations, but I try.  "Well, you
got your ButchDyke, your Lipstick Lesbian, your
FemmeDyke, your GranolaDyke, your
CrystalLovingLesbian, your DieselDyke who's also
known as your BullDyke, your JockDyke, your
DykeOnABike-"   I'm babbling gibberish and I force
myself to stop.

She's still chuckling.  "And which one am I,
Monica?"

I try to swallow, but my mouth's gone dry.  I
didn't know.  I did know.  I'm terrified.  I'm
elated.  I'm shaking my head and shrugging my
shoulders.  She's none of them.  She's freaking
Xena in a dress.  The Red Edition.  Concentrated.
A little goes a long way.

She touches my waist and I practically jump out of
my skin.  "So, what did you ask me earlier?  If I
have a tattoo?"

I nod and swallow the rest of my beer down in three
gulps.

"I do.  I have an ouroboros on the small of my
back."

I know she just didn't say an ouroboros.  The beer
bottle clanks when I place it beside her glass.
"Tell me you don't."  I can't disguise the disdain
in my voice.

"It's a symbol of completion, of the life cycle-"

"I know what it is.  The Great World Serpent of
Norse mythology.  It's a snake eating its own
tail."  I sound like I feel - disappointed in her.

"What?  Have I fallen off the pedestal you put me
on because I have a tattoo?"

Oh, God, even Dana knows I have a crush on her.
"It's a really negative symbol to carry around
forever."

"What's so negative about it?"

"It's a snake, Dana.  It's eating its own tail -"

"Yes, for nourishment, to survive.  Dying and being
reborn, that's what it symbolizes, the life cycle."

"Is that what you think?  You think like Nietzsche
- a 'self-sufficient Nature' - you think in black
and white like that?"  She doesn't answer, just
looks at me like I'm something to laugh at.  "I
know there are a lot of philosophies that believe
this.  But dying at one's own hands isn't really
dying, is it?  It's suicide.  I'll kill myself so I
can be reborn."  I make a sound of disgust.  "There
are religions that fanatic."

"It's a snake, for crying out -"

"Okay.  There are a lot of cultures that held the
serpent in high esteem - many had serpent gods.  In
Eastern lore, snakes might be seen as good luck,
but the mythology around them is so varied, and the
Western mythology in particular is so passionate...
In the Bible, who tempted Eve?  The serpent.
Medusa had a head full of them and she'd turn you
to stone if you looked at her, she was so evil."
Dana looks amused.  She needs to take me seriously.
"What do you think of when you think of St.
Patrick?"

She grins.  "Green beer?"

I'm scowling and I know it, and I don't want to put
her off, but she's taking this much too lightly.
"He drove all of the snakes out of Ireland.
Doesn't that speak to you at all?  A saint ridding
his land of evil?  Snakes are often depicted coming
from holes in the ground, thus coming from the
underworld.  What bothers me the most about the
ouroboros is that for all of the positive
connotations in various cultures, it's the greatest
influence of all - the Bible - that portrays the
serpent as the representation of evil.  So, yeah,
go ahead and say it represents the continuity of
life if you want to."  I wrap my arms around me.
"I think it's at the very least a negative thing to
have permanently etched onto your skin."

"It's just a tattoo."  She says gently, placating
me.  She touches my elbow.  "It's just a tattoo.
Look at it."

She turns, but I stop her.  There's no way I can
see the tattoo in this light.  "Wait."  I'll get a
candle from the crowd that's on the opposite end of
the roof.  Maybe I can take a hit off someone's
cigarette and calm my nerves while I'm over there.
"I'll be right back."

"Monica-" She catches my arm.

"Don't go anywhere."

I go to the candles and the people and take a deep
draw off a cigarette.  "Stardust," one of the guys
says.  He's had a crush on me for years, and this
is one of the things he calls me, "Stardust."  It's
the least offensive thing he calls me.  He, like
all men everywhere, seems to think that pretty
words and singing "Brown-Eyed Girl" will get me in
the sack.  I smile at him and return his cigarette.
His group invites me to join them, but I have to
get back to Dana.  I have to see that damn thing on
her back.  No wonder her life is a catastrophe.

------------

Monica's gliding toward me like a ghost; her coat
billowing behind her.  She's cupping her hand to a
candle, and between its glow and that of the moon
and stars, she looks like an angel.  Perhaps she
is.  I should have met her years ago, when I still
believed in magic.  No, I never believed in magic.
I should have met her years ago, when I still
believed in people.  Maybe if I'd met her then, I'd
be whole now.  Maybe I'd be home.

"Let's see it," she says when she's before me.  She
lifts her chin.  "Turn around."

Gladly.  I love the command.  I'd like more of them
from her.

"Hold this."  She hands me the candle and lifts my
blouse.  Goosebumps spread over my back, both from
the cold air and desire.  "Your slacks are hiding
it," she says, pulling a bit at my waistband.

My slacks are riding too low to be covering the
tattoo.  Aren't they?  The feeling of her fingers
on my back at the waistband renders me incapable of
logical thought.  "Wait."  There's only one button
and I undo it.  The pants still don't give very
much - they're tight - so I move the zipper down a
bit.  "Okay."

She pulls the waistband slightly and I bend.  I
hope my legs don't shake.  She takes the candle
from me and holds it near my back.  It's so close
that it burns me, but I don't say a word, because
I'm propped up on the parapet in the dark with a
beautiful woman kneeling at my backside, candle in
hand, pulling on my pants, staring at my tattoo.
The smile on my face is very wide.

That is, until she starts tracing the tattoo with
her fingers.  Oh, this night.  My legs do start
shaking now, and I only hope that she doesn't spill
wax on me, because I'll be in real trouble then.

"It's horrible," I think she says.

"What?"  I twist, trying to see her.

She stands, but stays behind me, still looking at
the tattoo.  I twist more.  I think that's disgust
I see on her face.  "It's horrible," she says.  Her
body is angling toward me now, and my back's going
to break if I don't turn around.  But I'm very
aware that my pants are still unbuttoned and that
her hand still rests on the tattoo and I don't want
it anywhere else.  For now.  "Evil," she whispers.

I think I detect a glint of mischief in her eyes,
but it's hard to tell in the dim light.  "Yeah?
Well where the hell were you five years ago when I
was picking it out?"  I manage to turn a bit, sort
of facing her.

Her thumb traces the ouroboros.  "You should have
it removed."

Her hands are occupied - one on my tattoo, the
other holding the candle - and mine are empty.  I
could take her before she blinks her eyes.  I could
have my hands up that skirt, in that small blouse.
I put them on her hips instead and turn completely
to her, and we're so close that our bodies touch.

"All that evil follows you," she murmurs.  She
holds the candle between our faces, and I blink at
the sudden light.

I need her so badly that I can't breathe.  "What do
you want, Monica?"

Her eyes close and reopen slowly, and even in
candlelight, I can see the blush cross her face.
She rubs her bottom lip with her tongue.

I put my hand on hers and draw the candle closer to
my face.  We hold it, my hand over hers, near her
breasts, cupping the candle so that I won't get wax
on her.  I blow the candle out and set it on the
parapet.  And now my right hand's in her hair, the
left on her waist.  Her thumb's still tracing my
tattoo, but faster now, the tiny circles.  "Tell
me."  I whisper.

The awful thing about being short is that you can't
just kiss a tall woman nonchalantly.  You have to
reach up on tiptoes, hold her for support, stretch
your back and crane your neck.  It never looks
suave.  It always looks desperate.  And that I am.
I look up at her eyes and wonder if I dare stand on
tiptoe and make the bold move.

I do dare.  I reach up to kiss her, but she draws
back, and I say it again.  "Tell me what you want."
She utters something, but it's so low that I don't
hear her.  I pull her neck down with one hand and
run the other up her side, close to her breast.
"Hmm?  What?"

"You're just..."  Monica's trembling.

I nudge my knee between her legs and press her
against the low wall.  I place her hands on my
hips.  "I'm just what?"  Her lips are moving closer
to mine, but not close enough.  I go bolder with my
hand, move it up to her breast, and rub her blouse
there.  Her eyes flutter shut and she moans.  "I'm
just what, Monica?"  Her breath catches, and my
hand's inside her blouse, teasing her nipple.  "I'm
just what?"

Her eyes are closed and she shivers.  "You're..."
Her tongue runs over her lips.

I press closer, touching her cheek, moving my other
hand from her breast to her face, to her mouth,
tracing her lips.  I want to kiss her so badly.  I
run my fingers through her hair, down to her neck,
pulling her down, down-

"You're playing me."

The words hit me like a ton of bricks, and I jerk
back, away from her.  Her eyes open slowly.
"What?"  I whisper.  Surely, I'm misunderstanding
something.  "What are you talking about?"

Monica blinks and looks sad.  "I know what you
want."  She looks down.  "It's not what I want."

I try to breathe, but I feel like I've been punched
in the stomach.  What have I done?  How could I
have misunderstood?  "I'm-" I swallow.  "I'm sorry,
Monica."  Oh, God.  The overwhelming feeling
earlier - the panic that I would have to love her
from afar - returns.  But this feeling's worse.
She's so sensitive.  I've embarrassed her,
embarrassed myself, and tears are filling her eyes.
Oh, what have I done?  "I'm so sorry."  I back away
from her and then turn and zip my pants and I have
to get the hell out of here.

I'll make it to my car.  I'll make it to my car and
I'll drive out of here.  My legs are numb and I'm
hurting so badly that I have to lean against the
stairway door to open it, grip the handrail as I
move down the steps.

I make it to the underground parking deck before I
realize that my coat is at her place.  I'd leave it
if it weren't for my keys.  No keys, no money, no
cell phone on me.  No way to get home from here,
and it's much, much too far and cold and dangerous
to walk.

I'll just have to get myself together and go back.
I need to breathe.  Everything's okay.
Everything's exactly as I expected; I didn't think
I had a chance with her anyway.  I'd already
thought of this likely scenario - rejection - and
I'd already decided that I could love her from
afar.

I've waited all of my life for her, and the
knowledge that I've found her is enough.  I'll
never be less than grateful for her existence,
because my feelings for her have forced a mirror in
front of me, and suddenly I know all of the things
I am.  I know that I'm more than my job, more than
a mother, more than a daughter, a sister, a friend.
I'm someone who's been asleep for ten years, and
I'm waking up, a newborn.  I'm emotions, tender and
fragile, but they're pure.  I know that I'm capable
of selfless love.  I know the woman of my dreams
exists and she's close enough that I can be a part
of the background noise in her life.  I can be her
fan, silently cheering her on.

It is greater to have loved and lost than never to
have loved at all.  Yes, I know this as well.

I square my shoulders, gather my courage, and march
back up the stairs.  I'm a rock, impenetrable,
silent and unmoving.  But her face appears,
unbidden, and I clutch at the handrail and stifle a
sob.  It's not my love for her that breaks me; it's
the knowledge that I'll never love anyone else.

-----------

Dana left.

Stephanie's been riding me for half an hour,
wanting to know what happened, what I said to upset
her, why she left.  There wasn't much to say.  Dana
wants what everybody wants.  Sex.  Instant
gratification.  I'm disappointed in her, but what's
worse is how disappointed I am in myself for
reacting so strongly.  What's wrong with wanting
sex?

What's wrong is I want more.  I want love.

I'm back at the loft, hoping to catch Dana, hoping
to make things right, but she's not here.  So once
I shake Stephanie off, I head back to the roof.
Some of my buddies are still here, and I don't want
their company, but I need a cigarette so badly that
I'll pretend everything's okay long enough to
smoke.  The door creaks open and I drift toward the
candles.  The air is thick with marijuana.  I'll
take any kind of buzz I can get, so I'm inhaling
even before my cigarette's lit.  Raney's one of the
people out here.  I think he's keeping an eye on
those smoking pot, because this isn't his group,
and he wouldn't normally spend so much time away
from Stephanie.  I light up immediately and stand
apart from the others.

"You okay?"  Raney's soft voice asks.  I can barely
hear him above the night noise; however, I can
smell the alcohol on his breath.

(Continued in part 7)