Chapter Sixteen

Bijal propped her elbow on the kitchen counter, impatiently staring at the coffee maker and mentally willing it to brew faster.

Fran shuffled out of her bedroom wearing an inside-out bathrobe and fuzzy bunny slippers. She pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and slowly sat, making a sound similar to what a leaky Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon might make.

“You look like hell,” Bijal said.

“Go ahead and bust my balls, but I’ll bet my Friday night was ten times better than yours—and that’s just counting the parts I can remember.”

The muscles in Bijal’s jaw tensed. “Fran, despite what you think, you don’t know shit.”

“I know that last night your boss appeared on local TV looking like an incognito zombie and announced that she had syphilis.”

“I’d correct you but, sadly, that’s pretty close.”

“You don’t seem as upset as I expected. What, did you win a bet that she would publicly self-destruct?”

“Yes, I had ‘on-air STD admission’ in the fuck-up pool,” Bijal said sarcastically as she poured her lollygagging coffee and held the hot mug reverently, hoping the contents would not only warm her body, but also nourish her soul.

“Well, congratulations. I hope the prize was a new job.”

“Nope, all I won was a sense of impending disaster and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.” Bijal filled a steaming cup for Fran and handed it to her before sitting across from her.

“Thanks. You’re still in an inexplicably good mood.”

“That’s because I went on a date last night.”

Fran’s face lit up. “Thank God! Where’d you meet her?”

“Um…at the debate,” Bijal said softly, looking at the tabletop. “She left a note on my car.”

“Ooh! Is she hot?”

“Astoundingly.”

“And she was at the debate, saw you, and was smitten?” Fran took a sip of coffee.

“So she said,” Bijal replied evasively.

“Where’d y’all go?”

“Her place.”

Fran looked surprised. “Wow, making up for lost time? Does she have one of those sex swings?”

Bijal shook her head. “There was no sex. Though, admittedly, I can’t say it didn’t cross my mind.”

“What’s her name?”

“Huh?”

“Her name,” Fran repeated, her tone slightly more stern.

“Um…hmm.”

“Oh, Jesus. It was O’Bannon, wasn’t it?”

“Or an incredible look-alike.”

“What the hell are you doing, Bij?”

Bijal rubbed her forehead in frustration. “We kept it PG-rated. Well, if you don’t count the Surly Fellatrix.”

Fran stared for a moment with her mouth hanging open. “What happened to your professional decorum? I thought you decided to wait until the election was over.”

“It turns out that the main thing that the two of us have in common is a shameful lack of impulse control,” Bijal said sheepishly.

Fran sat back, crossing her arms and glaring.

Bijal was somewhat incredulous. “I’m sorry, I’m finding it amazing that the woman who slept with her married statistics professor is sitting here, no doubt covered in dried beer and urine, judging me for just having dinner with someone to whom I’m genuinely attracted.”

“Dr. Adams was separated from her husband at the time,” Fran said defensively. “And I’ll have you know that I learned a lot about math from her.”

“I’ll bet you did. If you’re riding on a northbound professor who’s had two and a half glasses of Chablis, and her husband is on a southbound train going forty miles per hour, approximately how long will it take you to get expelled?”

“If I’m careful, I won’t. And don’t try to change the subject.”

Bijal took another swig of java. “I’m not changing the subject, just providing a methodical walkthrough of your fragile glass house and very impressive stone collection.”

“I’m not the one who claims to have scruples.”

“Sad but true.”

“And I’m happy to report that I’m urine-free this morning,” Fran said, tugging on the lapel of her robe.

“That’s three mornings in a row,” Bijal said, her voice rife with condescension. “Good for you. Remember, baby steps.”

“So back to your night of indulgence.”

“Again, all we did was have dinner.”

“At her place,” Fran added with more than a hint of innuendo.

“She wanted to make sure we wouldn’t be seen together, now that everyone knows her from TV.”

Fran blew into her coffee mug. “She’s smooth. I’ll give her that. Did it occur to you that she might have a nanny-cam set up to catch you two…fraternizing?”

Bijal nearly laughed. “In an effort to stop the runaway momentum of Mayor Denton’s campaign and her magical mystery infection? Doubtful.”

“You have a hell of a lot more to lose than O’Bannon does. Everyone knows she’s gay, and she’s already leading in the polls. If you get discovered, not only do you get outed without knowing how the NRCC will respond, you get to look like some kind of sex spy too.”

“Colleen’s not like that, Fran.”

“How do you know?” Fran asked with a scowl. “It sounds like you’re starting to believe her campaign ads.”

“Well, she does have some very good commercials.”

“You’re killing me with this shit. Are you serious?”

“No, I’m not,” Bijal snapped. “But I am serious when I tell you that Colleen happens to have a great deal of personal integrity.”

“Which is why she’s trying to bang someone who works for her opposition,” Fran replied.

Bijal was surprised at how serious Fran was being. “Look, there was no banging. Though, trust me, if she’d really made an effort, she’d have had me.”

“Uh…wow. I wasn’t expecting that. You’re not concerned at all about the possibility that if this comes out, your career is over?”

“Don’t think I’m being cavalier about this.”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Fran said abruptly.

“Okay.”

“You’ve completely immersed yourself in this campaign, to the detriment of your personal life and your mental health. In the haze of fatigue brought on by being overworked, managed by incompetents, and isolated from all other lesbians except for one, you’ve developed an unnatural attraction for said muff-diver at hand—partially because of the illicit danger she represents.”

“Where did all that come from?”

“I fucked my abnormal-psych professor too.”

“The obese guy with the prosthetic hand? Dr. Dernwaller?”

“Okay, not really. I just thought you might give my argument more credence if it could possibly have come from someone else.”

“Someone whose professional opinion you could have consulted at some point between all the grunting and rug burn? Not really, no.”

Fran’s eyebrows rose as she no doubt considered that. “Regardless, I think I’m right.”

“You usually do.”

“You’re coming out with me tonight.”

Bijal scoffed. “Oh, no, I’m not having you fix me up with anyone. We’ve gone down that road before too many times.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you joking?” Bijal was almost unable to finish the question because of her laughter. “Have you forgotten the girl you set me up with who called me ‘sugar box’ all night?”

“She was from the South! They’re very cordial down there.”

“Yeah, she apparently thought I was very cordial down there. And what about the one on parole?”

“I don’t run people’s fingerprints,” Fran replied indignantly.

“Remember the one who used to call herself ‘Dumplin’?”

Fran laid her head on the table. “Oh, Lord.”

“She spent all night listing various inanimate objects that she wanted me to insert into her ass.”

“All right, you’ve made your point.”

“You try eating beef Wellington with Dumplin’ across the booth, waggling the salt shaker at you suggestively.”

Fran took another sip of coffee. “Look, I’m not talking about setting you up. Just come to the bar with me tonight and be with your own people for a while. Once you do, you’ll see just how foolish you’re being.”

Bijal envisioned a gaggle of drunken college-age lesbians spilling beer on her and copping sloppy feels. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on, what do you have to lose? If I’m wrong, you get to gloat and take some comfort that the cocktail of depression, failure, and celibacy you’re currently swimming in hasn’t impeded your judgment.”

Bijal sighed in futility. “And if I agree to go, I’ll stop getting lectures on ethics from the woman who once dated a cop to get her traffic ticket expunged?”

“For your information, that wasn’t the only reason.”

“Oh?”

“She let me use the cuffs on her.” Fran started to tighten the belt on her robe and suddenly stopped. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me I had this on inside out?”

Bijal shrugged. “I thought maybe it was dirty and you were just trying to get an extra day’s wear out of it.”

“C’mon, let’s go outside,” the blonde said directly into Bijal’s ear, gently tugging her from the dance floor.

Bijal nodded briefly, following this new acquaintance to the bar’s outdoor deck where a dozen or so women gathered in various clusters.

“You want to sit?” the sporty girl asked, pointing to a small outdoor table for two that was free.

In fact, getting off her feet and relaxing where the thumping bass wasn’t so loud that she had to scream to be heard seemed like a great idea. She slipped into a seat and pressed her back against the outside of the building. Her companion, whose name she didn’t know, took the other seat and started tapping the bottom of a pack of cigarettes.

Sure, the girl was attractive—in a sort of wiry, all-American, softball-playing way. She was probably in her early to mid-twenties. Possibly even still in college. Bijal struggled to push away the skeevy feeling that notion suddenly evoked.

The shortstop lit a cigarette, then held the pack out. “Want one?”

“No, thanks,” Bijal replied. “I don’t smoke.”

An expression of irritation momentarily crept across the shortstop’s face before she replaced it with what appeared to be a pleasant, possibly insincere, smile. She slipped the Marlboros back into her breast pocket. “I’ve never seen you here. Are you new in town?”

“Nope.”

“You’re way too hot for me not to have noticed you,” the shortstop said, contorting her mouth grotesquely in an attempt to exhale her smoke off to the side and not blow it directly into Bijal’s face.

“Uh, thanks,” Bijal said, finding the compliment dubious and rather transparent. “I’ve been working a lot of hours lately. Keeps me from going out.”

The shortstop winced. “Bag that shit.”

Bijal was starting to get a decidedly lazy vibe from this girl. “So what do you do?”

“I sing,” the shortstop-cum-vocalist replied, obviously intending to impress her.

“Really? Are you in a band?”

“I’m in between bands right now,” she said, fidgeting with her lighter. “But whatever, you know? They’re all full of fuckin’…dick-cheese…guys anyway.”

Bijal’s fears about this girl’s age had now been confirmed. “I’m not sure what a fucking dick-cheese guy is, but it’s perfectly okay if you don’t explain.” A long silence led Bijal to believe her escort was taking that guidance to heart. “Do you have a day job?”

The singer took a long drag from her Marlboro. “No, me and day jobs don’t really click.”

“Ah.”

“What about you?”

“I’m a political research coordinator.”

“That sounds kinda hot,” the singer said, her eyes narrowing. “I’ll bet you wear a business suit and all kinds of tight shit.” She leered at Bijal suggestively, looking like she thought she was a lot more appealing than she really was.

“Sometimes. Are you interested in politics at all?”

The singer laughed. “Hell, no. That’s shit’s too boring for me. They’re all just a bunch of fat old fucks calling each other…”

“Fuckin’ dick-cheese guys?” Bijal asked, rapidly losing the will to hide her sarcasm.

“Exactly! With all their blah-blah-blah crap. I mean, good for you that you can keep up with all that gobbledygook stuff, but those dudes are all too shady for me.”

“Too shady for you to what?” Bijal asked.

“To fucking hassle with.”

Bijal cleared her throat. “Not that I’m defending politicians by any stretch of the imagination, but if you think they’re so shady, why let them operate unchecked?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, isn’t that kind of like refusing to lock your door because you know your neighbors are thieves?”

The singer shrugged. “They’re all the same, so what difference does it make?” she asked defensively.

“But they’re deciding how you live your life.”

“The hell they are! No one decides how I live my life but me. ”

Bijal was now officially unimpressed. “Except for things like giving you the right to legally marry, deciding if you can be discriminated against in your job or your housing, setting your tax rate on food, gasoline, cigarettes, and other little things like if the country goes to war or not. Luckily, nothing major, right?”

The singer was apparently now just as unimpressed. “I’m getting another beer. You want one?”

“No, thanks,” Bijal replied, just wanting this girl to go away and take her frustrating apathy with her.

As she watched her nameless, disaffected dance partner head back inside, she stretched, secure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t be back. Idly, Bijal picked up her phone and started scrolling through it.

Had she become one of those serious people she used to make fun of? Was she now utterly unable to make conversation with people who weren’t politically minded or ensconced in a shitty, soul-sucking job? What had happened to her appreciation of both diversity and an interest in what other people were enthusiastic about?

Of course, to know for sure, she’d first need to find a person who possessed actual enthusiasm for something.

A cursory glance at her contacts brought her to Colleen’s number, still in her phone from the night before. Now there was a woman who seemed to have it all—smart as the day is long, conscientious, pragmatic, and painfully sexy, yet she still had a quick wit and a soft spot for the underdog.

Bijal had no doubt that Colleen wouldn’t know what “fuckin’ dick-cheese guys” were either.

Unable to prevent herself from briefly sulking at her current predicament, Bijal glanced at her watch before deciding to send Colleen a late-night text message.
I’m sure you’re asleep now, but thought u should know I’m suffering withdrawal from civic-mindedness & faggity-ass french fries. - Bijal
The joy from the illicit correspondence was fleeting, however, and it vanished, leaving her empty and a little blasé about her evening. How much longer would she be stuck here? It was only midnight, and Fran undoubtedly intended to stay till last call—unless she first met someone she wanted to leave with.

Bijal had let herself get caught up in Fran’s optimistic rhetoric about needing to get out among her own kind and blow off steam. Now that she was here and thoroughly dissatisfied, she wondered if maybe she’d been more accurate in assessing her feelings for Colleen than Fran had given her credit for.

Her phone vibrated in her hand.
I’m still up. Doing prep work for my trip next week. Where are you that has no politics or gay carbohydrates?
Bijal marveled at how silly and giddy she suddenly felt as she typed her reply.
Fran talked me into coming out to a women’s bar w/her, and I’m miserable. Where are you traveling?
She would happily spend the rest of the evening doing this, but that only further exacerbated her dilemma of being completely hung up on her boss’s political opponent, who just happened to also be her ideological opposite. Well, that wasn’t completely true. They did agree on LGBT rights, the courage of one’s convictions, and spicy tuna rolls, to name just a few.

Another text message made the device pulsate.
Congressional delegation to the Middle East. Are there too many hippies there for your liking?
Bijal laughed and sent back a very brief response.
Call me.
It seemed to take forever for the phone to ring, and as Bijal answered it, she stood and moved farther away from the dance music. “Hello?”

“Hey.”

Bijal’s chest fluttered at the single syllable. “Hey.”

“You’re miserable? Are you there under duress?” Colleen asked.

“Not exactly. Fran thinks I’ve been too entrenched in the campaign and it’s starting to affect my judgment.”

“Hmm, and when she says ‘judgment,’ is she somehow referring to me?”

“Per…haps,” Bijal replied tentatively.

“She’ll love the fact that you’re talking to me now.”

Bijal turned and peered through the doorway of the bar to survey Fran on the dance floor. “Well, considering that right now she’s apparently trying to count the change in some girl’s pocket without using her hands, I don’t think she’s too interested in what I’m doing.”

“Damned oversexed Democrats,” Colleen said.

“Don’t I know it? It’s a wonder you guys can ever get completely dressed.”

“Oh, did you assume I had clothes on?”

Bijal’s mouth went dry. “Well, until right now I did, yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. You’ve managed to improve my evening exponentially with only innuendo.”

“That’s just more of my sorcery,” Colleen said, the amusement audible in her voice. “I also do horoscopes.”

“Really? Then tell me, what do you see in my future for the rest of this weekend? Because so far, it’s been thoroughly underwhelming.”

“That depends.”

“On what?” Bijal asked.

“On what you’re doing tomorrow.”

Bijal’s pulse throbbed in her temple. “Uh…so far, I think my goal is to focus on forgetting tonight—and large chunks of the last six weeks or so, while I’m at it. Why?”

“If you’re game, I promised Callisto I’d take her hiking before it gets too cold. You’re more than welcome to join us, depending on how hale and hearty you’re feeling tomorrow.”

“You mean do something outdoors?”

“Well, I find the indoor trails just aren’t as challenging,” Colleen replied dryly.

Bijal allowed herself to consider the notion and was momentarily dazzled by the possibilities. “And I wouldn’t be chained to the Internet or repeatedly responding to inquiries about my boss’s diarrhea?”

“You drive a hard bargain, but I’ll agree to those conditions, yes. I’ll even throw in a picnic lunch to sweeten the deal.”

“Wow, that’s kind of romantic, actually.”

“Let me guess,” Colleen said, sounding suddenly wary. “You hate romance.”

“Actually, I think it sounds lovely.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Bijal replied coyly.

“Do you have comfortable shoes?”

“Of course I do. Exactly how femme do you think I am?”

“The perfect amount,” Colleen said smoothly.

“You’re such a politician.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s an insult.”

Bijal felt herself flush. “Trust me, it’s not. You’re an amazing politician.”

“Isn’t that the equivalent of being, say, the best clump in the litter pan?”

“I do envy your skill with a metaphor.”

“Is that an attempt at sweet talk?” Colleen asked.

“No,” Bijal said with a small sigh. “I’m just metaphorically challenged.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

Bijal pondered how to explain her peculiar disorder. “It means whenever I try to make a point, I end up undermining it by, I don’t know, comparing something hot to a head of cabbage, or something dry to a marsupial uterus. It’s just bad, and it usually brings the conversation to a violent, jarring halt.”

“I can see why. What an unusual condition.”

Bijal covered her other ear with her palm in an effort to focus on Colleen. “I think it’s safe to say at this point, in full disclosure, that I’m kind of unusual.”

“I appreciate the heads-up,” Colleen said blithely.

“I’ve learned to put it out there in advance, so later you can’t stage a screaming match with me in the middle of Whole Foods and insist that I’d kept it from you.”

“I guess that rules out my plans for a special evening with you in the grocery store.”

“Oh?” Bijal asked.

“Uh-huh, I had it all worked out. I planned to start my tirade in the dairy section and have you in tears by frozen foods.”

“Thoughtful of you to leave me by the Häagen-Dazs when I’m at my emotional low point.”

“Well, I’m not a monster,” Colleen replied. “So, tomorrow.”

“Right.”

“Do you know where Brookman Park is?”

Bijal walked to the very edge of the deck. “Sadly, if it’s outside the Beltway and they don’t have margarita night, I won’t know it. But it’s the twenty-first century. I can find it.”

“It’s about forty minutes outside of DC, but the trails there are beautiful. Just meet me in the parking area at eleven. And bring a sweatshirt or something, in case it’s chilly. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“Okay, that works.”

“Cool. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Have a good night, Bijal.”

“You too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Bijal put her phone back in her pocket and looked again at her watch. She needed to get out of here. It was now more than just a mere annoyance. She had somewhere to be in the morning. There were preparations to be made, shut-eye to be had.

Reentering the club, she now found Fran at the bar chatting with a couple of women who looked so much alike they could have been twins. They both were wearing jeans so tight they possibly caused sterility. And both should have purchased tops at least one or two sizes larger, because they clung to every fold of skin in a far from flattering way.

Fran, unsurprisingly, seemed to like that look just fine, and she had a hand resting on the inner thigh of one of the McSqueezy Sisters.

“Fran,” Bijal shouted, trying to be heard over the din. She put her hand on Fran’s shoulder when she didn’t immediately turn around. “Hey, I’m heading out.”

Fran looked confused. “What do you mean?” she asked, close to Bijal’s ear. “You met someone?”

“No, I’m going home to get some rest.”

“What? Why?”

“For the best reason I can think of—because I’m tired.”

Fran stepped away from the McSqueezys and focused on Bijal. “What the hell happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Look, girl, if you don’t blow the cobwebs off your goody basket, it’s gonna shrivel up like a raisin.”

“Wow,” Bijal said in horror. “What a vile image. Thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome. What happened to that chick who looked like she wanted to gnaw you like a baby-back rib?”

“She spoke,” Bijal replied curtly, more than ready for this conversation to be over.

“Well, don’t let her do that anymore. Put something in her mouth—whatever it takes.”

“Fran, cut the crap,” Bijal snapped. “I don’t want an easy lay. Sorry, that’s just not me. Now I’m going to hop the Metro and go home and sleep, because tomorrow I’m going hiking.”

Fran chuckled. “For a minute it sounded like you said ‘hiking.’ What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I did say hiking.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Nope. I’m…whatever the opposite of shitting you is. Pissing you?”

A muscle in Fran’s cheek twitched. “You’re seeing O’Bannon, aren’t you?”

Bijal nodded in determination. “I’m taking a day off and I’m gonna hang out with someone I have fun with, yeah. So don’t be mad at me. You stay here and have fun, and I’ll see you later, okay?”

Fran seemed to understand. “Okay. Be careful.”

“You too. Those girls may not be clean.”

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