14 #3
I plant myself in front of the mirror, which, by the way, reflects something straight out of a horror flick. My hands are shaking and my mascara—don’t even ask. I splash the back of my neck with cold water, see if I can reboot the OS and stop looking like a hot mess.
Okay, dummy, I tell my inner me, the street-smart one, do not make a scene, do not send your sister a seven-minute voice note right now. Breathe, fix your lipstick, lift your chin, and go ask the blonde lady what the fuck she’s doing here with Queen Sister-in-law Corleone.
And do it without crying, without the shakes, with both ovaries in place; and if your voice trembles, fake an allergy to crushed ice, done. Simple plan, doable plan, no-frills plan.
And just when I’m about to convince myself I can be a mix of Mata Hari and RuPaul, with a touch of peak-era Snooki, the door opens.
Dun-dun. Nat walks in. She leans against the wall, arms crossed, face that says, “Everything under control, including your libido and also your breathing and your whole entire life.”
"Are you hiding from me? I told you not to get up."
I turn slowly and my brain throws up two full-color options: one, land her a slap worthy of the evening news; two, lick her face until she laughs and forgives me for everything without even knowing what I did. I’m a mess, I know it, and I don’t care, okay?
"Does this look like hiding to you?" I spin around with maximum swagger. "I’m trying not to pop a Xanax with dessert, in case you care."
"You’re shaking."
"Oh, am I? Must be because you came to spy on me while you’re having dinner with your damn sister-in-law from the Russian mob."
She doesn’t even blink.
"So they told you."
"And what did you think, that I’d see you and just keep chewing with the Velikanova clan breathing down my neck?"
She takes a step. She comes closer. Slow. Lethal.
"It bugs you that I’m with my sister-in-law, and it pisses you off that it bugs me you’re with a client."
"What pisses me off is that you came to keep tabs on me, Nat. That after what we talked about earlier, you show up here, cool as you please—and with another woman, on top of that. I didn’t even know she was your sister-in-law. I’m… honestly? Outraged."
She smiles, that I’m-having-the-time-of-my-life-with-your-adorable-hysteria smile.
"You’re the one having dinner with a woman you’re sleeping with."
"I warned you! I informed you like a responsible lesbian in a temporary transitional non-monogamous situation! Which, in dyke-speak, is a non-aggression pact!"
"And yet..." she whispers, cornering me between the sink and the wall. "Look at you. Jealous as hell. Overwhelmed. Extra. Very you."
"I’m not jealous! I’m… confused! And mad. And yeah, maybe a little jealous. But you served it up on a platter. Action and reaction. You did it on purpose. How old are you, twelve?"
"You’re the one who, after a few weeks, is already demanding answers, forehead kisses, and relationship structures. I’m just having dinner with my sister-in-law."
"Mafia sister-in-law!" I point at her. "Wanna talk about that? About your backstory? About what you don’t tell me while you tie me up like you’ve known me since childhood?"
"I know you better than you think," she whispers. "And you know me too. Every time you get on your knees for me."
Direct hit to the heart and the panties, obviously.
"I do not get on my knees! Okay, only sometimes… but it’s for narrative purposes, okay? I kneel with dramatic intent—there’s a difference."
New fantasy brought to you by my brain: sure, I kneel, but only to take the cuffs out of her bag and put them on her myself; leave her gorgeous with rage and perfectly obedient.
In reality, her hand is already exploring, my stockings give before I do, and I go quiet and still.
"Do you want me to stop?" she says, low voice that cranks my blood pressure and short-circuits my reasoning.
My brain tries to hit "no—log out, Alaska, take back control." But I open my mouth and out comes a sad yes that not even my mirror self would approve.
"You sure?" she asks again, eyebrow arched, queen of psychologically aggressive drama.
"No," slips out, AA-meeting level: "Hi, my name is Alaska and I’m here to relapse."
And then she kisses me. Presses me into the marble sink.
And I give in. Again. Protesting, of course, while she hikes up my skirt.
"This is wildly inappropriate. People are eating thirty feet away. What if someone walks in?"
"Shut up," she says, sliding my panties aside. "Or I’ll stuff a napkin in your mouth."
"That’s manipulation, babe. Emotional, bureaucratic, and bodily," I argue, even as I’m dehydrating from the turn-on.
"And physical, gorgeous," she shoots back. And I don’t even protest. She always gets the last word, that Putin-spawn.
"Fuuuuuck..."
What a sight: half dressed, half sprawled, panties bunched at my knee, my self-respect at the door begging for a bucket of beers, and my pride with its phone on airplane mode so it doesn’t find out.
My intellectual self covers her eyes with two imaginary coasters and goes on mute.
Feral Alaska claps hard, calls for an encore, calls for a remix.
It occurs to me that once I dreamed I was cramming for the bar to become a federal attorney, and here I am handling my hardest case: an appeal against myself as a repeat offender, with forensic evidence on marble.