8. Let me sleep on it #2
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.
***
With one hand in the pocket of her grey cotton shorts, the other arm over her shoulder, tucked behind her black hoodie, Dylan lay on her bed staring at the ceiling.
The only sound in the room was the quiet, rhythmical whirring of machinery coming through the Margs monitor.
On her iPad, the camera feed from downstairs twinkled with LED lights.
The lens didn’t point solely at Margaret; instead, it stayed fixed from a distance on her and the essential equipment, allowing Dylan to monitor the room without frequent trips downstairs.
Filming the room almost felt like a betrayal, another piece taken from her mother's last shreds of dignity, but safety was the only priority.
The phone, resting heavy on Dylan’s chest, suddenly vibrated.
Greta:
‘I’m really so very sorry, Dylan. You must think I'm insane.’
Dylan sat up, drawing in a sharp breath as she pushed herself back against the pillows resting on the headboard. Her heart rate quickened at the unexpected contact, thumbs a blur as they flew urgently across the screen.
Dylan:
‘I promise you I think no such thing. I do, however…’
Dylan bit her lip as she typed the next text
Dylan:
‘…think about you all the time.’
Then the next.
Dylan:
‘All. The. FUCKING. Time x’
Greta:
‘When two people can’t be together, when do they accept it and stop? You have to accept this and you have to stop’
Dylan:
‘They don’t stop, Greta. They never stop.’
Greta:
‘We can’t do this. You understand that don’t you? It’s not you. It’s me’
Dylan:
‘That’s some old chestnut!’
Greta:
‘I mean it, Dylan. It is not you. I just can’t. We can’t’
Dylan:
‘I will respect your wishes but I don’t agree and just so you know my thoughts, which have to count for something…We can.’
A beat passed as Dylan stared at her thumbs circling each other over the glass. She felt a sudden boldness.
Dylan:
‘Meet me.’
A long hopeful pause followed as Dylan looked at her phone.
Greta:
‘When?’
Dylan closed her eyes and blew out a long breath.
Dylan:
‘Tomorrow? Name the time and place and I will be there. Not my house.’
Greta:
‘Let me sleep on it. Good night, Dylan.’
Dylan:
‘Ok. Good night x’
The phone slipped from Dylan’s fingers, landing heavy on her thigh as a small smile tugged at her lips.
Greta had to agree; surely cruelty had its limits.
She wouldn’t offer scraps of promise only to snatch them away again, would she?
This had to mean something. Turning onto her side to face the iPad, Dylan drew her knees to her chest and hugged them tight.
Fresh tears began to track a path over her cheeks.
She didn’t know where the tears were coming from, or why they were coming, but they flowed, an emotional release that didn't stop until exhaustion finally pulled her under.