May 21, 2001
live
introduction to poem by anne sexton
warnings: death. adult thoughts. yuri.
pairing: d+r/r+d
Live or die, but don't poison everything.
Dorothy has a gun in her handbag, and right now, the press of it against her thigh is tempting and tantric the way her lover's hand on the large muscle in her leg is. Relena is brushing her teeth in front of the little sink, wearing old cotton pajamas with teddy bears running up and down the sides, up and down like little monkeys waiting for Mother Monkey to come and scold them all.
She buries her face into the pillow as she hears the tap turn twice, the old metal squeaking. In her air of married complacency, she shuffles across the room in white ankle socks, nonetheless attractive, nonetheless hers. "Darling," she says, holding out her hairbrush with bits of blonde, tiny particles of her _scalp_ clinging to the hair, sticking out from it like a massive dust bunny, "would you?" Would you what? she wants to ask her.
Instead, she takes the brush, fingering the ridged edges of the handle, and begin to stroke and count. Her lover's shoulder-length straw hair is like thick furry silk. She sinks her hands into it, watching the individual strands sift and sink like sand emerging from water passed through a sieve. "One," she begins, working the brush through a knot. "Two..."
"Dorothy," says her lover, "I've been thinking about the meeting tomorrow." Ah, the meeting, thinks Dorothy. The culmination of months of hard work; a summit peace meeting in Cairo. All the world leaders will be there. Somehow, it seems strange to include Relena in that preening bunch, but included she is. My lover is a political figure, thinks Dorothy, almost amused. Ah, the meeting.
"Yes?" she says, unnaturally aware of the way her voice sounds snide, though it is simply her voice and Relena has never seen fit to complain about it. "Are you nervous, Relena? You shouldn't be. You know your facts and your figures, of course, more than anyone else."
"Facts and figures," says Relena, and Dorothy wants nothing more than to lay her down on the bed, fold down the covers, and eat her up, head to toe, buzz with her nose the peach fuzz hair that grows between her legs. Her lover reminds her of a cartoon character at times, her emotions so palpable, ripe enough to fall from the vine and be sampled in a flood of sweet juice.
"And more," says Dorothy, still counting.
"Facts and figures!" she says, waving her arms in a way reminds Dorothy of a girl she'd once gone to school with. Perhaps they'd even been roommates. There is life before Relena, and life after the princess; the past no longer matters. Dorothy pauses her counting strokes to nuzzle Relena's neck, thinking, praying, If only you loved me as much...would do anything for you, anything... But her handbag rests against the outside of her thigh, and she begins brushing again.
"They're nothing, merely nothing. Facts and figures can't tell you about the faces of the people dying; they're so horrid and simply _marvelous_ at the same time, Dorothy, do you know? Of course you know; you were with me on the same project to Sudan, and you saw the looks on their faces when the trucks pulled through with bread; like we were some kinds of saviors! I nearly died when one of them asked me for a lock of my hair, as if I were a witch! A witch straight out of the history books, one of those blasted Satanic creatures from Salem. Do you know, the New Left thinks that perhaps there were really witches, that the men and the screaming girls were justified? Perfect rubbish, if you ask me." She pauses to take a breath, savoring the calm and the non-hysteria around her. "Facts and figures. What do facts and figures matter, anyway? There's no misery index, and maybe if you ask me, there should be. For all those poor people who have no voices, no say in anything, no matter what the goverment says. Virtual representation! Bah. The poorest people are those who have no control over their lives. What do you think, darling? Should there be a misery index? Of course there should be."
"Relena," says Dorothy.
"Wait a moment, darling, I'm onto something here, I'm really onto something." Dorothy nods. "That's what I'm going to tell them. That facts and figures and square people per inch mile don't matter at all, that the people are suffering and starving, and if I have anything to say about it, we'll all put a stop to it, right this instant." Dorothy runs her finger over Relena's broad back. She has never loved her more. She is done brushing, and she sets aside the brush, pulls out the small handgun, and cocks the trigger.
"Relena," she says. She needs to see her eyes. I do this to you, she thinks, and it's not you fucking me over, it's not you at all, darling.
"Wait a moment, darling. I'm so sorry, but I think I've got it all, this time, I've got something that could be huge--"
A shot explodes in the cramped room, touching off gunpowder inside her.
Relena takes a deep breath, and gently pries the gun from her lover's hands. Her own pistol, still smoking, she kicks under the bed. "It's huge," she finishes, smoothing a crease of pain from Dorothy's brow. "It's a big fucking epiphany and enlightenment-orgasm rolled into one." A few minutes later, Relena leaves the hotel room, dressed in a red brocaded jacket and an ankle-length black skirt. The bored-looking woman at the desk doesn't even blink an eye when Relena checks out. But as she pulls out of the parking lot, a dog howls, she shivers, and the enormity of it hits her. Relena squeezes her thighs together beneath the solemn cotton, her mouth trembling, and resets the odometer.
End
Bianca
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