Risking-me

Tamara has found a little rock that she kicks gently ahead of her as she walks. 'It's when she goes out like to large BBQ dos, and afternoon parties, or on the scene at night, that she's bored. It's like she'd rather stay home and tinker away.' Tamara doesn't seem happy with her friend's partial seclusion. 'She should really have stayed in Paris,' she adds as an afterthought. 'That's the city for her.'

'Why didn't she? When was she there last?'

'She went back there like a year after I left. Got fed up with everything that was happening here, or not happening, and she took off.'

'Wish I could do that.'

'You probably can.' Tamara stops kicking her rock and lays a hand on my sleeve. 'Just take travel leave, as she did.'

'How long did she stay?' I ask, half a step ahead of her.

'About a year, a bit more maybe.'

'Long leave. Don't think my bank manager would approve even half of it.'

Tamara's now level with me. 'Don't ask him.'

'It's a her.'

'Don't ask her, then. Just do it.'

'Spoken like a true young person, Tamara.' Companionably now, we walk shoulder against shoulder on the narrow path that rounds the bend. She huffs softly.

'Well, hell, you don't even have a pet to worry about.'

'No pet, but a lot of bills. And a job I care about.' Though if Graeme decided to retire, I'd like the job even more. Why doesn't he retire, pass the baton on to someone else? God knows he's old enough. Must be well past sixty by now.

'I know what you need,' Tamara says cryptically, slowing me down again, with a hand light on my arm. And again I feel the soft heat of a blush. And hold in my breath. Oh, no please, no sex talk. 'You need to read that poem of Ronsard's,' she says, crinkling up her nose in a cheeky smile, 'in French, of course, though I didn't. Not in French.'

I breathe out slowly. 'Ronsard, as in the one who died in the late 1500s?'

'If you say so. It's like I'm not much into dates but that sounds like the same guy.' She sees my surprise that she would even have heard of this particular long, very long dead poet. 'No hocus-pocus,' she explains, still grinning. 'Had to be familiar with the range of The Carpe Diem and, you know, the tempus fugit themes for my English exam, like whenever that was.' She rolls her eyes to suggest how long ago that might have been. I guess, to her, it would have felt like a long time ago. After all, in those days of Tamara's end of high school exams, the Information Highway was a mere concept for the layperson not yet a daily communication tool.

'So, are we talking about a rosebud freshly burst open in the morning, already wilting by evening time?'

'We are. Glad to see that you, at least, know the theory behind the business of making the most of each day, of making each day count.'

'Of making each day a satisfying little pocket of... of... of,' I've lost my train of thought. 'Whatever. As you say,' I add, kicking a pebble of my own with the toe of my boot, 'I'm good on theories.'

'So you're familiar with the theory that sex is a great way to lower one's blood pressure?' Her statement catches me off-guard. I look at her, startled. She's smiling broadly, obviously pleased with herself. My sudden discomfort must be showing on my face. 'Sex,' she starts again, having guessed correctly that it's that brash and turgid three letter word, void of feelings, that's caused my cheeks to colour again. 'The theory's that a good session of... love making,' she's adjusting her words to suit my sensibility, 'is as good for the body as any aerobic session.'

'Whoever said that must've been thinking about heterosexual sex,' I counter flatly, intentionally using her word. 'Lesbian sex, as I know it, is a much calmer affair.'

'Is it now?' she says eyebrows raised, pretending a sudden interest in the matter. 'Tell me, Emilie, how do you like to come?'

'Tamara. Really!' I exclaim too sharply.

'What?'

'I don't feel comfortable discussing that with you. I mean, not with anyone.' I sound like a prude. I am a prude when it comes to talking about orgasms and personal sexual quirks. Even with Roberta, I felt prudish and yet I relished the often unabashed ease with which she would talk about her own sexual desires and her understanding of mine. But at least, Roberta and I had each been a part of the slow seduction of the other. We had spent countless words and sleepless nights, separately, conjuring up ways in which to either suppress our longing to salvage her bigger picture or bring about a future together, without causing pain to Julia, her partner of eight years.

'OK, sorry. Just fooling around.'

'Just to make me feel awkward?' I turn to her still flushed, but she remains focused on the row of trees ahead.

'Just to stir a little. Nice awkward, Emilie,' she says emphatically. 'Not embarrassing or humiliating awkward. Just to see that cute, awkward look on your face.'

'Cute. Oh, please! I think I'm past the age of being cute.'

'All right, endearing then.' Tamara's hand is back on my sleeve. 'Hey, I like the way you're like, so together. Like, so in control of everything.' She turns me around to face her. 'And yet, a tiny little word like sex can make you miss a beat.' She moves imperceptibly closer to me. Just as imperceptibly I move back until I cannot move any further. The unyielding presence of a tree presses against my back. Tamara's face is blurry. Green eyes dissolve into green mist. Her breath flutters on my nose. Cool lips. Firm lips on my own. A tentative nibble. The velvet caress of her tongue. My heart beats too fast. A heat that's no longer that of a blush rises from my sex. My lips open a little, only a little, but they open to allow her tongue to feel my own. A soft breath. The deep ache of arousal.

The cloth of her T-shirt moves lightly against the cloth of my own shirt. Her lips close on the tip of my tongue. A kiss in the shape of a rosebud. An electrified rosebud. I tighten my sex to free myself from the pull of desire that has so suddenly settled deep inside me. I pull away from the stirring heat in my belly. I pull away from her. I open my eyes, breathless.

'Emilie,' she whispers, almost against my cheek. I'm not ready to talk. I swallow hard. My voice is not ready. I know it'd croak if I spoke now. I shut my eyes again, against the ache that is too slow to recede. Finally I exhale slowly, a self-conscious smile on my lips.

'Woh!' I say, not yet trusting my voice to carry anything longer than a monosyllable.

Tamara's face is slightly off centre, still blurry, on the left of my face, as if she might be studying the thick bark scales that I feel embossed against my back. That trunk has kept me there, steady, in place for her. It kept me from inching away from the first flutter of her breath on my cheek, from the petal-light touch of her lips, from the light brush of her nipples against me. From the searing desire of my loins. My heartbeat's finally slowing down. I can move. I need to move. I need to say something. I swallow. I need to breathe. Her body is still almost touching mi