That Day

They fuck.

She leaves.

There used to be a need for getting dressed but lately they haven't even bothered to dispense with their clothes.

Andy has never been under the illusion that they make love but now she's not sure she can even call this sex. It is completely mechanical. She doesn't remember when she last enjoyed it.

She wonders if Miranda does. The pursing of her lips comes so much quicker now. Certainly faster than either of them do.

Yet Miranda continues coming back. Andy doesn't know why. She does know why she keeps allowing her but she won't say it. Won't even utter it within the confines of her mind. Miranda's eyes strip away all of her barriers. Even there, there is nothing Andy can hide.

So she learns to pretend. Manages to fool herself. She doesn't need presents, dinner, conversation – no need to dress up what this really is. Her first lie.

So many ago.

Now she's even stopped expecting the comfort of a bed. It's better that way. The quicker the act, the less time she has to think about what they do.

She cedes to one expectation only - no reflections. It could never be fast enough if Andy has to look at them, confront herself. She doesn't have to tell Miranda about this one thing. Somehow she knows. Maybe she's guessed. Maybe she feels the same.

Andy feels her heart clench.

If that is true, this has to end. She cannot bear being a burden Miranda carries. She has enough, Andy won't be one more. For above all, this thing that exists between them – its purpose – is to please Miranda. For as long as there is a modicum of this feeling left, Andy will carry her own burden in silence.

But even now, as Andy's fingers push in and out, the lips are pursed, the blue as ice cold as the tundra. Here, unlike work, Andy can't read what Miranda thinks and she's too afraid to ask.

They finish.

Skirts are rolled down. Blouses tucked in. Lipstick re-applied.

Everything they do is a routine. It's both comfort and it's not.

“Same time next week?” Andy's voice is small, timid. It always is when she asks that question.

The silence that follows feels like forever. Miranda examines her as thoroughly as one would a lab specimen. Andy hopes it's another day Miranda will see her for what she is. Just as she wonders whether today she will finally see what she is not.

“No.”

Simultaneously she feels the touch of both dread and relief. And so at last, the day has come. She doesn't know how she will mourn the passing of this thing, not even sure what there is to mourn. Her smile is bitter sweet. She opens her mouth; finds herself at a loss for what to say. She's never been here before, proper etiquette eludes her.

Thoughts – words -  race through her mind, even as silence descends again. She picks and then discards them all. It's never been so crucial to get something exactly right.

Miranda's pinpoint stare bores through her – its heavy weight judging, gauging, undoubtedly finding her as lacking as it did moments ago.

And yet -

The lips smooth out. Almost a hint of a smile. The ice melts round the edges, if only a little. In this moment, she has found something that pleases her after all.

“Tomorrow. 6pm. Dinner. You won't keep me waiting.”

No details, a thinly veiled threat - typical Miranda.

Nothing has ever sounded sweeter.

Maybe tomorrow is a prelude to that day.

The day Andy can stop pretending at all.