|
|
|
|
@ -158,10 +158,108 @@ There was a long moment silence on the other end of the connection, though the s
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
If my more recently uploaded friends feel some sense of curiosity about how it is that someone with whom one has let contact language for decades might still feel fondness after so long, or how one might not forget, you must remember that those who live sys-side remain functionally immortal. If one leans into such a fact, then decades spent away may as well be a blink of an eye, yes? If one leans into the everlasting memory with which we are blessed or cursed or which is simply bestowed upon us without further thought, then a past lover away from whom one has simply drifted amicably is just as easily recalled.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
We are very old, you see. Why, at this point, I am 323 years old! And The Woman is of the same clade, so the same is naturally true of her. To us, we remember being mortal as only some distant thing from so long ago. We have our identity as those who may live life slowly. Things may still come at us quickly, yes, but we can deal with them in parallel, can we not? I could get a note from my dear up-tree stating that it is lonely or bored or simply hungry and wants someone to eat with, and so I may continue writing while joining em in this simple pleasure. I did that just earlier today, when she mentioned wanting to eat something good, some comforting food she learned from eir own friend, so that good memories may also be cherished. When I did join it for a simple meal of *ciorbă de praz* and *ardei umpluți* — for you see, its friend was Romanian, and taught em so many dishes that she now loves — I sat and listened and remembered and talked and ate and perhaps also fretted over stepping away from work, but I allowed myself to take some slowness, too. Even I am allowed such things, yes? Even the terminally busy may let one self stay busy while the other comforts and is comforted by those they are close to.
|
|
|
|
|
We are very old, you see. Why, at this point, I am 323 years old! And The Woman is of the same clade, so the same is naturally true of her — if she lives still, that is. To us, we remember being mortal as only some distant thing from so long ago. We have our identity as those who may live life slowly. Things may still come at us quickly, yes, but we can deal with them in parallel, can we not? I could get a note from my dear up-tree stating that it is lonely or bored or simply hungry and wants someone to eat with, and so I may continue writing while joining em in this simple pleasure. I did that just earlier today, when she mentioned wanting to eat something good, some comforting food she learned from eir own friend, so that good memories may also be cherished. When I did join it for a simple meal of *ciorbă de praz* and *ardei umpluți* — for you see, its friend was Romanian, and taught em so many dishes that she now loves — I sat and listened and remembered and talked and ate and perhaps also fretted over stepping away from work, but I allowed myself to take some slowness, too. Even I am allowed such things, yes? Even the terminally busy may let one self stay busy while the other comforts and is comforted by those they are close to.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Ah, dear readers, I am sorry that I cannot keep my thoughts from wandering an letting my pen trail after them like an eager puppy — yes, just like The Woman's rituals — and that such interrupts the story I am trying to tell!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
All of this to say that The Woman and Her Lover spent some years together back in the first century of the System, back after secession but before she had fallen into her gentle stasis, before the goal of processing trauma was subsumed by the trauma itself. They had met — and you will not believe this, friends! — they had met at the very same cafe where The Woman and Her Friend met only days before. They had stumbled across each other in the most romantic way possible: by ordering the same coffees at the counter. They both asked for the same mocha with extra whipped cream, gave each other a strange look, and then fell into laughter.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
As is the case with so many cladists — yes, perhaps especially us — they orbited around each other eccentrically, coming now closer together, drifting now further apart. There would be a chaotic few weeks or months or years when they would dance or walk the field or sit and drink mochas or cook for each other or share a bed, and then, with a fond exchange of kisses, they would part ways with a promise to see each other again soon, for their lives were long and the System was wide.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Unlike so many other cladists, however, The Woman is too much herself. She is too human and she is full to overflowing, and she seemed ever to become more and more herself, to overflow in ways subtle and dramatic. For, you see, The Woman had simply been human — a furry, to be sure! She always maintained that identity — for decades after forking and had focused on that goal of processing, but as she had to expend more and more energy to keep her thoughts well-ordered, she started to lose control of her form and her rituals began to overwhelm the order in her life. Her Lover helped how she could, loved her when she was a skunk or a panther as much as when she was a human, would never stand in the way of her rituals, but the more control she spent, the more energy she was without, the more time she spent trying to remain a realistic amount of herself, the harder it was for her to take in love from the outside.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
And so it was that, over the years, The Woman and Her Lover swung close together less and less often and for shorter and shorter intervals, and when The Woman requested time away, time to herself, Her Lover would kiss her on the cheek and smile and promise to see her again soon, and the smiles were more often sad, but The Woman held onto that promise, setting it up on her dresser or perhaps a high shelf where she might observe its austere grace along with that of all of the other promises she had been given over the years, for her life was long and the System was wide.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
My gentle readers, I would love to tell you that they met up at that selfsame cafe, but while life is poetic, not every meter is so strict. No, instead, they met up on a train.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
A train! There are many things on Lagrange, this shared dream in which we live, and many things which have been perfected all the way down to their imperfections. When you collect so many minds all in one place and tell them to live their best and to live it forever, why, they will perfect precisely the things they love most and, my friends, I am sure I do not need to tell you that some people love trains.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
As was their wont in decades passed, The Woman met Her Lover on board rather than on the platform. It was their habit for Her Lover to step aboard the train one stop after The Woman did, and for them to both hunt for a seat — no matter how empty the train was; for even if it was totally empty, the *perfect* seat is of the utmost importance — and to meet in the aisle. You see, when your relationship starts with a chance meeting, sometimes it feels nice to seek out those chance meetings again, yes? What better way to do so than on so linear a structure as a train? It certainly reduces the possibilities of near misses!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Somewhere near the front of the train, they met, and here they felt that welcome surprise. The chance meeting may have been deliberately constructed, and yet it was not without this sense of newness. The Woman was a familiar panther that day and Her Lover a human as always, but The Woman, who had been so focused on her stasis until now, realized at once that she *had* changed over the years. Slowly, to be sure, and perhaps not in the ways that she wished, but she had changed. Today, she wore a silver-gray wrap of a shirt, all shot through with purple threads, and a gray-silver wrap of Thai fisherman's pants, all shot through with threads of blue. Her fur may have been the same black, short and glossy, and she may have lingered in suffering as the tenth stanza had in her own way, but she was hardly the type to fully languish, nor wear the same thing for years or decades at a time!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Kitty," Her Lover said, leaning on old affections and wide smiles, "you look amazing. Never thought I'd see you in something quite so...so chic!"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Woman, caught up in the infectious ebullience of the greeting, smiled and bowed, tail lashing about with delight. "Thank you, Farai. You are looking well."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
And indeed she was! The Woman was pleased to see just how well. Her Lover she knew kept to warmer sims and hotter climes and these little jaunts onto this kindly juddering railway through the mountains were aberrations of a sort, so the fact that her outfit appeared to be a skirt and blouse in oranges and reds covered in part by some hastily acquired hoodie displaying the logo of a band The Woman *knew* no longer existed made sense. It made her ache in some intangible way to not see those smooth-skinned arms she had spent countless hours nestled within, brushing dull claws over or stroking soft fingertips along, her pale white skin in such stark contrast, signifiers of some more physical past.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Still, within her face was that vivacity that had originally drawn The Woman in. There lay warmth that put the colors of her clothing to shame. There lay the kindness and wit in equal measure. There lay the lips she had kissed and the cheeks she had dotted her nose against and the high forehead she had touched her own to while they had shared quiet laughter and quieter I-love-yous.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Woman cried, and Her Lover guided her to a seat that she might do so without standing, trying to balance herself against the kind juddering of the train.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
When she could speak again, she said, "I have missed you, my dear. I am pleased that your patience holds as ever."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Of course it does, End Of Endings," Her Lover said, laughing. "Our relationship is as it is, and I knew that going into it."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Still, there have been times over the years that I wished I had contacted you, and did not."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Why, do you think?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"After Death Itself and I Do Not Know quit, at first, I was in pain, and then I was bitter, and then I was lonely and glad of it, and then I was too absorbed in being myself, and then..." The Woman shrugged and gestured around vaguely, not at anywhere specifically, but at a world now lessened by the loss of 23 billion souls.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Yeah. And then," Her Lover said. "Is that why you got in touch?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
She shook her head. "Well, yes, but also, I have had some thoughts about joy and how to find it. I experienced it for a week or so, but it faded. I experienced it almost on accident, though, yes? And I wanted to be deliberate."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Oh!" Her Lover sighed, slouching back in her seat with a smile on her face that was very nearly a silly grin. Not quite, but very nearly. "It's been a *long* time since someone has said something that flattering to me."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Woman preened — and we all know that is quite cute! — which earned her a kiss to the cheek in return. She marveled at how easy it was to fall back into such lovely habits and, yes, there was joy to be had, there, and to that she clung tightly. It seemed not the time for her to bring up the task of finding joy specifically in touch, in sensuality and sexuality, though she knew Her Lover felt that such were joys as well. It was a matter of enjoying *this* joy, first.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
And enjoy she did! Friends, I have had precious few lovers in my life as I am now, but certainly none like this. I am not unhappy, of course; I like who and what I am and how I engage with the world. Still, if ever there were anything to make me jealous of particular friendship, it would be something like this. It would be the friendship that is particular to The Woman and Her Lover. There is touch that I like and touch that is distracting, but if I could hold the hand or paw of someone as tenderly as these two held hands and paws now, if I could share a moment of quiet conversation such as this, I would in a heartbeat. I am gripped by my own rituals and demands, though, and have not the strength to fight them.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
So it was that The Woman and Her Lover rested their hand and paw with palms together, fingers only slightly curled, on The Woman's knee and spoke of joy.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"I'm a little surprised that you came to me for touch," Her Lover said, half-smile on her face. "Not in a bad way, not at all. You know me, I love that, but that wasn't something you ever sought out from me *this* directly."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Woman shook her head. "I know, and it has taken me energy to even get to this point, but if there is pleasure to be had, and if pleasure is a part of joy, then I ought to look, yes? If joy is my goal?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Her Lover laughed, voice musical. "I see you're still very much yourself, love. Never change."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
With that, she leaned over to give The Woman another kiss to the cheek, and then another, this time at the hinge of her jaw, and then another and another, a meteor-shower down The Woman's neck, and there was joy in this, too, and purring to be heard.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
They laughed together at their touches and their brazenness and their shared joy. They shared their nuzzles and their giggles and they, as the poet says, shared their oranges and gave their kisses like waves exchanging foam.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
My lovely readers, there is more that happened — and I am going to tell you! I really will, because it is important to the story, of course, and because it is important to our life sys-side and to us as a clade and it was important to The Woman and Her Lover — but, dear ones, if you would like to skip ahead, to cover your eyes and curate your experience or to simply let them have their moment together, know that our life sys-side and our clade are complicated and that The Woman and Her Lover were complicated, too, and so was the joy they found. Know that they also, as the poet says, shared their limes and gave their kisses like clouds exchanging foam.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
They leaned on each other as they stepped lightly from the train to the station, and, although the station was a loveliness in its own right, their conversation had spurred within them both a desire to explore and gladly, rather than their feet hitting the cement of the platform, they landed instead on the cool, hardwood floor of Her Lover's home where The Woman brushed her fingertips featherlight against the still-familiar jamb.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
There was no rush to their movements, for both The Woman and Her Lover had always been methodical in their sensuality. Perhaps it fit the mold of one of The Woman's rituals — she must touch here, first, and then she would kiss there, and only then would she brush her fingers there, across the cheek — and perhaps not — a logical progression remains a logical progression without the hint of ritual.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
There was no rush to their movements, and so they sat first on the couch, sharing their kisses, refamiliarizing themselves with each other. The Woman felt within a subtle twisting, a stirring, a clockwise motion that dragged with it two colors of emotions. There was the love rekindled, there, yes, and there was along with it a growing anxiety: there was something less than worry and more than thought. In the middle, there was a spot between joy and fear, a place of too much meaning that she could not pin down. Arousal, perhaps? For there was that, there, too. That was perhaps of that clockwise turning: the slow swell of warmth low in her belly and the gentle pressure within her chest and bristle of whiskers. Excitement, maybe? Anticipation?
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Here was another thing for The Woman to set before herself where she might observe it, describe its shape by the way the orange and blue of love and anxiety swirled around it.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
But, ah! Here, too, was Her Lover. Here was a soul she treasured. Here was a body she cherished. Here was this spot — just beneath the chin — which, when kissed, elicited a shiver, and this spot — at the hollow of the throat — which, when brushed with a fingerpad, elicited something both gasp and giggle. Here was arousal and excitement and anticipation in equal measure. Here was a thing for her to focus on that was not the cool blue of anxiety that warred with love remembered in unequal measure.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
There was no rush to their movements, though, and arousal and excitement and anticipation in equal measure are a joy in their own, and so with some unspoken negotiation, The Woman leaned back and Her Lover leaned forward rather than the other way around. There was some careful tail maneuvering to accomplish this, but, my friends, we are used to it. There is *always* a careful maneuvering of our tails. Skunk tails, you see, are quite sizeable, and feline tails are less flexible at the base. It is a part of our lives, you see? There is still joy in having a tail, though, and with her tail out of the way, The Woman was once more able to relax, this time laid flat on her back, and Her Lover was once more able to provide that meteor shower of kisses down over the side of her neck, then over across her décolletage, and it was here where, as promised, here is where the complications arose, for it was at that moment, at the moment where Her Lover's kisses landed upon that lovely spot at the hollow of her throat that there was a bright flash amidst the blue of The Woman's anxiety and she was no longer The Woman who was a panther, but instead The Woman who was human.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Both The Woman and Her Lover let out a startled exclamation and both froze where they were. The Woman froze because suddenly her clothes fit different and her field of view no longer included the bridge of a wide muzzle and her ears were positioned differently and there was no longer any fur mediating touch. Her Lover froze because...well, I do not rightly know, friends. We can guess, yes? We can guess that there was the shock of a new form, yes, but they knew each other well, did they not? We can guess that there was a shift on the couch beneath her with a different shape, different size, different weight of lover, but they knew each other well, did they not? They knew each other well, and so we may guess that Her Lover knew that such a shift was not always a pleasantness for The Woman, not always a joy.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"You okay, love?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"I do not know."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Want me to stop?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Woman squeezed her eyes shut and looked closer at the point of too much meaning described by love and by anxiety, found it still indescribable.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"End Of Endings?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"No," she said at last. "No, I do not want you to stop. I will tell you if I do."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Should I avoid that spot?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Kiss me there again."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Her Lover did so, to no effect, other than a quiet huff from The Woman. They looked at each other, then both smiled and shrugged in unison, ever a loveliness between them.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
And so they continued together with no rush to their movements.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Woman shifted forms several times more. There were, they found, certain milestones that led to such, rather than certain places. There was the first hand on breast — and then she was a skunk. There was the first clutch of fingers at side — and then she was back to human. There was the feeling of warm fingers slipping beneath a waistband — and, yes, she was back to being a panther.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Throughout it all, all those kisses — whether or not The Woman was able to return them, for giving kisses with a muzzle is not a thing she was able to do — and those squeezes and strokes and the gentle way Her Lover cupped her palm over The Woman's mons, throughout all those shifts, The Woman kept before her that ineffable point. Throughout all of the warmth of love and those stinging-cold flashes of anxiety and they way they swirled clockwise, she peered closer that she might scry some meaning out of this kernel of what was most certainly not joy. Even as the warm wave of climax pushed through her, rushing out from that spot low in her belly, even as she clutched at Her Lover's shoulders, fingertips and clawtips both tugging at skin, even as her cries smoothed out into whine-tinged breaths, she tried to name the unnamable.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
They lay together for hours after, talking and touching. They moved to the bed and The Woman who was a skunk or a human or a panther brought such pleasure as she had been given to Her Lover, and at last they slept, and the undefinable remained undefined. There was joy in that touch, in that remembered love, and she knew that Her Lover would be by her side for some time to come if she let her — and she would let her — and that, too was a joy. And still, there between joy and fear...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
There was joy, yes, but it was not a complete joy. Her hedonism with touch and sensuality and sexuality was a lovely hedonism and she cherished it, but it was not the hedonism she needed for this task.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Madison Scott-Clary