voice

Hi everyone. I've been busy working on a couple of big projects—you've seen one already—so I'm sorry that things have been a bit quiet here. To compensate, I've tried to concentrate as much of myself as possible into this story. Dilute to taste, perhaps with a bath and some candles...

part one

At the end of her song, the girl had cried.

Hallowed ground / Where love was once

Nothing too surprising about that, on the face of it. It was a sweetly melancholy ballad, sung with a powerful kind of lightness and accompanied by strummed chords on a time-worn guitar; and Becky had fought her own tears until the last chorus, when an exquisite melodic turn had forced her face behind a tissue. Only then had her friends' lively conversation finally stalled, as they followed her clouded eyes to watch the already quiet performance diminish to its close.

Then, they had smiled at her, and gone back to their talk. But Becky could not help watch the girl rise and glide from the stage, head bowed as if to deny the scattered but heartfelt applause.

And as her shape had fragmented among the figures at the bar, Becky was sure: she was still crying.

Why? thought Becky, as she slid tentatively into her steaming bath. Even the shock of the water's heat could not distract her mind from its image of that pretty, anguished face, so incongruous in the cheerful clamour of open-mike night at Rosie's. Why would a young woman choose to vent her obviously genuine heartache in such a forum?

She had not even had support from anyone specific in the audience. One of the bar staff had placed a CD player on stage before she arrived—presumably a backing track, although Becky had not detected anything more than the voice and guitar—and then removed it after she left. It made Becky queasy with a clinging fear that the girl had no-one special there to hear; that perhaps even now, she was alone.

Your hair like petals / Touching my face

The voice was so clear in Becky's mind; distant, but clear, as though the singer were outside in the darkness, reprising her beautiful chorus. And when Becky allowed her eyes to close, the girl's face was there; right there, tears tracing down her cheeks.

Becky blinked, and squirmed uncomfortably. She knew, of course, that she had fallen for the girl, had been bewitched even before the song had begun—and had then displayed a juvenile disregard for her own emotional defences. Her friends had seen it. For the rest of the evening their sympathies had set her apart from them, until Becky had finally pleaded tiredness and headed home.

Becky tried to frown, to slap herself mentally. She was daydreaming about some morose girl, when what she needed was someone to look after her. Someone her own age. Someone stable—and probably male.

And we'd dance, around and around / On hallowed ground

Her eyes had closed again, unbidden, and there was the girl. It didn't seem at all wrong to allow that face just a little closer; to focus on those slightly parted lips; to feel the warmth of entangled breath. Becky's need was rising, and now, she could not stop or even slow the fantasy. Her own lips yearned forward, her nose just touching the cool bead of a tear before—

Becky jolted back, her eyes snapping open, bathwater springing up and over the side.

She had felt that tear, really felt it. Reflexively, she raised her hand to her nose, but the wetness of her own fingers hid anything that they might have found. She looked up in confusion. Condensation? No, the ceiling was still dry.

Her heart was pattering, and she smiled uncertainly to herself. Her imagination was getting too good. She really needed a man.

With a sigh, she reached up to re-capture a lock of her hair that had worked loose of its knot. Her eyes slid down the length of her own body in the naked water, and she frowned at the details to which they were drawn: the loose corrugation of the skin above her breasts as they moved with the still-rebounding waves; the folds of her abdomen where once there had been elastic, sinuous muscle; the limp narrowness of her thighs.

Ha, she thought to herself. If any young songbirds came battering down the door, those tell-tale signs of middle-age would be her last line of defence.

But another part of her mind was not quite ready to allow such lazy self-pity. With her hands still loosely resting on her hair, she arched her back a little. Her breasts splayed to either side a little too easily, maybe, so she tucked one arm down to capture them in palm and elbow, and considered the image, both seen and in her mind. Yes, her fundamental shape was still spot on, damn it: lithe and classically proportioned.

She smiled as she held the pose, remembering the few times she had properly enjoyed her own body, for itself; and the thought triggered a warmth below that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water. Years ago she had accepted her own sexuality; ostensibly, it had been irrelevant in her (apparently) steady marriage, but another matter altogether in her secret fantasies, and in her time to herself.

Her smile was broken as she bit her lip. After all, she thought. Why not.

Briefly she considered the conundrum of having both hands already occupied. But now that the heat in her loins had been granted permission to grow, she could surely just allow her eyes to close, and preserve the image in mind—

When day broke / In the forsaken town

Christ! There was the girl; her voice, her face, her tears, right there. Becky sat up in the bath, breathing hard, grasping at the sides. What was her mind doing to her? She had not even remembered those lines, until now.

Was she obsessed? Paradoxically, the thought settled her a little. She had always crushed hard, so hard that her attraction could survive any doubt, any evidence of incompatibility. She smirked. Sometimes, for years.

That girl must have made quite an impression on her subconscious. Becky looked down at her bent torso, scrunched up around the water's surface as though afraid of it. But why should she fear her own mind?

Tentatively, she let her eyes unfocus, let the muscles around them relax. As soon as the light of the candles around the bath was extinguished the girl returned, as though her face were indelibly impressed inside Becky's eyelids. She was a little further away now, but so clear, so shockingly pretty.

My ache for you, became my religion

She did not have her guitar, but she was wearing that same simple dark dress; and though her voice pervaded the air, her lips were still. She stood slightly hunched, as if around an invisible wound, fingers just touching together at the front of her skirt; and her eyes were obscured by falling wisps of her fine, brown hair.

The girl's attitude was at once shy and accessible, and for a moment Becky just watched her, marvelling at the stillness and perfection of the image, while that voice sang on all around.

I knew then / I would not sleep again

Becky stepped forward; lifted her hand uncertainly. Her arousal was still there, in the background, free from shame in this sanctuary of her imagination, in the warm humidity of the air, in the nakedness of her body. But it was now just a part of a swelling, enveloping desire: which she felt must have been growing, inexorably, ever since the song had begun hours ago.

Her fingers hovered for a moment over the smooth skin of the girl's upper arm, so perfectly rendered in its softness and imperfection, shaped by its press against her body. Becky's mouth was open around the rush of her breath, uncertainty and eagerness mixing nauseously in her veins.

Never be with you, on hallowed ground

And then that skin was against her fingers, warm, dry, silky; more physical than any dream. Becky gasped, her fingers jumped away; but she forced her eyelids to remain closed. The girl looked at her arm, and then up, and suddenly, their eyes met, for the first time.

The connection was shockingly real. Only in the strange twilight between waking and sleep had Becky ever experienced such dream-fidelity, and then only erratic images for fleeting moments. Her heart was hammering with incredulity and desperate, desperate excitement.

Those eyes still glistened slightly, lower lashes slick and entangled; but the girl's expression was valiantly neutral, as though she waited for a further sign. Becky felt uncertain, unnerved. How could her own mind create such a vision? What if somehow, this was real; what if she and the girl were transported together by the closing of her eyes?

Experimentally she allowed them to crack open. Back was the familiar bathroom, the dull, broken tiles, the candles. This modicum of control reassured her; and now, it occurred to her that this magical state of mind might somehow be fleeting, might be lost. What did it matter, real or unreal? She sucked an almost-panicked breath. What a loss!

With considered care, as if cradling a priceless trinket, she settled herself back in the bath, already imagining delightedly what fantasy she would enact, in that other world behind her eyelids. She and the girl would consummate their love: that was not in question. But how to begin?

She hesitated. It had to be perfect! But her old imaginings now seemed so empty, so anaemic. And in them, the woman she loved was always the initiator; at least until some boundary was crossed, and they fell together in released passion. If only the girl would touch her first: her hand; her cheek; or oh! Her hair!

Hallowed ground / Where love was once

—And the touch was gentle, but so sudden and distinct, and so unexpected (her eyes were still wide open) that Becky cried out and squirmed aside, twisting, then sliding against the bath until she was almost fully upended onto her front.

The spell was broken. Becky fled from the bath, taking much of the water with her.

part two

The voice was silent now.

They had kissed, for what seemed like hours, while that sweet song enveloped them. How it had started, Becky could not remember. Perhaps the girl had come to her in a dream; but after a few touches of their lips, it was plainly a dream no longer. Becky had panicked, again, briefly, and opened her eyes to the night-time darkness. But sleep was still too deep-set within her, and fear could not survive the nearness of those sorrowful eyes.

So, they had kissed, sitting side by side, twisted knee to knee, apparently on the edge of Becky's own bed. And for so long it was all that Becky needed, had ever needed—as though crossing the threshold of the image, she had found eternity, and peace. The girl was sweetly empathic, every brush and press of her lips like a careful dab of brush on canvas, each building colour and texture upon the last. In the background, fingertips and palms traced slow, transient patterns of affection; warmth growing where they pressed, and lingering where they had been.

But in the kisses, the blurred swirls of emotion found purity and focus: silk-dry skin rising over soft shapes into hints of wetness; and then, more than hints: detail emerged, inexorably, as from an opening flower. Without transition, their mouths were open to each other, and their tongues together wrought an exquisite portrait of the desires of their bodies.

Finally, the girl's fingertips had found their way to Becky's chin, and then rising tenderly along her jawline, had pushed past her ear and into her hair. Becky's breath had caught, then surged; and feeling the change, the girl had paused to gaze at Becky's suddenly pleading face.

Becky's own hand dropped, so slowly, to land like a fall of feathers onto the girl's thigh just below the loose rumple of her dress. Their eyes locked together; and though the set of the girl's features did not change, Becky could not mistake the tiny, momentous nod of permission.

The warmth of the girl's other leg faded from the outside of Becky's fingers. And so their tips moved, each individually catching and releasing against softness, the girl steadily examining every detail of Becky's face, her palm gently but resolutely cradling the back of Becky's head.

Becky's arm reached its full extension; she leaned forward; their lips came together again; but their position was too awkward now. Their next eye contact carried a shock of tender understanding; and immediately, the girl fell back onto the bed like a rag doll, her hand coming free of Becky's hair to fall languidly beside her, her near leg rising over Becky's knees.

For a moment the girl's sultry surrender was too much for Becky to bear. She sat, breathing hard, her heart hammering, her hand vibrating with adrenalin against the softness it held. She watched the girl's eyes, but they were closed now—dark slits of smudged eye-liner. Her mouth was slightly open, showing the white of her incisors; Becky's tongue-tip remembered the feel of them, and ran hungrily over her own.

Then, the girl's hand lifted, its fingertips to touch Becky's forestalled wrist, so lightly; then to drape onto her own skin, and hook the edge of the skirt that hung loosely between her upper thighs. Suggesting. Encouraging. Finally, they rose, to brush Becky's cheek, and then, tumbling over, to drag gentle fiery lines over her collarbone and down, down onto the breast that hung slightly away from Becky's leaning, twisted torso.

Becky's own eyes closed as her face angled upward with pleasure. The girl's touch was simple, almost demure, and yet completely accepting, straying any which way over Becky's sensitive skin; as though there were no barriers to be found in this private confine of her mind—

And her breath caught, as she realised that her own fingers had found warm, damp cotton. She glanced at the girl, whose neck now craned aside, the sides of her eyes tightening slightly as she focussed. Becky felt heady at the trust that had somehow been afforded her, and she bit her lip, uncertain.

But without volition her fingers had already begun to stroke upward; so lightly that they did not catch. Immediately she could feel the flesh beneath respond, the girl's hips extending fractionally. Taking her cue from the roaming touch on her own breast, Becky allowed her fingers to curl on the down-stroke, to glide the gentle pressure of her nails over the wet cloth.

The girl keened softly, and her back arched as her hips twisted further. So Becky repeated the motion, astonished at the way it was amplified in the ecstatic undulation of the girl's spine; again, and again. Every time her fingers changed direction a jolt palpably leaped through the girl's body, and her breath caught on her vocal chords.

Again they seemed to have found a stable plateau; Becky was immersed in love, and replete with love; in the simple stroking of her fingers and the counterpoint of the girl's touch. Again she thought: what did it matter whether this was real, or just a state of mind brought on by a strange and desperate empathy?

Perhaps there was something awkward about Becky's position, and the way the girl's hand could not cup her breast; on a whim Becky levered one leg out from under the girl's and brought it onto the bed, rocking forward over it until she was half-kneeling. The girl watched impassively, most of her focus still inward and downward. But the motion had confused Becky's rhythm: the girl's other hand found hers, and pressed down hungrily, so Becky's fingers pushed hard onto warm, damp softness.

The girl moaned. She was lifting her skirt. Her body bucked as she grasped and yanked at her knickers, knocking Becky's hand out of the way, pulling them frantically up her lifted thighs, past her knees, and kicking them away. Then, she had Becky's floundering hand in both of her own, and then Becky's fingers in her mouth—Becky gasped, partly at the sensation, but mostly at the frenzied eroticism.

She watched, delighting in the returning gaze of those wide ragged-rimmed eyes. The girl soon drew out Becky's fingers, her lips wide to leave them dripping, and guided them downward once again. But as soon as they found warmth, and began their inevitable slow massage, the eyes lost focus, and shone between narrowed lids.

Shorn of their connection, Becky's own eyes strayed away. At first, they rested upon numinous details, that were neither perfect nor flawed, nor subject to any judgement at all: light freckles bridging a button nose; parted, natural lips; a sharply defined chin falling away to a long neck, that had been occasionally and randomly assigned its moles and creases. Becky found herself leaning closer, marvelling at the acceptance she felt; while her fingers, almost forgotten, rubbed this way and that over the girl's vulva.

One of her fingers happened to slip deeper: at once, the girl moaned, and her eyes were back, beseeching; so too was her hand: it pushed suddenly, passionately onto Becky's breast. Becky knew they were now on a steeper slope, and all denial or delay was impossible. But, not knowing how the girl wished to be touched, she hesitated, her finger still nestled in slickness and heat, but shaking slightly with passion.

Incredibly, it seemed to be enough. The girl's chin arched away slightly; her lips closed around a hum of fulfilment. Her clasp of Becky's breast loosened—became a caress, contented and wistful.

The moment was so exquisite Becky gasped a sob, leaning closer again to keep the girl's face fully in view. But it was only a moment before those eyes tightened fractionally again; Becky allowed her finger to vibrate a tiny step more; and the hum returned, folding into a sigh with every departing breath.

And so: subtle cues on the girl's face would feed Becky's ever-blossoming love, and the consummation of that love through the charged connection of finger and clitoris. Soon, so soon, each sigh had become a cry.

Then, the girl's mouth and eyes went wide. Suddenly silent, she flexed and strained against the bed, staring into Becky's eyes, her other hand flailing to clasp and tug at Becky's forearm.

And then, she screamed, and bucked, her whole torso arcing upward, then twisting away in ecstatic torture. Becky laughed out loud, in joy, and also, remembering the way she herself had twisted, naked and fearful, in the bath only hours ago.

As though a switch was tripped, the dream vanished. Becky was alone, in the cold and the dark.

part three

This time, Becky came to Rosie's by herself. Her nerves were on edge as she stepped out of her car, and she hesitated. There were others coming and going from the building—briefly, she considered pretending she had forgotten something, and diving back into her seat.

But she couldn't. Not when that shabby bar unknowingly furnished her only chance of re-establishing her love.

The song had almost faded now. She could only remember the chorus, and even then, she had to think to recall every line. And with it, so had the girl. The incredible detail of that first encounter had never returned; though for many nights and days it had still surpassed the clearest dream. But lately, their love-making had been little more than a workaday fantasy.

And so once, when it had faded away to leave her sobbing with disappointment, Becky had realised: she had to find the real girl. She had to start again.

She closed the door and hugged herself against the winter's cold; then sucked a breath and walked around the car. A couple returning to the adjacent vehicle smiled at her; she wondered why they were leaving, if they needed to be alone together; the thought stabbed at her loneliness.

She jogged a step. Her heart was pattering. She told herself to be realistic: the girl probably wasn't even here; and if she was, she might not be interested. For all Becky knew, she could even be straight.

That idea made Becky smile a little. Not so very long ago, she had thought she was too.

She reached the peeling paint of the door, and tugged at its hands-burnished handle. A woman appeared from within and pushed past her, but she paid no heed, because—

I knew then / I would not sleep again

It was quiet, but could not be mistaken. Becky shoved through the inner door, holding her breath against the rejoicing she knew was about to overwhelm her. Inside, the murmur and the press of people still threatened to drown the thin voice. Becky plunged further, craning her neck to see the stage, ignoring those who swirled carefully aside cradling drinks.

Never be with you, on hallowed ground

She could not see. Even as she came closer. How she yearned to see!

And then Becky was there, right at the foot of the stage. Her whole being suddenly found itself on a precipice.

There was no-one singing. Just the CD player, blaring and tinny.

Hallowed ground / Where love was once

She had her hands to her mouth. She gazed around the stage, then the audience, unwilling to accept her cavernous loss. She spotted one of the bar staff passing close, carrying empty glasses, and reached out desperately, catching her eye.

'Where is she?'

'Who?'

'The girl, the singer. Where is she?'

Your hair like petals / Touching my face

The woman frowned as though she had misheard, then looked at Becky sorrowfully. 'I don't know where she is, hun. It's been ten years we been running this evening, to remember her.'

It was Becky's turn to frown with confusion. 'What? Remember her?'

'Yes darlin. Didn't you know? We run these-here open-mike nights in her memory. Lord, she used to love to sing. We always play her song in the interval.'

And we'd dance, around and around / On hallowed ground

We'd dance, around and around

On hallowed ground