A Subtle Gift

With half her mind she wondered why she was driving so fast. At this rate she would get herself killed. The thought gave her a kind of burning, ironic satisfaction. Death, she tried out the idea, would be a considerable improvement over another day like that at the office. No reaction. Being a bit too melodramatic with that one. She wrenched the car around another turn. The car enjoyed it. Sports cars are sick.

Coming back into things, now. Traffic lights ahead: three sets. Actively suicidal, or just frustrated and reckless? Go for broke. She ignored the lights and floored the accelerator. Well, almost. Roared through. Waste of effort: the lights turned green as she reached the first.

Out of the stupid (unfair) village again, shut up critic, two, five, six miserable blocks, fork with grassy triangle, right turn, no traffic in sight, squealing left to the side road and scrunch to a halt in the leaves outside the autumn house.

For a time she sat with her head on her hands on the wheel. She thought about how frustrated she felt, how she would like to kill someone if only she could figure out how to hate them personally, enough. About how she wished she felt like crying. She waited until after she began to feel stupid, for running out of things she really cared enough to be frustrated about. Really, come right down to it, she didn't care. She kicked the door open, grabbed her briefcase, took satisfaction in slamming the door again, hard. Fuck! Another fingernail.

The throbbing at both sides of her finger was more fun than the leaves on the walk. So is getting hit by a bus. (Not really.) She fumbled with her key ring. Long one with the notch. Upside down. There! Slam another door. Lights? Lord, what a mess. But it's home. Ha!

Throw office clothes on the bed, pull on jeans, the funny shirt, a sweater.

Supper: baked beans. From a tin. Not even properly warmed through. Mother would choke. Eat them from a bowl, in the living room. Can't reach the remote, who needs tv anyway? More damned noise. Baked beans. Black silence, utter silence. Who needs silence either. She moved to put on a record.

Bryan Ferry? What the hell was that shit doing in her record collection? Twisted Sister. Loud enough, too damned funny. Why didn't I keep the Iggy Pop? She'd got all the way to Beethoven, on the other shelf, when the bell rang.

Who the hell? ...would come calling at this hour. She had some thoughts about that, none of them pleasant. She went to the door, fastened the chain, opened it, chunk. Peered around the edge. Jillian! Already?

"Hang on." Close the door, hurry, stupid system, take off chain, oops! ouch! never mind, what's a skinned finger on a day like today? Open the door again.

And Jillian breezes in. Light from the darkness. Shining. Drops her suitcase. Big hug, big kiss. Left hand to nape of neck. Greedy, sexy kiss.

"Karen, what's wrong?" So stiff.

Her insides were a mess. Back already? "Hold me?" She almost cried. Again.

Misery? No questions, no answers. Gently. She put her arms back round her friend. She could feel her pain getting all mixed up with her own internal laughter. Feel the love, Karen. She squeezed, very, very gently. Slight shudder.

Disentanglement. Lock the door. "Tea?" A nod. Fine. Into the kitchen, fill the kettle, on the stove. Karen at the door, watching, silent. "Come on!"

Turn on the lamp on the side table. "Pictures?" She dug in her bag for her snaps.

Dutifully, half interested, Karen started looking at the photographs. Jillian sat beside her, feet tucked up on the sofa.

The photos: mountains, terraced fields, the Mediterranean, a narrow street with old French buildings and modern, Japanese-looking cars. The next one brought her up short. She raised an eyebrow.

"Rene. Isn't she gorgeous? Her brother tried to pick me up. Good people."

An all too identifiable emotion flickered briefly across Karen's face. Jillian laughed. "Karen! None of that! Anyway, the next picture shows her with her husband. And clothes. But we thought you'd like the picture.

"It's a thought, though. I wonder if she'd come and stay with us for a while...." She caught her friend's startlement. "I'd sneak up on her, tie her up, wrap her in wrapping paper, and give her to you for a present. Honest!" Karen's nervous smile was rewarded with a quick kiss and the rising whistle of the kettle. Jillian bounced off to make tea.

When she returned with teapot, cups and saucers, Karen was still surreptitiously ogling the picture of Rene. As silently as she could manage, she put the tray down on the emergency stool by the living room door, and tiptoed up behind her. Karen jumped satisfyingly when she put her hands on her shoulders. "Hush! Relax." Slowly the massage had effect, and Karen's head fell forward, breaths deepening. She put her hands on Karen's lovely throat, slid them up to her chin and tilted her head back.

Karen looked into Jillian's inverted face. She raised her arms to her, took a loose double handful of hair from the back of Jillian's head, tugged lightly.

"Hi."

"Welcome back."

"I love you."

"Thanks."