8. And I'm not ready for this sort of thing
("Anna begins" - Counting Crows)
She doesn't want to get up too early, worried that Jude might want to sleep in and that she will disturb her, but when she pads downstairs to the kitchen quietly the faint smell of toast proves her wrong.
The journalist sits outside on her usual chair, reading glasses perched on her nose, feet pulled in under her comfortably as she scans the newspaper. Her hair is damp and slicked back from her face. When she hears India behind her turns her head slightly but doesn't stop reading.
"Morning."
"You went for a run?" Sitting down opposite her India reaches for the jug of orange juice and pours some into the extra glass.
"Yep. Same as always."
"I know, but..." Shaking her head she sips at the fresh chilled juice. "I thought you'd take it easy, what with you just getting back from work and all that. I know - I wasn't thinking clearly."
Raising an amused eyebrow at India over the steel frame of her glasses, Jude turns to the next page with a loud swish and begins to scan through it. "The running clears my head, but I'm very glad to see you're still as snippy as ever, India."
Does everyone look that good in glasses? "Happy to oblige." Leaning forward India snags a piece of toast and bites into it with relish. "Besides, I bet you missed the snip something awful."
"Sure. Nobody gives lip quite like you do."
When India begins to cough suddenly, choking on her toast, Jude leans forward with a twinkle in her eye. "You okay?"
Nod.
"Do I need to come and pat your back?"
Shake of head.
"Sure?"
Nod.
"Do I get a medal for shutting up India Waits?"
Glare.
This sudden awareness of Jude is uncomfortable to India, but almost pleasantly so. Masochistic. When the journalist, concentrating deeply on a document, tucks a strand of her thick dark hair behind her ear with those elegant tapered fingers, India both silently sighs in appreciation and snorts at herself derisively for doing so. When Jude throws her head back and gives that rich honeyed laugh, revealing that tanned neck, India's large brown eyes miss a blink even as her own eyebrow arches to mock her. It is an awkward place to be; both stirred and aware of the ridiculousness of it - but then, India has been in an awkward place for so long that she really doesn't mind that much. After all, in a week Jude has to go back to do the voice-over, and then India can begin to deal with this stupid juvenile crush that is plaguing her.
However, the first time that she really notices the faint blush on Jude's cheeks as the woman laughs at a silly compliment, India very unceremoniously spits her juice onto the table. Unrequited is awkward, but awkward is familiar. The barest hint of reciprocated affection, however, is not.
Now India wavers between being affectionate for the sheer pleasure of it, and being very reserved to avoid any response that might make her wonder. She reaches out to pat Jude's thigh, and ends up dropping her hand klutzily to her side. Or she leans over to bump Jude's shoulder jokingly with her own, and so suddenly check herself at the last moment that she lurches like a drunk. What Jude thinks of this India isn't entirely sure. She is so busy second-guessing herself that any response from the usually collected woman passes her by.
To skirt the root of her problem she decides to stick to her side of the table, come hell or high water.
No touchy. No feely. No googly eyes; and god forbid, NO HAMMOCK.
That seems to work. From a distance she can admire the object of her (hopefully) temporary and discomfited affection without the capacity to mortally embarrass herself, and more than that she can't truly ask for.
"India - favourite actress."
"You?"
"Nice try, toady, but I'm not an actress. Answer the question."
"It's an unfair question, Jude. You know I don't watch many movies. So I'm sticking with you as my answer and you can't make me change my mind."
"For want of your recognising anyone else? I'm so flattered I think I might cry."
"Have a tissue. Favourite actress?"
"Meryl Streep."
"Oh yeah. 'Fatal attraction'. She
is good."
"You're kidding, right? Tell me you're kidding... You're not kidding, are you? Oh. India, I think I really might cry now."
"Unfair. Ask me something I know the answer to."
"Okay, let's make it easy. Favourite colour."
"Blue."
"I wouldn't have guessed. You wear a lot of neutral tones."
"Francois Kahn bought the wardrobe. It's all perfectly nice, and probably very expensive, so I don't want to waste it. Favourite music?"
"It's a toss-up between Vivaldi and Bob Seger. Favourite quote?"
"Hmm. 'Go placidly amongst the noise and haste' etcetera etcetera. Favourite food?"
"Carrots, obviously. Nice quote."
"You're cheating, Jude. Favourite food?"
"I don't know. Tropical fruit. Mangoes. Most beautiful person?"
"Jude, you
know that's you."
"You really have to watch more movies. You know there are hundreds in the media room downstairs, right?"
"You're hilarious. I'm laughing on the inside."
The first time, it took 24 seconds to ruin the life of India Waits. The second time, it seemed like a heartbeat.
"Here - why don't you pour us each a glass?"
Marguerite is visiting a friend, and they are alone in the kitchen amongst heavenly smells. Jude has just poured a small amount of wine into the bubbling bolognaise sauce, and is now holding out the bottle to India. Pushing herself away from the counter the small woman steps closer.
"Sure. You like wine?"
"Some of it. I'm no connoisseur," Jude shared a smile with India before she turns down the heat on the stove, "but that's just such a good bottle. My favourite, in fact."
"All right." Taking two glasses from the shelf India wipes them both with a cloth before she pours. "Here you go. To new facts."
Clinking her glass lightly against India's Jude takes a small sip, closing her eyes as she obviously savours the taste. "Oh, that is so good."
Ignoring the more carnal connection her mind is desperately trying to make with the husky hum of appreciation, India sips from her own glass. "Mmm, this is excellent. I see your point."
"It's really worth it." Taking another small sip Jude puts the glass down to the side and resumes stirring the sauce.
It is involuntary; the way India's eyes study Jude over the rim of the glass as she sips. Then, she supposes, it is impolite but inevitable, the way her gaze becomes a little too appreciative of the way that the dark hair cascades over the narrow but strong shoulders, the way the comfortably worn jeans have dropped slightly onto the lean hips to bare a stretch of copper skin between the waistband and the white cotton shirt. Jude has put on a CD, something with a Spanish beat that India doesn't recognise, and when the beautiful woman begins to move her body ever so slightly along with the rhythm, India can't look away for the life of her. Jude is humming along to the music, almost sub-vocally, and when the low sound finally registers to India's ears a sudden shiver lifts the hair in the nape of her neck. Somewhere she knows that she has to step outside, that - for her - the mood has turned into something terrifyingly electric, that she'll have to tear her gaze away soon ... but she is still nailed to the spot when Jude turns to grasp the wooden pepper grinder and pauses mid-motion for only a second, her green eyes connecting intensely with India's before she wraps her fingers around the grinder and turns back to the stove. She has seen the way India has been watching her. It is clear: not in what she says, but in the fact that she says absolutely nothing at all.
Flushing in embarrassment, India sips from her glass with rising unease. She can actually feel the blood rising in her cheeks. Rolling the red liquid around in her mouth broodingly she considers how she can step outside without making herself too obvious, but just as she has an excuse established - flimsy, very flimsy, but right now she doesn't care - Jude turns around, the wooden spoon perches carefully in her hand as she holds it out to India.
"Want to taste?"
India's big eyes slip to the spoon, and then meet Jude's. "No. Thank you."
"It's very good."
Taking another nervous sip India looks again at the spoon, and then again at Jude. "I'm sure it is."
"India. Just a taste." India recognises the tone that is coming through in the other woman's voice. Jude is never impolite if she can help it; instead, she slips into her business mode, somewhere between a gentle cajoling and a challenge.
"I really don't want to. It'll be too hot. It'll burn me." But even as Jude says it she is putting the glass down on the surface beside her and moving over.
She isn't sure what they are talking about anymore.
Lifting the spoon Jude holds it out, cupping her other hand underneath it to catch any drips. "Closer, for heavens' sake." When India opens her mouth and inclines her head forward, Jude manoeuvres the spoon between her lips carefully.
The sauce is fantastic. This, however, is as abstract a thought as India has ever had. She is concentrating on where to look; away from the bright eyes so close to hers. Then, Jude's thumb slides lightly across her bottom lip.
"Missed some."
That simple touch is electrifying. It lingers on India's lips, slides down her throat, burns through her chest and tries to ground itself through the length of her legs. Her knees tremble. Jude is so close to her that she can smell the other woman's intoxicatingly subtle perfume. Finally she lifts her gaze to meet the intense eyes pinning her to the floor, and then it seems that the single remaining thing she can do is to tilt her chin up ever so slightly and lean in.
Jude's lips are soft as velvet. Pressed to her own they part, and a soft exhalation forces itself from Jude's throat. Then, a gasp. It is the current that does it - not some flowery narrative of love, but an actual spark that shoots from India's lips to Jude's, creating a cracking noise and a tingle where it touches skin. Jerking her head back Jude stares at India with wide eyes, her normal composure shattered.
"Fuck."
That would sum it up.
At a loss for words India stares back. There is a faint buzzing sensation in her hands - absently she realizes that it's the feeling she has when she's working. Lifting one hand ever so slightly she curls her fingers inwards and rubs at the palm of her right hand. Jude's eyes follow the motion, as if she has all the time in the world, and she watches with blank eyes as India works the feeling back into her limb.
"What the hell."
It is supposed to be a question.
Wide-eyed, India keeps her head down. "I'm sorry."
The silence flowing from Jude is uncomfortable and the smaller woman tries to cover it up. "I seem to be malfunctioning."
Still watching India's hand Jude lifts her own and rubbed across her bottom lip with her manicured fingers - the very same motion that had almost brought India to her knees. Then, turning away abruptly, she grasps her wine glass in both hands, almost desperately, and drinks.
Frowning, uncertain, India rubs at one hand with the other. "I'm sorry, Jude. Jude?"
The woman drinks as if she does not hear her - "Jude?" - and then suddenly spins around.
"Why did you do that?"
"I..." India bites her bottom lip, and when she looks up she notices Jude's gaze gravitating to her mouth, "I wasn't thinking." Tentatively, scared that she is messing up, she adds softly, "It just felt right."
The sound that comes from Jude's lips is something between a shudder and a sigh. Lifting her hand the journalist rubs at her lips again. "And this?"
"I don't know. That's never happened to me before."
"I don't think that's ever happened to
anyone before, India." Jude silently leans against the kitchen cabinet, her expression distant.
"Jude? Talk to me. Please."
"I don't know what to say."
"Tell me what you're thinking."
"I don't know what to think."
"Not about the..." India's fingers brush her own lips. "The other part."
Jude's eyes light briefly on her, and then the other woman looks away. "I don't
know what to say, India. I don't know what to think."
"It would help if you said that you were okay with it." Rubbing her forehead India watches Jude with wide apprehensive eyes. "I'm out on a limb here, Jude."
"I..." Jude stops to think. "Was it just the moment for you?"
"No. I feel something for you that..." With a vague motion of her hands India shakes her head. "Don't make me say something that I'm going to regret if you don't feel the same, Jude."
"I don't know what I feel, India!"
Stepping forward, India catches Jude's gaze and holds it unblinkingly. "Can you tell me that you didn't like it? Can you tell me that you didn't
want it?"
"We can't always have what we want."
"I'm right here." India holds her arms out to her sides as she approaches slowly. "Right in front of you, and I'm telling you that if you want me, you can have me."
Reaching out blindly Jude drags India closer and wraps her fingers in her short unruly hair, leaning down to crush their lips together with a passion that drives the air from India's lungs. It's almost as if she is testing her own limits. Her lips are fiery when she kisses India as if she is going to consume her, and when Jude's tongue sweeps over India's possessively, the shorter woman's knees buckle under her again. India is reaching out to steady herself when Jude's grip loosens abruptly and the journalist steps away, out of her grasp.
"No."
Frowning, India tries to drag her mind away from the tingle of electricity still blazing across her mouth. "No?"
"I can't do this."
"What?"
"This." Jude gestures, and the motion is unusually brutal. "I'm not ready for this sort of thing."
Expelling a slow breath India steps back carefully, until she can feel the safety of the counter at her back. Reaching blindly she finds her own glass and drinks deeply from it in an unconscious imitation of Jude's earlier action. When she speaks her voice has a slight edge of ferocity to it. "Not ready for what? Can you be a little more specific? A kiss? A relationship? Someone like me? A woman? Just me?"
Jude's jaw works silently before she answers. "All of it. I can't."
"Why?" It is asked quietly, but India has failed miserably to hide the tremor in her voice. At the sound Jude closes her eyes for just a second.
"I don't want anything like this. I can't have it. It's not going to work."
"It's working. It's
been working. We
work, Jude! We make sense!" Tears of frustration build in India's eyes. "What happens afterwards just
happens! You can't control every fucking thing!"
"Maybe not, but I have control over this!"
They stare at each other over the expanse of the room. India's bottom lip is trembling. It makes her look like a lost little girl. Finally she clears her throat.
"Just tell me, Jude - is it me? Do you feel anything for me at all?"
Jude's eyebrows contract, pulling up mournfully before she composes her expression. "It doesn't matter, India."
"It matters to ME!"
"It doesn't matter. The outcome is going to be the same."
Lifting her glass India drains it and then places it carefully on the counter. Taking one last look at the woman standing across from her, at the shining hair and the eyes that she has missed so much, she nods.
"Okay. I have to go."
"India, please don't leave like this."
"Bye, Jude."
Continued...