Red
He hasn't called in weeks. It doesn't bother her, really. They weren't something meant to last.
And, anyway, Amy's not the type to sit at home waiting for someone who's never coming back. She's the type to go out and find something new.
She puts on her red dress -- little red dress that makes people stare -- and she's not sure if she wants to pick someone up or get the pleasure of rejecting a leering face.
Maybe there isn't a difference. Amy certainly doesn't think it matters.
The bar isn't crowded. Isn't empty either, which is why Amy doesn't notice Donna immediately. It's on the third glance of the place that their eyes lock. Donna waves because, well, that's the kind of friendly girl she is.
"Hey," Amy says as she walks over. She's not sure how long she wants to talk to Donna, but she doesn't want her to recount this encounter unfavorably to Josh.
"Hey," Donna responds, waving her hand to a stool adjacent to hers. "Wanna join me?"
"Sure," Amy replies. It finally dawns on her what Donna's wearing: short, red dress not unlike her own. "You stole my outfit," she says with a raised eyebrow. "Now, I have to go home."
Donna looks taken aback. "I...I don't think that's necessary."
Amy smiles. "I'm kidding."
Donna shakes her head. "Sorry...I'm just rather sensitive about possible faux pas lately. Forgive me."
"Forgiven."
Donna studies her, eyes roaming up and down her frame. Amy doesn't mind.
Amy didn't count on having an actual conversation with Donna, but here she is, listening to the events of her day, along with some randomly chosen occurrences of her past.
She talks about her date -- so self-centered and rude, this man named Kyle -- like they're friends, not two women kinda in love with the same man.
And all the while, Donna's eyes roam. It should make her uncomfortable, but it doesn't. Maybe she wants to hurt Josh; maybe she just wants to feel a warm body against hers; maybe it's been too long since she's touched another woman.
Maybe she's reading too much into this. But Donna's eyes, her flirty tone, her way of leaning in closer than required -- they're all signs that Amy's not crazy for thinking something's happening.
Donna crosses and uncrosses her legs, dress moving further up her thigh with each movement. Amy looks, even though she doesn't really want to. The barest of desire is somehow propelling her towards this.
"I should go," Amy says, but she doesn't move.
"Go where?" Donna asks, lips curled into a tiny flirty smile.
Amy shrugs. "I have things to do tomorrow."
"It's hardly tomorrow. Stay," Donna says, and Amy does.
They're drinking more and more with each passing moment. Amy's defenses -- if they ever really existed -- are falling away. Their stolen glances are getting harder and harder to hide -- if they were ever really trying to conceal them -- and she doesn't even care about the consequences.
"You want to get out of here?" Donna whispers, and Amy says yes.
"I've done this before," Donna says.
Amy smirks. "Slept with one of Josh's castoffs?"
"No," she mumbles. "I meant--"
"I know what you meant," she whispers, smirk gone. She puts her hands on Donna's hips when she kisses her, feels the thin fabric. It's like what she's wearing -- but different, because it's on a warm body, a body that isn't hers.
Amy pushes up the hem of Donna's dress, pushes her panties to the side, pushes two fingers inside her. All the while, she expects Donna to tell her to stop, to wait. But no cries of modesty or shame come; it's just labored moans, punctuated by a tiny scream when her body shudders.
"Take me home," Donna says, and Amy does.
On the side of the bed, their clothes are a pool of red. Against the sheets, their skin's bare and damp.
She watches Donna's head between her legs, feels the tickle of hair against her thighs. She comes with Donna's name on her lips and her hands balled into fists.
Donna runs her fingers through Amy's hair as she pulls their mouths together. A bitter taste is on her tongue, and Amy identifies it as herself.
When they pull apart, Donna mutters the name of a non-existent deity. She wonders if Donna is religious at all, then she wonders why she cares.
Donna's hands cup her breasts as she grinds against her. Amy starts to grind back, feels the quickening of the thumbs circling her nipples.
"Don't stop," Donna says, and Amy doesn't.
The next morning, Amy wakes with her arm draped over Donna's stomach. She moves it away quickly; Donna's body stirs.
Donna's eyes open. "Hey," she says, and Amy can picture the awkwardness being sliced into several pieces.
"Hey."
"Last night...it was good. But it shouldn't happen again," Donna says, and Amy agrees.
It's a week later that Amy walks into the bar. She's not out for anything in particular -- just a drink after work. And Donna's there, perched stiffly on a stool. She considers leaving; instead, she sits next to her.
"How are you doing?" Amy asks.
Donna's clothes are black, but her face is crimson. "Fine. And yourself?"
"Okay." She knows that she's not drunk, so neither of them have an excuse. She knows they weren't supposed to do this again. But still she asks, "You wanna get out of here?"
"Yes," Donna says, and Amy's somewhere in-between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry.