Free Red Queen by Honey Brown

occurred and yet her verbal foreplay had me weak and heavy; she might as well have reached over and stroked a knowing line up the left side of my lap.
    I turned and stared hard at the fire and let the heat eat at my eyes.
    The shower still ran – a long time for Rohan. I knew by now she would be watching me, her gaze unreadable. She must have seen my anger.
    ‘I thought of another poem,’ she said. ‘Do you want to hear it?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I felt a Cleaving in my mind –
    As if my Brain had split –
    I tried to match it – Seam by Seam –
    But could not make them fit.’
    I looked over at her.
    ‘Emily Dickinson,’ she said, ‘my favourite poet.’ Her voice was flat.
    The quiet dark of her face drew me in; I manoeuvred around the table between us and knelt in front of her.
    ‘Tell me what you mean,’ I said.
    Her voice stayed even. ‘It’s a poem – you read into it what you want.’
    ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’
    ‘You said you hated it when Rohan asked you that.’
    ‘Because he asks for the wrong reasons.’
    ‘You might not like what I’m thinking. I probably can’t even put it into words …’
    ‘Tell me what’s unclear then.’
    ‘I like women poets – there’s not the need to make sense of everything, they don’t presume to know the answers.’
    ‘I don’t have to be crystal clear on everything, Denny, but I think it helps if the most basic things are defined. The relationships in this house are about as clear as mud.’
    ‘Relationships aren’t easily defined.’
    ‘You know what, I just wish you’d give me one word on how you feel about me and one word on how you feel about Rohan.’
    ‘One word each?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Her face softened. ‘But what if you don’t like them?’
    ‘Just tell me.’
    She reached up to hold my head, and slipped her hands over my ears as she spoke. I couldn’t hear and pulled her hands away.
    ‘What?’
    She lightly shook her head, her eyes glowing.
    ‘Denny, don’t play with me.’
    ‘I’m not,’ she replied. ‘I don’t play games.’
    ‘Then tell me what you said.’
    ‘Rohan’s finished in the shower.’
    ‘Tell me.’
    She put pressure on my shoulder, easing me away. I stayed, taking the resistance, holding her gaze.
    ‘So what if he sees me like this?’ I asked.
    ‘I’m in his chair. Let me out.’
    ‘Is that really what’s bothering you, or is it me, like this? Why can’t he see the way we really are together?’
    She turned her head towards the bathroom. I heard the bathroom door open and watched the changes in her face.
    ‘Denny.’
    ‘This is not the way we are together.’
    ‘No. This is usually you.’ I held her thighs and rubbed my hands up and down. ‘Why don’t I ever massage your back?’
    ‘He’s coming, let me up.’
    I held out longer, aroused by my hands on her legs and the confusion in her face. She tried to stand, to climb out over the arm rest, or maybe even clamour over the back. I stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
    Rohan was in the kitchen, opening a cupboard.
    ‘Please,’ she whispered.
    I pushed back from the chair. ‘Bloody hell.’
    ‘Shh …’ She got up and came low and quick to me. ‘Don’t be angry.’
    I held her hand by my side, forcing her to stand near me. Rohan came into the room. It meant a lot that Denny didn’t immediately drop my hand, that she held it tighter for a second and trailed her fingers in my palm as she withdrew it.
    Rohan had three bowls and spoons and a can of something, but more shocking than that was that he was clean; you could smell it. He came forward and into the light.
    His clothes were the same ones he’d had on before the shower, his face was still rough with a short beard and the same deep shadows, but the mingling of soap and shampoo, his slick, combed hair, the sense of warmth from his skin, and a handsomeness I’d not seen in him before, had his presence amplified so that I could not look away.
    ‘We’re using the soap and