Free Femme Noir by Clara Nipper

broke out on my brow like beads of anger. I let two pedestrians pass before I ambled to the sidewalk surrounding Swan Lake. This was a charming area for a romantic stroll under the old-fashioned street lamps, or for a thoughtful meditation on one of the many benches. There were lots of big trees, flowers, and tall ornamental grasses waving a welcome among the lily pads over which stretched a handsome wooden pedestrian bridge. The lake itself was home to a pair of majestic great blue herons that studied me without blinking as I passed. There were only two swans but they ruled the lake, floating regally from one end to the other. I neared the house and saw with disappointment that Sloane’s car, which had been Michelle’s car, was indeed parked comfortably next to Max’s shiny Lexus. I stood alone on the street, an unrequited Romeo sending darts of desire up to the house.
    I hid behind a tree as I noticed movement on the dark balcony. It was Max, alone and smoking. My mouth watered at the prospect of both. Max paced and finally leaned over the front toward me, her silky robe shimmering and parting delectably.
    With Sloane nowhere in sight, I had to battle the temptation to call to Max. I would rather die than look a fool in front of this woman, so I didn’t. Instead, I tolerated the sweat dripping off my body and breathed the clenched knots out of my knuckles and relaxed into being a voyeur.
    Oh, to be invited in, to be beckoned into the inner sanctum, even if only for a drink and a smoke. Just to be held in her eyes would be enough. The sensual prospect of just stepping over the threshold at Max’s request made me shiver. I stunned myself by realizing I would rather talk to Max first than bed her. I actually wanted to know Max. So far, this had never happened to me. It was always sex first, talk later, and in the case of Michelle, let her move in too soon. In my experience, it paid to fuck first. It was an easy sorting system. I was horrified at the idea of spending hours, days, weeks, or months pursuing some woman chastely, getting attached and involved, and then having a dud in bed. Then I was stuck and it was always a mess to extricate myself. It was so much simpler to clarify the rules in the beginning and start off right. If the woman was good in bed, which I determined ahead of anything else, then I would consider giving more of my time from my mind and my heart. Then would come the dinners and dancing, the movies and parties.
    Max was different. She was a contradiction to me. Because she had hooked me so deeply in her sex and because I breathed Max in like a drug and needed more and more, I wanted to reverse my modus operandi. This was too intense for me not to know Max. I felt an unfamiliar pang of guilty conscience as I remembered the soft femmes protesting with those same words to me, scornful and passion hungry, five minutes before I dumped them. So this is what it was like to be the girl. Maybe all women wanted this? These thoughts whizzed through my fevered mind as I watched Max take the breeze on the balcony. Even Her Majesty’s skin shone wetly. Max was utterly oblivious to the pedestrians who walked by, some staring. Or she knew and didn’t care. She stood proud and indifferent, her diaphanous robe swelling and shrinking with the current. I had relaxed, noticing that Max and I shared the same rhythm of breath. I could see her half-exposed, taut breasts rising and falling as she sent her thoughts into the night. Mesmerized by those plump globes, I wistfully wished she were thinking of me. Oh, how I wanted to reach up to her, to shout…but that was the kind of thing someone did in high school. And here I was, a respected professional, thirty-five years old, stalking a stranger. Max lifted her heavy curtain of hair and held it with one hand as she fanned her neck with her other hand.
    At the sound of a car coming down the road, Max turned. I was tense too, dreading the sloppy reunion of someone, anyone,