Yearning

by Alex SisterWolf

Listen as the wind blows
From across the great divide
Voices trapped in yearning
Memories trapped in time
The night is my companion
And solitude my guide
Would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?
              --- Sarah McLachlan

"Turn around. We're going back," I tell the chauffeur.

I know where my heart lies.

Memory: Our trip to the Renaissance Festival. Jubilation convinced me to go with her. and I, I think I would do anything for her. Anything she asked.

Walking hand-in-hand, and at first I was worried, afraid that someone would make a scene, shout at us for being two girls in love. But no one did. And I realized that perhaps all they saw was two girls holding hands. Sisters, perhaps. Best friends. It is acceptable, in this culture, for women to hold hands. And I felt a flash of sadness, that as gay women we can express our affection for each other safely in public, while gay men cannot. And yet, if they knew that we were lovers, rather than simply friends, would they hate us?

Jubilation knows how to live in the moment. She is grinning, chattering, making little skipping steps, completely happy. I envy her spontaneity. I feel so old, so cold sometimes. I wish I could stop thinking, stop analyzing, just enjoy the moment. And she seems to sense my sadness, for she looks at me with her beautiful blue eyes and smiles and whispers that she loves me.

God I love her.

She tugs me into a clothing shop, excited about the multi-colored hat she saw. I sigh inwardly. Jubilation and her hats. I love the girl, I really do, but why must she wear the most horrifically awful hats? She tugs it onto her head, telling me that it's made of sherpa wool (they shear sherpas?) and that it can double as a purse. It is multicolored, patchwork wool and there are bizarre tufty things sticking out of the top, and she turns to me and grins and asks me what I think and I answer, quite truthfully, that she looks beautiful.

The purse/hat bought, but thankfully in use as a purse for the moment, we continue on, dodging overheated, sticky, whiny children with their pudgy, middle-American parents in tow. I feel overdressed, out of place. I wore a summer-weight cream linen pantsuit, perfectly appropriate for the occasion I thought. And yet I can tell that I am out of synch, inappropriate, too formal. Even after all these years in America I cannot fit in. I do not understand Americans at all, and I know that my natural reserve seems snobbish, cold, bitchy to them. Before Jubilation and I became friends, and later, lovers, she would accuse me of being all of those things and more. I am elitist, I know this. I try to fit in with these people, try to see their loudness, their lack of tact, their rudeness, as positive things, signs of a democratic society. And yet I know, at my core, that I am a snob.

Jubilation looks at me, sees that I am deep in depressing thought again, and tells me that I need to lighten up. I smile at her, weakly, and she blows out her breath in an exasperated sigh and decisively says that we are going shopping.

I point out mildly that we've been shopping for two and one quarter hours. She gives me one of her _looks_ and tells me that we're getting me a new outfit. I try to protest that my current outfit is just fine, but she's towing me along and I give in without too much of a fight.

She brings me to a faux-Middle Eastern tent. The clothing they carry is brocaded silk, rich colors, cut as simple gathered slacks and shawls, and I consider, in a rather self-congratulatory way, that my fashion sense has begun to rub off on Jubilation after all. She darts through their racks, gathering together an armful of brocade, and drags me to their dressing room, a small cubicle of hanging curtains. She pushes me inside and follows me in, tugging the curtain closed behind us. She tells me to strip and I raise an eyebrow at her.

"Strip, babe. Nothin' I haven't seen before," she whispers in her husky little voice, crossing her arms over her chest. There's a challenging light in her eyes, and so I strip, slowly, giving her a show. She continues to grin at me, but I know the look in her eyes, and I lean to her and kiss her, slowly, sweet, the taste of her mouth like honey and smoke.

I break the kiss slowly and straighten again, admiring the way desire darkens the cerulean blue of her eyes to indigo. She bites her lower lip and tells me, "You're not gonna get out of putting this stuff on that way, babe."

She's picked out silk in burgundy and black, my favorite colors. I put the outfit on, loose gathered trousers that wrap around on the outside of both legs, a shawl that winds around my torso bandeau-fashion, covering my breasts in the shape of an X but leaving my back almost entirely bare. I finish tying a knot at the back of my neck to hold the bandeau in place and raise an eyebrow at Jubilation, asking her, "And what era of the Renaissance would this outfit hail from?"

She waves a hand impatiently. "So it's not exactly Renaissancey. So what? Ya look gorgeous, M. Like a genie."

"Djinn," I correct her patiently, but she's already pulling me out of the dressing room, in front of the mirror. I have to admit, it does look rather good on me.

The saleswoman exclaims over the outfit and manages to sell Jubilation on a pair of sandals that she swears will look perfect with it. It seems important to Jubilation and so I go along with it. I cannot bear to make her unhappy. Good lord, I am so "whipped," as she would say.

We leave the stall behind, my linen suit and flats in a shopping bag. The outfit is rather comfortable, and the sandals do look nice with it, and I feel slightly ridiculous but Jubilation is beaming with happiness.

The next stop is a jewelry booth. Jubilation claims that I must have proper jewelry to go with my new outfit. I take a quick glance at the wares and restrain myself from commenting that my diamond pendant is worth more than most of the jewelry in this booth combined. For her, for her, I will be polite.

She's looking at a display of sterling silver rings, lingering over some with an odd heart and hands symbol. "Aren't they gorgeous, M?"

I hate to admit ignorance, but I have no idea what the significance of these rings is. "What does the symbol signify?"

"They're claddaugh rings. Ya wear them to show you're in love." She looks up at me, her eyes shining, and before I know what I'm doing I'm paying for two of them.

Hand in hand, we wind our way through the press of oddly-dressed, over-heated humanity, and up a hill to a patch of shade under a large oak tree. She pulls me over to a bench, but instead of sitting next to me, she kneels before me, holding one of my hands.

Uncertain of her intentions, I glance uneasily about, but no one appears to be watching us. Jubilation grins up at me, her hair sticking up from its barrette in unruly tufts, and says, "Monet St. Croix, will you take me, Jubilation Lee, to be your unlawfully unmarried girlfriend?"

I open and close my mouth a few times, speechless for once in my life. She leans closer to me and mutters, "The proper response is 'I do,' babe."

"Uh. I do." She seems to be expecting me to say something else. I vaguely remember this part from one of Paige's godawful daytime soap operas, so I say tentatively, "Do you, Jubilation Lee, take me, Monet St. Croix, to be your. um."

"Yadda yadda yadda and all that crap, yes, I do, absolutely and unequivocally, with Pez and Fruitloops and all my heart." And then she leans in and kisses me, in the middle of the Renaissance Faire, in front of thousands of conservative Americans who will no doubt lynch us, forcing me to use my mutant powers in front of them and leading to an international incident which will be front cover news for Time and Newsweek and the lead story on CNN for weeks.

And she breaks the kiss after a few moments, and I stare around anxiously, expecting to see the lynch mob forming, but all I see is a few bored-looking youths and an older woman in an Elizabethan costume who winks at me before walking on.

"See, babe?" she whispers. "The sky didn't fall in after all." And she's grinning at me, that glowing, infectious grin, and I truly cannot tell you when she snuck into my heart and made it her own.

And now the road is humming under the wheels of the limousine, and I lean forward as if the motion will make the car go faster, and I do not know how I ever thought that I could leave her.

I know where my heart lies.

***end***

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