Yelena Moskovich - Virtuoso

“Shh…” Dominique whispered in Aimée’s ear, “let me…”

Aimée’s forearm knocked the TV remote and the hotel magazine to the floor, the pages flipping and caving into each other. She was spread over the coffee table, her arms wide and her breasts pressed into the waxed tabletop.

Dominique grabbed Aimée’s hips, and pulled her back with a thrust, Aimée’s buttocks spread and pressed into Dominique’s pelvis.

The ocean rolled and cracked beyond the window, greys and whites, lined with the water’s orange rind. A thin amber light cut across Aimée’s back.

Dominique took her fingers and began crawling them around Aimée’s cunt, as Aimée was moving into Dominique’s fingers, which crawled down further, dipping into the crevice of Aimée’s ass. Dominique placed the tip of her finger at the centre of the tightest hole and began to push inside. One push, one more, and Aimée’s anus took her in, the muscle squeezing around Dominique’s finger in its silky coated choke. Then she pulsated her finger in that tight space, sliding deeper with each jut.

Aimée came in a torn voice and flipped around, reaching out for Dominique just as she was leaning back. Aimée’s hands grabbed the air and fell back down to the floor empty.

Dominique was still, going over Aimée’s face – her resting cheekbone, the shine upon her jaw, the lenient pull of her throat, her blonde hair clinging to her neck, and in the centre, the vulnerable dip between her collarbones. Dominique reached out her hand and put her fingertips upon that spot, feeling the fall between the two bones and the thin skin there.

Aimée was peering at Dominique’s irises, the black pupils wide, and the dark mahogany around them glazed, but there were thin traces within that rich brown circle that she had never noticed before, they were almost invisible, fine lines of a bold blue. Dominique let Aimée look at every thread of her iris. She could feel her wife going over the incremental colours like a finger over a row of book-spines, but her touch couldn’t read the stories, it could only grope at their bindings.

Dominique inhaled and broke their gaze. She crawled on top of Aimée, moved some of her blonde hair away from her neck and put her mouth there, and lay breathing her humid breath as Aimée swallowed the sky.

The weight of Dominique on top of her felt like a mass of water and she thought of her dream in the sinking car, hunched-over Claire with her blonde hair and blue skin, the empty back seats, the bubbles from her mouth. Where is Dominique?

That night, Dominique slept without waking up or mumbling, holding Aimée tightly in her arms.

It was Aimée who woke up. It was not yet dawn. Dominique was peaceful with a consistent breath. Aimée was surprised she was sleeping through the shouting. It was coming from the window they had left open in the adjacent room. Next door, a couple were arguing on their balcony, their voices carrying into Aimée and Dominique’s suite.

She carefully took Dominique’s arm off her, got up and went to the balcony windows. She closed them discretely, and then tiptoed back into bed.

The next morning, there was a knock on the door. Dominique got up, put her robe on, then came back with a plastic bag with her shined leather pumps in them, held together with a large rubber band.

“They shined them for me.”

“Are you going to wear them tonight?”

Though Dominique had promised no work during their holiday, she convinced Aimée to take a walk for an hour or two, as she just wanted to go over a couple of scenes, that’s it, she said, she wouldn’t do any more after that.

They kissed in the doorway.

When Aimée left she noticed the skin on Dominique’s hand, around the glossy nails, was ripped and chewed.

Aimée took a walk down Frederico Arouca Street, then turned north towards a garden she had spotted. She crossed the street and walked past the fold-out tables, one with cheap jewellery and another with piles of books. Between the stone fountain and the span of freshly cut grass was a merry-go-round, the roof a white and tan striped tent, music tinkling and the plastic horses going up and down. Behind the carousel leaned an immense willow tree, the cernuous vines resting on the roof beams, where a row of light bulbs flickered.

When she left the park, she looked at the sign, Jardim Visconde da Luz, and made a note to take Dominique here when she was done rehearsing. On her way around the streets, she spotted bright red flowers with ridged petals, ones with tiny magenta buds and white eyes, pinkish tiger lilies with yellow spotted tongues, others with alternating yellow and violet petals, then a daisy patch.

She took the curving road up, past the car rental shop, then saw some people walking with blue plastic bags full of fruit and vegetables, so she followed the track up, then around to the smaller road, Padre Moisés da Silva, into the large covered market. She wandered around the stalls and stopped at the green crate containing a layered pyramid of bright yellow lemons. She wanted to buy just one to show Dominique, but ended up getting a kilo of them. She got out of the market with her kilo of lemons in a thin blue plastic bag and sauntered across the street to smell an almond tree she had spotted, blooming with its peach bunches of flowers at each branch. She walked past the glass-paned shopping centre, stopped to touch the beautiful cobalt-blue painted tiles that covered a façade, thinking of Dominique’s irises, then looked at her mobile phone and realised she had been wandering for over an hour. Although she wanted to go back already, she thought she should give Dominique her space, let her indulge if she wanted to rehearse a bit. So she walked back down to the beach, took off her sandals and stuck her toes in the yellow sand. She sat, watching the waves, but couldn’t enjoy them. She felt like a punished child, all she wanted to do was go back and be with Dominique, to pull her outside and walk around with her, take her to all these places. She began making angel wings with her feet in the sand, wiping them back and forth, as if they could fly up from her heels. She looked at her phone again. Finally, two hours had passed, and she got up, dusted off her shorts, put her sandals on, and headed back to the Albatroz Hotel.

(A knock)

Aimée walked up the carpeted hallway, got out her key card, and slipped it into the door. The light flashed green and she turned the metal doorknob and pushed the door open. It slid across the carpet like a crashing wave. There were Dominique’s high heels, standing orderly side by side. She put her bag of lemons on the coffee table and looked around. The bedroom door was closed. She took a couple of soft steps towards it, wondering if Dominique was still working. There was no sound in the suite. She tiptoed up to the door and put her ear to it. Completely silent. And yet, she could feel there was someone in there. She waited for a weight to shift.

Who’s there?

A friend!

A beast!

“Dominique? I’m back.”

She turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, shushing every bristle of the carpet in its path.

Face down on the hotel linen, the body—

Dominique was slumped face down across the bed, still, naked, a plastic bag cinched over her head.

No no no no…!

Aimée, with her arms reaching out far in front of her, grabbing for Dominique. She began to lift her naked body up, but it was heavy and fell back towards the pillows. She stumbled, then turned the body over and let it fall against her, then back down to the bed. Her fingers scrambled beneath the rubber band around her neck, trying to get it off. It snapped and flew across the room. She tore the bag off. Dominique’s lips were pale and cracked.