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Irene smiles and bows her head, knowing very well she won’t be able to keep her lips curled in that fake smile for long. She pours the tea, hot and dark, in the two cups. << I’m glad you and Brian are getting along, really, >> she murmurs.
Focusing on the rich drink filling the cups she can control to control her anger, and Irene is very proud of herself when she hands Clare her cup: she is smiling again. The other woman, however, frowns, and Irene feels her pride fading away, changing into something that feels more like hopeless. The fear of an animal caught after thinking it was finally safe.
<< Oh, dear, >> Clare’s voice is barely a whisper, sweet and musical. << Did you think-? >> she starts, staring at Irene, not giving any attention to her tea. << You thought I was, I am, interested in your husband? >> her lips almost curl up in an amused smile. << Oh, my darling ‘Rene, no. I’m so terribly sorry for this misunderstanding, I really am. >>
She does sounds sorry. Really. Irene, however, is aware she can’t believe her, that she must not believe her, but she lets her speak anyway pretending to be too busy drinking her cup of tea.
<< Oh dear, >> Clare leaves her cup on the small table, << that’s my fault, please forgive me: I really should have been more unequivocal on this matter, >> she hesitates. << I’m not interested in your husband, my dear ‘Rene. I never was, >> she explains in her sweet voice. << It’s you who I want. >>
Irene stops, her cup in her hand, raising her eyes to meet Clare’s expectant smile.
Perhaps, she tells herself, she heard wrong.
Perhaps, the other woman meant something else.
Perhaps, she’s just imaging things. Would she imagine something like that?
<< I wanted to make you jealous, >> confesses Clare, standing up, unaware or unpreoccupied of Irene distress. << I told you: I can do anything to have what I want. Anything. I wanted you to think he was cheating on you, >> Clare walks softly around the table, sole barrier between the two. And Irene jolts in her chair, almost spilling her tea on her hands and dress.
<< I wanted you to hate him, >> the woman steadies Irene’s hand with her owns, gently taking away her cup and putting it on the table. << And I wanted you to leave him, so that I could have you. >> She kneels at Irene’s feet, slowly, without breaking eye contact, and her green dress pools around her knees in gentle waves of soft fabric.
Clare looks like a saint, and a faithful. A sinner begging for forgiveness, and an angel longing for corruption. She’s still in charge, she always is, but seeing her so compliant and on her knees gives Irene the illusion of being the one in control: she can refuse her, she can say no. She can hate her, threaten her, make her leave.
Can she, right?
Does she have the strength to do all of that? Does she want to?
<< ‘Rene? >>
Clare is nothing like Brian. Her body is softer, rounder, even warmer than her husband’s, and she smells of something floral, and powdery: it’s the scent of sweet childhood memories and first loves. Her red lips feel creamy and taste sweet because of the lipstick she’s wearing, now smudged on Irene’s lips. She presses herself on Irene, who finds she doesn’t actually mind, and that the woman’s body feels better than her husbands.
What will become of her life now? All of her plans erased by a kiss, some red lipstick and warm hands. What will become of her, who wanted nothing more than a tranquil life? What she desires now is that upsetting and devastating love, and to control that woman no one can manage to own.