He was not bad-looking, a little chunky, a little short, a little weak-chinned, but not bad. Suit a little too expensive. His main flaw in Margaret's eyes—in Margaret's nose, really—was that he was lavishly covered in perfume, or cologne, or whatever men called it. Margaret wrinkled her nose and pulled back. It was a physical reaction. He was dense with spicy fumes. Lily noticed her pull back. She looked at Margaret, then at the man.
Margaret suddenly realized the man was flirting with them. She realized it when Lily looked at her. She wasn't sure how she knew it from Lily's eyes, but she just suddenly did. He was trying to pick them up.
Sickened by his scent, Margaret felt dizzy. Flirting with her, with Margaret? She realized she was shocked. Couldn't a person go out to dinner without some creep sidling up to her and stinking up the joint? In a panic of embarrassment, she helplessly listened to him describe his health club, the condo he rented in the Hamptons, and whatever else he thought might induce the ladies to take an interest in him.
Margaret looked at the floor. Lily's shoes were blue suede and almost square, lifted high up on black rubber platform soles. Margaret tried to think of something to say to drive this impertinent man away. He had not even stopped to take a breather. Should he get a borzoi or a chow, or was a dog too much trouble for someone who took as many vacations as he did?
"A dog is a problem for someone as independent as me..."
How dare he, Margaret thought again. I'm a married woman! A married woman? Why, that was an idea. Margaret raised her glass with her left hand, hopefully waving her wedding ring in front of his face. Surely that would do it, would act upon him as a cross on Dracula.
Some of her drink spilled. The man kept talking.
"Now my accountant said, 'In your bracket? Move to Connecticut!' But, you know, I'm such a city person..."
Suddenly, Margaret felt two hands around her waist, Lily's hands. Lily, on the other barstool, pulled Margaret over onto her lap. Her hands were clasped, her arms around Margaret's waist.
"We're lesbians," Lily said in her alluring voice. She pressed her cheek gently against Margaret's. "We're lovers."
There was silence then, blessed silence. Margaret felt Lily's body, warm and soft, pressed against her back, beneath her thighs. Lily smiled: Margaret could feel the smile on her own cheek.
The man, annoyed and embarrassed, turned and walked to the other end of the bar.
Lily began to laugh. "Asshole," she said.
Lily moved her head, and Margaret felt her breath on her neck.
A lesbian? she thought. Lily's lover?
A lesbian! Lily's lover!
Margaret found it difficult to breathe. She didn't move from Lily's lap. She couldn't. She didn't want to. This was amazing. She was a lesbian. It had never occurred to her before, but it was undeniable. She was sitting on a sexy girl's lap thinking about sex. What kind of sex? She found that difficult to visualize, in spite of a Chantal Akerman movie she had once seen, but surely that could all be negotiated later. Oh, Lily, Lily, what a discovery I have made on your lap.
Lily gently pushed her off and Margaret stared at her, nearly speechless, for the remainder of the evening.
It's all very well to be Lily's lover, but what about Lily? Margaret thought as she lay in bed awake. She couldn't be Lily's lesbian lover unless Lily, too, was a lesbian. Lily, Lily, Lily. Margaret felt again the heat of Lily's breath on her neck. She tried to picture Lily at school, walking across the lawn with Till. She remembered visiting their apartment, watching Lily and Till stroke their old, snoring cat.
And then Margaret had a realization. It wasn't that she learned anything new, only that all the old scattered fragments of information suddenly made a pattern, a big bold unmistakable pattern that only I could have missed, Margaret thought—exchanges of glances, bitter arguments, an estrangement after Till's marriage to the odious Art, an awkward attentiveness to each other now, a way of speaking about each other, of not speaking about each other. Lily and Till. Of course. For years. The roommates. The best of friends. The couple. The lovers.
Affairs with other women were fashionable at school, Margaret thought. So I'm a late bloomer. Lily, the feel of her and the whisper of her absurd words, Lily, the insinuating Lily, has become irresistible. So who am I to resist?
Margaret lay in bed beside Edward, listening to his breathing, light and even. You're my husband, she thought. My wonderful husband. And she tenderly touched his head. There's been a terrible misunderstanding. Then she remembered Lily, the heat of Lily's body beneath her own on a barstool at a fashionable restaurant. She hadn't misunderstood that. She laughed and shook her head and said out loud, "This is ridiculous."
Edward continued his airy breathing undisturbed.