Put Away

The bar had mostly emptied out. Linda nursed the last of her drink, watching the two figures still deep in conversation at the other end of the table. Sherry she knew well: her roommate, easy to be around, the kind of girl who attracted people without trying. The other one, Francesca, she'd been watching for two weeks.

At something Sherry said, Francesca laughed. It was a real laugh, sudden and open, and it changed her whole face. Then it was gone. She put it away so quickly and neatly that Linda wondered whether she'd imagined it, and Francesca picked up her glass.

Linda slid down the bench toward them.

"Am I interrupting?"

Sherry glanced up with a warm smile. "Just gossip." She looked at her phone, then reached for her purse. "Actually, I should head out. Early morning."

Sherry stood, smoothing down the front of her skirt - Linda's skirt, the one that had gone missing from the laundry basket three days ago.

She squeezed Linda's shoulder as she passed, leaving behind the faint smell of Linda's perfume. "See you back at the dorm?"

"See you," Linda said.

When Linda turned back, Francesca was watching the door, then turned her eyes slowly back to Linda.

"She wears your things," Francesca said.

"She thinks they look better on her."

"She's wrong."

"She left quickly," Linda said.

"She was going to leave anyway."

Linda raised an eyebrow. "Did you help that along?"

Francesca smiled.

"Were you two having an interesting conversation?"

"We were having a conversation," Francesca said. "I was deciding whether it was interesting."

"And?"

"And she left." Francesca set her glass down. "So."

Linda laughed softly despite herself. "That's a verdict."

"You've been watching us all evening."

"You're hard not to watch."

"Most people aren't that direct," Francesca said.

"Most people pretend they weren't watching."

A pause. Francesca reached for her glass again, but didn't drink. "What do you want, Linda?"

The question landed simply, without performance. Linda held her gaze.

"Another drink," she said. "For now."

Francesca studied her for a moment, then raised her hand to signal the bartender.

"For now," she repeated quietly.

Their fresh drinks arrived. Francesca wrapped her fingers around her glass but didn't drink immediately.

"Can I ask you something?" Linda said.

"You're going to anyway."

Linda smiled. "You're married."

"That's not a question."

"No." Linda paused. "But it's interesting."

Francesca looked at her. "Why interesting?"

"Because you were testing the waters with Sherry. And now you're here with me. And Giovanni is somewhere else."

Francesca was quiet for a moment. "Giovanni knows who I am."

"Which is?"

Francesca turned her glass slowly on the table. "Someone who finds men... limiting."

Linda considered that. "Limiting how?"

"In small ways mostly. Accumulated small ways." She paused. "It's not that I'm repulsed by them. It's more that there are things I can't switch off. Things that get in the way."

"What kind of things?"

Francesca glanced at her, something flickering behind her eyes. "The assumption of initiative," she said finally. "The way they reach for you before you've decided you want to be reached for."

Linda was quiet, listening.

"With a woman there's more... negotiation. More awareness." She paused. "Or there can be."

"Can be," Linda echoed.

"Not always." Francesca's eyes settled on her. "It depends on the woman."

"And Sherry?"

Francesca's lips curved slightly. "Sherry is beautiful. And completely uninterested in paying attention to anything she hasn't already decided matters."

Linda laughed. "That's very accurate actually."

"I know." Francesca finally took a sip of her drink. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What kind of person works for you?"

"Someone surprising," Linda said. "Someone I can't quite read."

Francesca set her glass down.

"And can you read me?" Francesca asked.

Linda looked at her. "Not yet," she said.

Francesca's expression shifted. Satisfied, almost.

She reached for her coat. "I'm going home."

Linda blinked. "Now?"

"Yes." Francesca stood, smoothing her coat. Then she looked down at Linda. "Unless you'd rather keep sitting here trying to read me."

Linda looked up at her. "Is that an invitation?"

"It's an observation." Francesca picked up her bag. "What you do with it is up to you."

She turned and walked toward the door without looking back.

Linda sat there for a moment, her drink still half full.

Then she left some money on the table and followed.

Linda's car was parked two blocks down. They walked there without discussing it.

Linda unlocked it. They slid in.

The street outside was quiet, the occasional sweep of headlights passing over them. Linda was aware of the smallness of the space. The proximity of Francesca beside her. The fact that she could hear her breathe.

"So," Linda said.

"So," Francesca agreed.

Linda turned slightly in her seat. "Are we going to talk about what this is?"

Francesca considered the windshield. "What would you call it?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

"An experiment," she said. "If you want."

"And if I don't want to call it that?"

"Then don't." A slight pause. "But that's what it is."

A silence. Then: "Let's make this interesting." Francesca said it softly. "Just kissing tonight. No touching. No hands. Just lips."

Linda waited.

"Can you do that?"

Linda felt something quicken in her chest. "That's a very specific rule."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Francesca looked at her steadily. "Because I want to see if you can follow one."

"And if I can't?"

"Then we'll know something useful."

Linda held her gaze for a long moment. Outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping briefly through the windshield, illuminating Francesca's face - composed, giving nothing away.

"Alright," Linda said. "Just kissing."

Francesca leaned in slowly. Slowly enough that Linda felt the anticipation before the contact, felt herself tipping toward it. Francesca's breath first. Then the faintest brush of her lower lip. Then pressure, and warmth, and the immediate irresistible urge to reach out, to hold, to pull her closer. Linda kept her hands in her lap.

They pulled apart.

Again.

Longer this time, and Linda's fingers curled against her own thighs.

Again.

Every time Francesca's lips parted against hers, a spike of heat went straight to the back of Linda's knees. Her hands remained flat against her thighs, fingers pressing through the fabric of her skirt so hard her knuckles clicked.

Again.

The restriction made every brush of breath feel like a touch.

Again.

When they separated Linda exhaled. Just that. Couldn't manage words yet.

"You wanted to touch me," Francesca said. Her voice was slightly lower than it had been.

"Obviously."

"But you didn't."

"No."

She leaned in again. Linda felt it this time in her stomach, the slow tightening of it, the effort of keeping still while Francesca set the pace, took what she wanted, gave back exactly as much as she chose to give. Minutes passed. Linda stopped counting them. There was only the dark and the warmth and her hands folded in her lap.

Her hands. Still. Patient. Strange to her.

Then Francesca drew back.

"That's enough for tonight," she said.

Linda stared at her. "You're serious."

"Always." Francesca reached for the door handle.

"Francesca."

She paused and looked back.

"Is this how it works? You just - decide when it's over?"

"Does that bother you?"

"Yes," she said.

Francesca smiled. "Good," she said.

Then she opened the door and stepped out into the night. Linda watched her walk away until she turned a corner and was gone.

Linda sat in the dark car.

Her hands, still folded in her lap, felt strange to her. Like they belonged to someone who had been very patient for a very long time and wasn't sure what patience had cost them.

She started the engine and drove home.

***

Linda woke to light coming through unfamiliar curtains.

High ceilings, old wood floors. She remembered arriving the night before, the dinner, the wine, the darkness of the bedroom afterward.

She remembered keeping her hands to herself in the car. She had not kept her hands to herself after that.

From somewhere in the apartment came the sound of a coffee grinder, then silence.

She found Francesca in the kitchen, already dressed. She set a cup in front of Linda without asking how she took it, then sat across from her with her own.

The silence.

Francesca spoke first. "How do you feel?"

"Strange," Linda said.

"Strange how?"

"Like I'm not sure which parts of last night were my idea."

Francesca considered that. "You could have left at any point."

"I know." Linda looked up. "That's what's strange."

Francesca turned her cup slowly on the table. "I enjoyed last night."

"I could tell."

"Could you." Not quite a question.

"You were more into it than I was," Linda said.

Francesca tilted her head. "Were you not into it?"

"That's not what I said."

She waited.

"I said you were more into it than I was. That's a different thing."

Francesca was quiet for a moment. Longer than her pauses usually ran.

"It felt technical sometimes," Linda said. "The rules. The sequence of things."

"Technical," Francesca repeated. Flat. Like she was testing the word.

"Not bad. Just deliberate."

"I had thought it out in advance."

Linda looked back at her. "Doesn't that take something away from it?"

"I think it gives me something I need more than spontaneity."

"Which is?"

"Control over what happens to me." She said it simply. And then, almost before she'd decided to: "Over what I allow myself to want."

It was more than she'd meant to say. Linda could see that. She didn't point it out.

"And last night - did it go the way you'd thought it out?"

Francesca's lips curved. "Not entirely."

"No?"

"You surprised me. Toward the end." She paused. "I don't surprise easily."

Linda remembered the moment she'd flipped their positions. She brought Francesca's wrists up above her head, pressing them into the mattress until she felt the hot breath against her crotch. Francesca didn't fight it. She just looked up through the dark, her breath short, her composure dissolving at the edges. Linda didn't kiss her; she just held her there, letting the silence go hot between them.

"I noticed," Linda said.

Francesca looked at her. "Yes. I imagine you did."

They drank their coffee.

Then Francesca set her cup down. "I want to suggest something."

Linda waited.

"Giovanni is coming next week." Francesca watched Linda's face. "I'd like you to meet him. Properly."

"I thought I already had."

"You've been in the same room as him at faculty events. That's not the same thing."

Linda turned her cup in her hands. "What does properly mean?"

Francesca held her gaze. "It means I'd like to share something with you. The three of us."

Silence settled over the kitchen.

"You want to watch," Linda said.

"Yes."

"Watch Giovanni and me."

"Yes."

Linda looked at her. "Why?"

"Because I want to."

"I need to think about it," Linda said.

"Of course. There's no urgency."

Linda stood, rinsing her cup at the sink. She could feel Francesca watching her from the table.

She dried her hands and reached for her bag.

"Linda."

She turned.

Francesca was still seated, cup in hand. Something in her eyes was different. "Last night," she said. "The part toward the end. When you surprised me. My forbidden place."

Linda waited.

"That was my favorite part," Francesca said.

Linda held her gaze for a moment. Then she nodded once, picked up her bag, and left.

She walked back to the dorm in the thin morning light. What she kept coming back to wasn't Giovanni, or the proposal, or any of it. It was the way Francesca had looked when she said it. Like the sentence had gotten out before she could stop it.

She was still turning it over when she opened the door.

Sherry was at the mirror, buttoning Linda's silk blouse. She didn't look startled. She just gave Linda that easy, apologetic smile in the glass.

"Hope you don't mind," Sherry said. "It just went so well with these pants."

Linda stood in the doorway, coat still on. Ten minutes ago she'd been told she was the best part of something. Now she was looking at her own blouse on someone else's shoulders.

Of course, she thought.

She waited to feel angry. She didn't, and that was the part she noticed. She'd have to think about that later.

***

Two days passed.

Francesca's message arrived just before noon. Lunch? Same place.

Linda stared at it for a moment. Then she put on her coat and left.

Francesca was already there, a glass of white wine in front of her despite the hour. She looked up as Linda approached.

"You came," Francesca said.

"You knew I would."

Francesca smiled slightly and gestured to the seat across from her.

They looked at their menus.

"Have you thought about it?" Francesca asked.

"That's why I'm here."

Francesca set her menu down. "And?"

Linda looked up. "I have questions."

"Ask them."

"What exactly are you expecting from me?"

"Nothing you haven't already done."

"That's not an answer."

"No." Francesca paused. "I want you to be present. Fully present. Whatever happens."

Linda held her gaze. "And Giovanni? Does he know?"

"Yes."

"What does he think?"

"He thinks you're remarkable. He has since the day you arrived." A beat. Then, dryer: "He has very good taste and very little patience, which is a difficult combination."

"I don't remember meeting him," Linda said.

"You didn't meet him. He saw you. There's a difference." Francesca picked up her wine. "He's been very patient."

"Patient. How long has this been - planned?"

Francesca looked at her steadily. "Not planned. Hoped for."

"What do you get from it?" Linda asked.

"I get to see someone I care about exactly as they are. No performance. No management." Francesca paused. "Giovanni performs for me. Always has. With you, he won't be able to."

Linda turned back to her. "You want to see him lose control."

Francesca met her eyes. "I want to see both of you lose control."

They ate without speaking for a while.

"I need you to promise me something," Linda said eventually.

Francesca looked up.

"If at any point I want to stop - we stop. Immediately."

Francesca nodded. "Of course."

"I mean it."

"I know you do. I wouldn't want it any other way."

Linda held her gaze. Then she picked up her fork.

"Alright."

Francesca simply picked up her wine and took a slow sip.

When the bill came, Francesca reached for it.

"I'll get it," Linda said.

Francesca looked up, slightly surprised.

"Consider it a down payment," Linda said. "On being fully present."

Francesca smiled.

"Tonight then."

"Tonight," Linda agreed.

Outside, they parted without touching.

***

Francesca picked her up at seven exactly.

Neither of them spoke much on the drive. Francesca hummed softly to the music, one hand on the wheel.

"Are you nervous?" Francesca asked.

"No," Linda said.

Francesca glanced at her. "You're a bad liar."

"I know." Linda looked out the window. "I'm nervous."

Francesca said nothing, which was somehow more reassuring than anything she might have said.

The apartment was warm, the table already set, something cooking in the kitchen that smelled of garlic and wine. Old house, high ceilings.

"He cooks?" Linda said.

"He wants to make an impression." Francesca took Linda's coat.

From the kitchen came the sound of movement, then Giovanni appeared in the doorway.

Linda had seen him before - at faculty events, across rooms - but always at a distance. Up close he was different. Tall, dark-eyed, with a face that looked as if it had been through something difficult.

He looked at her directly.

"Linda. I'm glad you came."

"You say that like you weren't sure I would."

"I wasn't."

Francesca had moved to the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame - watching.

"Forty minutes," Giovanni said. "Come in if you want."

Linda followed him.

The kitchen was intimate in a way the larger rooms weren't. Giovanni moved through it with the ease. Linda sat on a stool at the counter and watched him work.

"Francesca tells me you're studying literature," he said, not looking up.

"Among other things."

"What other things?"

"I'm still figuring that out."

He considered that. "I like the students who come in certain they know what they think and leave uncertain. The ones who leave more certain than they arrived worry me."

Linda smiled. "Is that a warning?"

"It's an observation. What you do with it is up to you."

"She talks about you," he said, after a moment.

"What does she say?"

"That you're harder to manage than you appear."

Linda absorbed that. "Is that a compliment?"

"From Francesca?" He glanced over his shoulder. "It's the highest one she gives."

They ate slowly, the three of them falling into conversation - about the city, about books, about a film Giovanni had seen twice and Francesca refused to watch on principle. Linda found herself laughing more than once, watching the two of them together. She felt, unexpectedly, included in something she didn't have a name for yet.

Somewhere during the second bottle of wine she stopped thinking about what the evening was moving toward.

Then dinner was over, and the plates were cleared, and the candles had burned low.

Giovanni looked at Francesca.

Francesca looked at Linda.

"Ready?" Francesca said.

Linda set down her glass.

"Yes," she said.

Francesca led her down the hallway.

Giovanni followed at a slight distance, as if giving Linda room to change her mind. She didn't change her mind.

One lamp burned low. Linda stood just inside the doorway - the high ceiling, the old furniture, the quality of the silence.

Then Francesca reached past her and turned the lamp off.

Darkness, complete and immediate.

The warmth of two bodies near hers. The faint smell of candle smoke from dinner. The soft sound of fabric moving in the dark. Her own heartbeat, which she could feel in her throat.

Francesca's voice came from somewhere close. "Sit on the edge of the bed."

Linda sat.

The quiet sounds of undressing. She reached down and removed her own shoes, set them aside. Her hands were steady, which surprised her.

"Lie back," Francesca said.

Linda lay back.

Then Giovanni's hand found her face in the dark - just his fingertips, tracing her jaw with a lightness that made her breath catch. Slow, and slow, and slow. Like he had all night. Like he intended to use it. She was surprised by the physical reality of his masculinity - by what she felt as he loomed over her. She had noticed it before, but now the realization came quietly, distinctly, and for a moment she froze.

Oh, she thought. Oh.

He acted leisurely. Just concentration. The kind that asked nothing back. His mouth found her collarbone, her shoulder, moved without rushing, and Linda felt something she hadn't anticipated: gratitude. Because of the care hidden beneath it. He treated her as if she deserved to be treated with care.

Then Francesca's lips found her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth - and Linda felt herself beginning to come apart at the seams of her own composure, felt herself reaching toward both of them at once, toward the warmth and the dark and the unhurried patience of it. And somewhere close, Francesca's voice, stripped of everything except what was true: "Let us."

Linda closed her eyes.

Let them.

***

It happened in the dark, during the second week.

Francesca had gone to the bathroom to wash her face, the door cracked, a narrow blade of yellow light cutting across the floor.

Linda lay on her side, watching the narrow blade of yellow light from the bathroom door, tasting and smelling Francesca and Giovanni. Every small movement under the sheet reminded her of where their hands and everything had been - and everything else.

Giovanni didn't move toward her the way he usually did - slow, deliberate, asking nothing. Instead, he reached out and touched the side of Linda's neck, his palm warm, his fingers threading into her hair. It wasn't a prelude to anything sexual. It was tight, almost desperate.

He leaned down until his forehead rested against her shoulder.

"Stay," he whispered.

The word was so low Linda almost missed it over the sound of the running water in the bathroom.

"Giovanni -"

"Not for her," he said softly, his breath hot against her skin. "For me. Look at me when we're in the dark. Just once."

Linda turned her head, but before their eyes could meet, the water stopped running in the bathroom.

Giovanni withdrew his hand instantly, sliding back to his side of the bed as if he'd never moved. When the door opened and the light spilled in, he was already staring at the ceiling again, perfectly still, perfectly composed.

***

She stopped counting the nights somewhere in the third week.

What she noticed instead were smaller things.

The way Giovanni made coffee - two sugars, stirred counterclockwise. Francesca's attention, when she was pleased. Which was no easy feat. The way the old apartment settled into itself at night, the tick and creak of it.

She noticed these things and then noticed herself noticing them, and that second noticing was the one that kept her awake.

One evening Francesca handed her a glass of wine before she'd asked for one.

Linda took it. Said nothing.

She didn't think about the exit.

One night Francesca sat in the wingback chair by the window rather than the bed. She had a glass of wine resting on the armrest, her silhouette dark against the glass, the faint glow of streetlamps cutting across her knees.

Linda noticed, but said nothing.

The room felt larger with Francesca at a distance.

When Giovanni shifted beside her, his warm breath touched the curve of her crotch, Linda was acutely aware of the line of sight connecting all three of them.

Giovanni moved with his usual quiet focus, his hands steady on her waist, pulling her closer. But under Francesca's gaze, every touch carried a double weight. The scrape of his skin, the pressure of his mouth - it wasn't just happening between the two of them; it was an exhibit being observed.

Linda looked toward the window.

In the dim light, she couldn't see Francesca's eyes clearly, but she felt the stillness of her attention. It was a physical pressure in the room, as palpable as Giovanni's weight over her. Every soft sound Linda made, every quickening of her pulse felt magnified, carried across the dark space to where Francesca sat holding her glass.

Instead of closing her eyes, Linda kept them open. She watched the dark silhouette by the window as Giovanni's hands traced down her back. For the first time, Linda stopped trying to manage the moment or wonder who was directing whom. She simply let herself be seen - exposed, unhurried, and entirely unmoored in the dark.

Afterward, when Giovanni's breathing slowed into sleep, Linda slipped out from under the heavy quilt. The cool air hit her bare skin, sharp and grounding. She crossed the cold floorboards and sat on the arm of Francesca's chair.

"You're very far away tonight," Linda whispered.

"I wanted to watch." Francesca didn't look up immediately; her hand reached out and found Linda's, resting lightly on her knee, her fingers still holding the faint chill of the windowpane.

"What did you see?"

Francesca's thumb moved slowly across her knuckles, warm skin meeting cold glass. "Someone who's stopped being careful."

Linda held her gaze. "Is that good?"

Francesca's thumb moved slowly across her knuckles. "I think it's very good."

Outside the window the city made its quiet nighttime sounds.

"I don't recognize myself," Linda said.

Francesca looked up at her. "Which part?"

"The part that doesn't want to leave."

Francesca turned Linda's hand over in hers, pressed her lips briefly to the inside of her wrist.

"Then don't," she said.

Linda stayed.

***

Linda had started coming twenty minutes early. She never said why, and Giovanni never asked, but when she walked in, the kitchen was already quiet, the radio playing low Italian talk radio he only listened to when he was alone.

He handed her a small glass of sparkling water with a strip of lemon peel, exactly the way she liked it, without looking up from his cutting board.

"She's at a department meeting until six," he said.

"I know," Linda said, leaning her hip against the counter. "I checked the schedule."

Giovanni paused, his knife hovering over a bunch of parsley. He looked up at her, his dark eyes steady, stripped of the polite, slightly heavy patience he wore when Francesca was in the room.

"You don't have to come when she isn't here," he said softly.

"Do you want me to leave?"

Giovanni looked at her for a long moment. Then he set the knife down, wiped his hands on a towel, and reached across the narrow space between them. He rested his hand over hers on the cold granite counter, his thumb tracing the bone of her wrist.

"No," he said.

Ten minutes later, the front door clicked, Francesca's heels sounded in the hallway, and the air in the apartment instantly reshaped itself around her entry. Giovanni took his hand back and picked up his knife.

***

She couldn't have said afterward what was different about that night.

Nothing announced itself. Dinner, wine, the familiar warmth of the apartment. Then the bedroom, the lamp going out, the dark they'd grown so accustomed to navigating by feel and breath and the small sounds of each other.

She reached out and found Francesca's wrist.

Francesca stilled.

Linda drew her hand away, gently but completely. Then she shifted their positions - slow, deliberate, giving Francesca every opportunity to redirect her.

Francesca didn't.

Linda pressed her back against the pillows. Found her wrists. Held them.

The room was very quiet.

"Linda - " Francesca's voice, lower, unsteady.

"Shh."

And Francesca - Francesca - was quiet.

Linda held her there. Felt the slight tension in her wrists. The stillness that was chosen, was being chosen, moment by moment. Giovanni at the edge of the bed. Watching.

She leaned down.

Kissed her.

Not the way Francesca kissed. Hungrily. Francesca's breath hitched against her mouth, and Linda felt that, and kissed her again. Again. Differently. Again.

Francesca made a sound. Not a word. Not quite.

"Does it - " Linda started.

"Yes," Francesca said. Before the question finished. "Yes."

Linda felt something loosen in her chest.

Somewhere in the darkness Giovanni exhaled - slow and private.

Linda smiled against Francesca's mouth.

Then she stopped talking.

***

It happened on a Tuesday.

Giovanni was at the counter chopping herbs. Linda sat on her usual stool, leaning forward to say something about a film they'd all talked about the week before.

Francesca walked into the kitchen, carrying a stack of books. She didn't look at Linda. She walked straight past her, set the books down on the stool right next to Linda's - forcing Linda to pull her elbows in - and reached past her face to grab a glass from the cabinet.

"Giovanni," Francesca said, her voice flat. "Did you finish the draft?"

"Almost," Giovanni said, not looking up from his cutting board.

Linda tried to bridge the sudden freeze. "I was just telling Giovanni -"

"Linda, please," Francesca cut in, not raising her voice. She was looking at her phone, tapping out a message. "I have a headache, and we're trying to figure out the schedule for tomorrow."

Silence fell over the kitchen.

Giovanni kept chopping. His knife hit the wood in a steady, deliberate rhythm. He didn't look at Linda either.

Francesca finally looked up from her screen, her eyes sweeping over Linda as if measuring how long it would take her to put her coat on.

"Are you staying for dinner?" Francesca asked.

"No," Linda said, her voice tighter than she wanted it to be. "I should get back."

"Alright," Francesca said, already turning her back to open the refrigerator. "Close the door tight on your way out. It sticks."

A week later, after dinner, Francesca touched her wrist lightly.

"I think you should sleep at your own place tonight," she said.

"Alright," Linda said.

Giovanni walked her to the door and held it open, his dark eyes steady on hers.

He seemed to be choosing a word, or a gesture. He didn't find it.

Instead he simply held her gaze, and in that moment she felt it - his gratitude, his regret.

"Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight," she said.

The door closed.

Linda stood in the hallway of the old building for a moment.

Then she walked out into the night.

***

She took long walks in the evenings, the city cooling around her as autumn deepened. She thought about the first night in that car - the kissing, her hands folded in her lap, the strange pressure of not doing what she wanted to do. Her hands. Still patient. Strange.

She thought about Francesca handing her wine before she'd asked for it. About Giovanni stirring his coffee counterclockwise. About lying in the dark between them, listening to the apartment settle, feeling - for the first time in longer than she could remember - entirely present.

She saw them once, about a month later.

She was crossing the far end of the quad when she caught movement - Giovanni and Francesca, walking together along the path by the old library. Giovanni was saying something. Francesca tilted her head toward him and laughed.

She wasn't putting it away now.

Giovanni looked at her laughing and his expression was so nakedly fond it was almost embarrassing to witness.

Linda stopped walking.

She clearly remembered their smell and their taste.

She watched them until they turned the corner and were gone. Then she stood there a moment longer, in the space where they'd been. She'd been allowed inside that, for a time. That was not a small thing.

She adjusted the strap of her bag and walked on.

***

Linda walked into the dorm. Sherry was asleep, her clothes from the night before - Linda's skirt among them - crumpled on the floor by the closet.

Linda didn't make a sound. She picked up the skirt, folded it, and put it away in her own drawer. Then she walked to Sherry's desk, took her perfume back, and set it on her own side of the room.

She opened a clean notebook.

I thought I was watching her, she wrote. I think she was watching me.

She looked at the sentence.

Then she kept writing.