Billie-Jean & Sammie-Rae II
The usual waft of chlorine hits me first, sharp and clean, as I push through the staff room door on Tuesday morning.
My red one-piece feels tight, constricting, like it's holding in all the things I can't say.
Sammie's already at the guard station, her brunette ponytail swaying as she scans the pool. The morning sun catches the water, throwing diamond ripples across her face.
"Morning," she says, her voice casual, but her eyes find mine and hold.
Her gaze allows the intangible to filter between us – a hint of lips and shared breath.
Her scent, coconut, hair shampoo, I guess.
"Morning," I jolt from my mouth, climbing up to join her.
The platform creaks under my weight. I want to ask about Monday, about that kiss in the dim office light, about the way my body still hums when I think about it.
But Peter Arnold rounds the corner before I can form the words.
"Ladies," he says, his gaze lingering on Sammie's chest.
"Beautiful day for it."
His polo shirt is stretched tight across his stomach, and sweat already beads at his receding hairline.
"Remember, eyes on the water at all times. No distractions."
Sammie's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
She turns her attention back to the pool.
I follow her lead, focusing on the splash of children, the rhythmic bounce of the diving board.
The silence between us stays, loaded with everything we're not in a public position to say.
Arnold lingers, making notes on his clipboard, his presence like oil on water – suffocating, slick.
He male stares at Sammie's chest, if I did, I would be labelled 'baby gay.'
Every time I risk a glance at Sammie, he's there, watching, making the space between us feel monitored, as if it's contaminated space.
An hour later, Arnold claps his hands together.
"Sammie, I need you for the adult learn-to-swim session. Mrs Henderson is having trouble with her breathing again."
Sammie slides down the ladder, her movements fluid despite the interruption.
"Sure thing."
She catches my eye as she walks away, a small, apologetic smile playing on her lips.
I watch her lead Mrs Henderson to the shallow end, demonstrating proper breathing technique with exaggerated movements. Her hands guide the older woman's arms, her voice carrying across the water.
I'm left alone on the tower, the sun beating down on my shoulders.
My fingers trace the edge of the rescue tube, the plastic texture grounding me.
From this distance, Sammie looks smaller, less real. The ache in my chest surprises me – sharp, immediate. I blink rapidly, the world blurring through moisture I refuse to acknowledge as more.
The shift drags on. I blow my whistle at a running boy, reminding a teenager not to dive in the shallow end.
All the while, I'm hyper-aware of Sammie in the distance, her laugh carrying across the water when she splashes Mrs Henderson playfully or assists another older lady.
Peter Arnold has moved on to harass the maintenance crew, but the damage is done – our moment is lost.
When our shift relief arrives, Sammie walks toward the staff room, her towel slung over her shoulder.
I follow, the concrete hot under bare feet.
In the quiet of the changing area, she turns to me, her expression unreadable.
"Hey," she says softly, pulling something from her bag.
It's a card, glossy and colourful – an advertisement for a dance at The Rainbow Room this Friday. Written in bold purple pen across the front: "dress to slay me, babes."
My fingers close around the card.
"I –" I start, but she's already moving toward the door.
"Tonight," she says, pausing at the entrance. "Be there."
And then she's gone, leaving me with the card, and the scent of her coconut stays hanging in the air.
Back in my apartment, I spread the card on my bed.
The rainbow letters seem to mock me.
"Dress to slay me."
What does that even mean? My wardrobe is a collection of safe choices – denim shorts, band t-shirts, and worn hoodies. Skirts and dresses, long out of fashion. Nothing that slays.
I pull out everything, creating mountains of fabric on my floor. Nothing feels right. Too casual, too plain, too me.
Finally, buried in the back of my closet, I find it – a black dress I bought on impulse and never wore.
It's short, tighter than anything I usually choose, with thin straps that cross at the back. The fabric clings when I hold it up to my body, promising to reveal more than I'm comfortable showing.
The evening arrives, and the hours preparing pass like they do, with my stomach in knots. I stand before my mirror, the black dress hugging my curves, my blonde hair loose around my shoulders instead of in its usual ponytail. Black boots with a slight heel complete the look. I barely recognise myself – this version of Billie-Jean looks bold, confident, ready for anything.
Ready for anything? The girl who dreams of love only into a banana cream bolster.
The Rainbow Room pulses with music and flashing lights. Bodies move together on the dance floor, a sea of rainbow flags and glitter.
My heart races as I scan the crowd. And then I see her.
Sammie leans against the bar, a drink in hand, wearing a silver crop top that flashes with the lights and a black miniskirt that barely covers anything.
Her boots are tall, laced up to her calves, and her dark hair falls in waves around her shoulders.
She pushes off the bar and moves toward me, her hips swaying with a confidence I can only dream of.
"Well, hello," she says, her voice low. "Look at you."
My cheeks tingle. "You too."
Her fingers brush my lower back, just above the curve of my ass.
The touch enlivens me. Does she see my tremble?
"I knew you'd slay."
Her other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer.
We're dancing now, or something like it – swaying together as the music washes over us.
Her hands explore, mapping my body through the thin dress. Fingers trace my spine, my ribs, the dip of my waist.
When her palms cup my ass cheeks, squeezing gently, I gasp.
No one's ever touched me like this – possessive, sure, demanding nothing but offering everything.
"Sammie," I breathe, but she just smiles, her dark eyes glittering.
Her lips graze mine.
She flicks my hair.
"Monday's girl so full of grace. Tuesday's girl, fair of face"
Then she launches her pash.
Deeper, hungrier than Monday.
Her tongue parts my lips, exploring, claiming.
French, full, forceful.
I kiss her back with everything I have, Tuesday's coiled tension pouring into this moment.
My hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer until there's no space between us.
Lips smooch.
Tongues snog.
Twisting tips; playful, intimate, and the mutual enthusiasm of locked faces.
She sucks my upper lip, and I tingle between my thighs.
So fluid, as she leads a dance between our tongues and glossy lips.
Her rhythm is impeccable; she guides my chin and nose to follow her.
Sammie's hip finds mine, a nudge, a dip.
And all the while, our tongues tango and escalate to a rumba finale of slick fitting. A sleek shared sync of mutual captivation.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
Then, the control of the girl leaves me flabbergasted.
"Catch you Wednesday, kitten," Sammie whispers, blowing into my ear.
She turns and melts away into the shadows of the night.
I stand there, my body thrumming, my lips expanded, puffy.
Did I really let a girl massage my butt in the middle of a crowded dance floor?
Did I U-Haul French in public?
The thought should shock me, but all I feel is a honied mellow warmth spreading through my chest—a promise named Wednesday.