Marge helped me into a bathroom and with some difficulty I managed to sit on the end of the bath with my feet in the tub. With warm water running Marge left and returned with a jumper. I realised that I was quite cold. While running I had worn brief nylon shorts and on top just a cotton t-shirt with no bra. I was now aware that my nipples had hardened with the cold. My boobs were small, which was one of the things that I disliked about myself. I disliked my boobs most of all. When I was sixteen it seemed as though every other girl, certainly in high school had bigger boobs than me. The bulky jersey warmed me up and I rubbed my hands up and my arms.
"I'll bathe your foot until there is enough water to cover your feet, tell me if I hurt you" Marge now said to me.
Marge knelt beside the tub and using a washer she began to gently bathe my ankle. She asked me questions about my parents and school. Now with the warm water and Marge's gentle washing my ankle throbbed in a rhythmic way and I closed my eyes paying attention to the beat. I was suddenly aware that Marge was no longer speaking or bathing my foot. My flimsy shorts had been pulled tight between my legs as my body weight was pushed forward by the inclined slope of the bath. Looking down between my legs I saw two fine blonde pubic hairs, having escaped the restraint of the panties under my shorts. Were then now visible, curled against my inner thigh. Simultaneously as I registered the hair I was aware of Marge's gaze that was now focused between my legs. She turned her head and looked at me briefly and so quickly did the moment pass.
I wasn't sure afterward exactly what I had seen in her eyes, vulnerability, longing? I was shocked without knowing why. There was something about Marge's eyes, about that look, something it reminded me of Then Marge was bustling. Dressing my ankle, chatting, supporting my awkward movement to a chair in a sunroom, mothering with a cup of tea and a blanket tucked about me. From the depths of a cupboard, a walking stick was found an abstract oil painting hung. I decided before drifting into a sleep it was a landscape configured with boobs, shoulders and flanks of tonal landforms.
I suddenly jolted awake as I remembered clearly the expression in Marge's eyes which were the same look definitely longing and Marne crying and my...my confusion and later thinking about it my longing? I had been kept back by the sports teacher and the changing rooms were deserted. Normally, I hurried to change and shower, uncomfortable with the noise and casual camaraderie of the other girls. That day I dawdled, enjoying being on my own and I stayed under the shower mindful of the warmth. The water beat down against my boobs coursing in rivulets, arcing over the rise of flesh. My nipples wept tears; the puckered pink crests tightly shut like babies' eyes.
Yes, my boobs were small, but they were also firm, marbled I thought because I have fair skin and it is possible to see lightly etched veins like tracery in marble. Holding my boobs, I formed a catchment so that each nipple nuzzled a pool of warm water damned by my hands. I liked the flare of my hips angled from my narrow waist. The fuzz between my legs was splayed and flattened like long grass after a storm. Turning my back to the shower and moving forward a step and bending at the waist caused a stream of water to see passage over my bottom. A small stream like a lover's tongue, curious and insistent found my sex before surrendering to gravity. Cleaning my bottom, hands on hips and thrusting my pelvis at the flow of the shower that was now beginning to radiate between my legs.
Languidly my hand sought the mound of my sex as I thought of Brian and how he had wanted to touch me, how eventually, almost petulantly because I didn't want his hands on my body, he had guided my hand to his groin. I could feel the urgent hardness of him and at the same time a feeling of panic, of wanting to be anywhere but labouring and sweaty in the confines of the car. The cooling water reminded me of the need to change and catch up with the routine of the day. Turning off the taps with eyes muffled in a towel I stepped from the shower as Marne stood there looking at me. I called out her name, not in greeting but more shocked that anybody who had been staring at me. Marne looked strangely at me, wide eyed and staring and her hands were reaching as though to touch my boobs.
Then her hand jerked to her mouth, tears spiked her eyes and with a muffled cry, Marne turned and fled. For a long time after, usually at night in bed, I replayed the scene in my mind. It was the startled, fearful look in Marne's eyes that I returned to. I came to believe I had seen in the troubled depths, a yearning, perhaps, worship. Always the remembrance ended in fantasy as Marne's hand touched my boob. Gradually my fantasy developed taking shape and detailed form. Like colours and shapes liberated by water in a child's paint book my fantasy enriched within my mind. Marne's fingers teasing the points of my boobs with her tongue lapping like a cat at the moistness between my thighs.
In reality, Marne and I never spoke about the incident, remaining as before distant. Marne blended anonymously into the school's daily fabric, for no known reason ever an outsider. Not unpopular, simply never accounted. But it was as though she had transferred the longing I had seen in her eyes, to my being. I was obsessed by my feelings. My desires, a confusion of lust, guilt and self-doubt were focused not on Marne but on the knowledge that I was attracted to women. I joined in with my friend's social chatter, using David as a passport, but all the time I had a sense of acting a part and wondering who the real me was. Aware now that the sun had transferred its warmth to another window, I realised that it must now be late afternoon. Perhaps I should go home. Using the walking stick I gained my feet.
I could hear music and followed the sound. The strings from the slow movement of Swan Lake drew me down the hall towards the rear of the house. A partly open door provided a view into a room and a blur of movement accorded with the raised intensity of the music. Marge was dancing, pirouetting, crouching, leaping and disappearing only to reappear with arms gracefully arched and pointed toes stepping. Her image was caught in a mirror attached to the wall nearest the door. Carefully, I leant against the wall and watched. Marge was totally absorbed and unaware. There was a fluidity about her movements that was captivating. Her body seemingly weightless, defying nature and describing a smooth progression of changing form. So graceful did she appear, it was as though the walls were the only boundaries that the elements of space and body were as one flexible medium...
The music reached a climax and Marge folded with the last note. The silence was immense and Marge stood and suddenly noticed me.
