When Blake woke up the next morning, it took her a moment to remember she was in Jenny’s bed. She stretched, and it felt like she was swimming in silk. High thread-count sheets had never meant anything to her before now. When she turned over, she almost gasped when she saw Jenny, whose skin was as smooth as the sheets. She looked more beautiful than Blake could imagine, let alone capture in a drawing. The line from her neck, down to her shoulder, down to her elbow, was somehow both angular and soft. Strong and still inviting pampering. Her whole body, wrapped in the sheets, looked so perfect it was almost untouchable, godly, pure. At the same time, she was one of the most sensual, alive, and embodied women Blake had ever known.
She thought back to Liza. Yes, she’d made that mistake when she got back to New York. A quick, pleasant, but somehow shallow fuck on Liza’s couch, and Blake didn’t want to stay the night. Didn’t want to see her sleep. Didn’t want to inhale her smell, surround herself with Liza’s things. It was like she didn’t really want to touch her. Not really, not wholly.
When she was in Jenny’s presence, all Blake wanted to do was fuse their bodies together. In the middle of the night, even as they turned away to get a little more of the bed to fall asleep, Blake made sure their toes were touching. This morning, watching her sleep, she rested a hand lightly on Jenny’s back. She needed her skin to touch Jenny’s. It was like she needed it to breathe.
She didn’t want to move, but she had to pee and put on coffee and get something for breakfast. Not seem like a freeloader. Cook this hard-working goddess a good meal. She needed to call Amy, too. Tell her she was going to be late, maybe by a few hours. There was no way she was leaving Jenny’s apartment anytime soon. She wanted to stay in their cocoon of love and sex and pleasure.
Blake gently removed her hand from Jenny’s back and rolled out of bed. She pulled out a long red Henley from her bag. Split neck, just at the clavicle. She felt graceful in it, and she wanted Jenny to think she was beautiful. She felt beautiful. The way Jenny touched her… She took a deep breath, shivering, remembering. It made her feel gorgeous. Jenny’s reverence for Blake’s body somehow amplified Blake’s reverence for her own.
She crept quietly into the kitchen, put the coffee on. She wanted to present Jenny with breakfast, but it didn’t feel quite appropriate. She was in Jenny’s house, and they weren’t at the point that Blake could start whipping through cupboards and dirtying dishes, were they? And even if they were, what did Jenny have that Blake could eat? The frozen vegan scones were no doubt gone.
She should have brought something. She should have gotten them a hotel room so they could order room service. Suddenly, her calling Jenny and inviting herself over didn’t seem fun or gamine, but gauche. Jenny deserved room service. A proper date. Blake had been too casual for too long, stuck in some other kind of life of crashing on couches and staying up all night working and rolling out of bed to get a bagel. Jenny was different.
Blake gingerly opened the cupboards. Registered where Jenny kept her mugs. Plates. Forks. Oatmeal. Peanut butter. Okay. She could work with that.
She tiptoed back into the bedroom. Jenny had rolled over. The sheet was down by her waist, her breasts exposed, perfect nipples hard from the slight early morning chill. Blake wanted to crawl in next to her. Just the sight of Jenny made her wet. Jenny opened her eyes halfway and looked at Blake standing in the doorway. Seeming to like what she saw, she smiled and closed her eyes again. “Found the coffee?” she said, the sleep making her voice a little croaky.
“I did,” Blake said.
Jenny stretched her arms above her head and said, still with her eyes closed, “Lay down with me while you wait for it to beep.”
Blake couldn’t take one more step in the room, she knew, or she’d lose all control. “I want to make you breakfast, okay?”
Jenny opened her eyes and smiled. “I bought us fruit. All sorts of things. It’s all in a bag in the fridge.”
“Mind if I use your kitchen?”
Jenny smiled, wide. “What’s mine is yours.” Blake felt like there was a word missing at the end of that sentence, like Jenny wanted to say, “honey,” or “sweetie.”
And Blake wanted to say, “love.” What’s mine is yours, my love. But what did Blake have for Jenny? A dingy apartment. A sordid sexual past. Her art.
Blake went into the kitchen again and found the bag Jenny mentioned. She had bought pints of berries, a whole pineapple, pears. Blake smiled at the care Jenny had taken, the way she’d anticipated Blake’s arrival so tenderly. She was struck again by the odd way they wanted to care for one another.
It felt like—no, Blake told herself, walking around the kitchen barefoot, feeling like she was floating—it was—love.
She put together breakfast as Jenny slept. Cinnamon oatmeal, a plate of fruit, popovers made with curdled soy milk, brown sugar, and canned pumpkin she found in the back of the cupboard, a little dusty. Almond milk smoothies. Steaming black coffee. She was about to carry it into the bedroom on a tray, when Jenny appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing paisley blue pajamas—a matching set, shorts and a button-down shirt. She had combed her hair, and Blake could see from across the room that she’d put on a little lip gloss. She didn’t need it, but the gesture touched Blake, both for what it said about her fastidiousness and what it said about how she wanted to impress her.
She put the tray on the table. “Sit. Breakfast. Piping hot.”
Jenny sat obediently, curling her fingers around the warm mug, looking at Blake and the food with an expression of bewilderment.
“My gosh, how long have I been asleep?”
Blake sat across from her at the table. “I work fast.”
They ate. Feasted, really. The acrobatics of the night before had left her ravenous. Jenny, too, was eating the way she made love to Blake, with a sense of urgency and a desire to take it slow and savor it, all at the same time. Jenny wanted to taste everything in quick succession, but she also seemed to want it to last.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” she asked, between bits of popover.
“It’s just breakfast,” Blake said. Jenny shook her head.
“I usually have a granola bar. Really. How?”
“Out of necessity, I guess. Living in New York, it was always takeout food, the bodega around the corner. Good stuff. Real Chinese food with lip-numbing Sichuan peppers, New York pizza, the Neapolitan kind. Then I went vegan. It’s easy now, it takes basically no effort at all, but it wasn’t always. We didn’t have a real stove for a while, so I got one of those camp burners. Now in my studio that’s how I cook, mostly. Your kitchen is really nice.”
“This is nothing,” Jenny said. “My mother is going through the cookbook canon. Her kitchen—it’s one of those suburban ones with the huge stove and a fan and everything.”
“Double door fridge?”
Jenny popped a strawberry into her mouth and looked at Blake. “Yes, and a fan over the stove, and a microwave that pops out in a strange little drawer with a lot of very fancy settings.” Jenny paused, as if considering whether to continue. “She retired and started channeling all her energy into it.”
“Food?”
“Cooking, not even food. I’m not sure she likes eating all that much. And…”
“What else?”
“Me. Wanting a grandchild. Blah blah blah.”
Blake looked over at her. The tenderness she had for her mother and her unease about talking about her expectations were apparent on Jenny’s face. Her eyes were cast away from Blake all of a sudden, looking down, as if the corner of the table had some secrets on it that she was trying to decipher. Blake wondered if Jenny was pushing them into the “talk.” The “figuring out” that they were going to do.
Blake didn’t want go there. Not now. Grandchildren? She couldn’t talk about grandchildren. She was afraid she’d say Okay! I’ll do anything! She felt reckless, and she clammed up, looking at the corner of the table too.
As if reading her mind, Jenny said, “Forget I said that. Grandchildren! What am I talking about? Fruit! Have some more fruit!” She picked up the raspberries, which were still out of season but somehow sweet, and handed them over to Blake. Blake couldn’t help touching her. If she was reading Jenny’s nervousness correctly, it was based on that feeling of sublime falling. She was afraid she’d said too much, but she hadn’t. Blake wanted to say yes. She grabbed Jenny’s hand and interlaced their fingers. They locked their eyes on each other, and Blake’s heart was beating loudly and quickly. Jenny’s fingers were warm, sending pulses of heat all over Blake’s body. She stood up at the table and leaned toward Jenny. They had both grown quiet, serious. She brought Jenny’s hand to her lips and kissed each of her knuckles, slowly. Jenny seemed entranced, her eyes trained on Blake as she kissed.
There was more in each kiss than any words Blake could have thought of to utter.
Finally, Jenny broke the silence. “What time are you meeting Amy?”
“I pushed it off,” Blake said, “to be with you. I don’t want to go at all if you’re not coming with me. So come with me.”
“Okay,” said Jenny, staring at Blake, as if she was making a declaration. “I will.”