Anjali's Red Scarf Ch. 12

We kept on, teasing and stroking and occasionally wrestling one another, until eventually fatigue caught up with us and we subsided into a slow-moving cuddle session drifting gradually towards sleep, murmuring affectionate and not entirely coherent things to one another. I was almost out when Anjali said, "And afterwards, Lady Tanglespine showed Princess Lilabel to a different gateway, at the opposite end of her domain, and when Lilabel left for the second time she did not return to her father's kingdom."

That wasn't quite our last time—we still had a day left, and we made the most of it—but it's the one I remember.

* * * * *

My flight left from a different gate to hers, and half an hour before. We scouted the two gates together, and then stayed together at mine until the last possible moment, and hugged one another goodbye. It hurt. like. fuck.

* * * * *

When I opened my suitcase in Amsterdam, I found a small parcel that hadn't been there when I packed it, addressed to me in Anjali's tidy handwriting.

Inside were two Lego figures, one a white woman (well, Default Yellow) in trousers, whose hair looked something like mine, the other a darker-skinned woman in a dress and, for some reason, a blue superhero mask. There was also a note.

Dear Sarah,

I never quite knew what to call our relationship. There are so many different words and none of them quite fit. But then, words are just boxes we make up to put things in. If we don't fit in a box, that is a fault of the boxes and not of us. Pluto is Pluto, and strange and wonderful, no matter what we call it. I would not be the person I am without you, and I hope I have left my mark on you too. Just to say that you mattered to me, and you still do matter to me. Just because we can't be everything to one another doesn't mean we're nothing; just because it wasn't forever doesn't mean it doesn't matter.

Take care, and don't be a stranger.

I was going to give you the scarf back to remember me by, but I have decided that I want to keep it. I got you these instead.

Love, Anjali.

P.S. Ignore the mask, my options were limited so I had to cannibalise a Kamala Khan figure.

I laughed, and then I cried.

* * * * *

I had four days of work time in Amsterdam. It had been two and a half years since my previous visit, and most of the people I'd met with last time had moved on to other projects, but Miep was still there, in a new and larger office.

"They were very happy with how I managed the project," she told me, "and now I'm chief operations manager here. I understand you also have been promoted."

"I suppose I have."

"This worked out well for both of us, then. Shall we drink to that, after your presentation?"

"Why not?"

I gave a talk to Miep's team, explaining how the facility management system worked—at least, the bits it was useful for them to know—and what its limitations were. From them I picked up several suggestions for future improvements and learned a few useful things about how the reality of the place compared to our mathematical model.

I'd expected the drinks afterward to be a team event, but it turned out to be just me and Miep. Sitting in a booth in a brewhouse that was pleasantly quiet (by brewhouse standards) and dimly-lit, we chatted about our careers and then gradually the conversation drifted to life outside work, and family. She'd broken up with her partner a year ago—I noticed her carefully skirting around any mention of gender—and I said something vague about "being at a transition point".

"Where are you staying?" she asked.

"Airport Sheraton."

"What's that like?"

"Not bad. Standard hotel."

"I always find hotels are a little bit soulless." She finished her drink. "You would be quite welcome to stay over at my place instead, if you prefer."

"Are you..." I reran the conversation in my head. "Miep, is that a come-on?"

"It most certainly is."

I had to think through my answer. I liked Miep, and Lucy had told me she wasn't the jealous type, and I was a long way from home. And yet...

"That is a very lovely offer, Miep, but unfortunately I cannot take you up on it. Things are complicated right now, but there's somebody waiting for me at home." Which was easier than trying to articulate: I find you attractive, and nobody would object if I did, but I am busy processing the end of one thing and the beginning of another, and there is nothing left over for this.

But I didn't want to hurt her feelings, so I said, "I think I can do this much, though." I leaned in and kissed her, briefly but firmly. "I hope that's better than nothing." And then I went back to my hotel room, which was clean and felt too large for one.

* * * * *

Lucy was waiting for me when I cleared Customs. We hugged, and she ruffled my hair, and then drove me back to my place even though I could easily have taken the airport shuttle. On the way she asked me how the trip had gone, and I told her, and she nodded as I talked.

At the end, she said, "Was it what you needed?"

"I think so, yes. Thank you for...well, you know."

"I am glad. Now get some sleep."

Two days later, once I was a little less jet lagged, she dropped round for dinner at my place. After the meal, I said, "So I believe I owe you a thing."

"I haven't forgotten. You said anything, within reason?"

"Anything."

She studied me for a little while, then nodded. "Sarah, would you tell me about your tattoo?"

THE END

* * * * *

This is an imperfect story.

Last time I wrote a novel-length story for Literotica it took a little over a year. This one took more than three. Writing requires a lot of mental focus for me, and that's been in short supply even before the shit-show that was 2020. Plus, although this is about the same length as "Stringed Instrument", the structure is more complex and took a lot more thought.

Sarah isn't me, but there's a lot of me in her, and I'm not the same person I was three years ago. Some of the things I meant to do with this story didn't end up happening, either because they no longer fit the characters in my head, or because I thought of something better. There are parts of this that are rougher than I'd like, but an imperfect story completed is better than a perfect story that will never be finished. So here it is.

Self-censorship is a big part of the autistic experience. We get absolutely enthralled by something, be it Renaissance costuming or lizards or model railways, and we love to talk about the things we love...but we quickly learn that we have to choke that back or risk being seen as weird.

It didn't feel right to do that in this story. I needed to let Sarah be her authentic self. So I gave myself permission to let her talk about her passions for as long as she wanted. I'm sure that decision (not to mention my erratic posting schedule) has lost me some readers along the way. But for those of you who stayed to the end—I appreciate you very much. Thank you for listening to Sarah's monologuing. I hope you've learned something useful about graph theory, container management, and/or German goth music.

One part of this story that's not based on personal experience is the sex-work aspect. Here I have benefited greatly from reading first-hand accounts from RL sex workers, and I'd recommend doing the same if you'd like to learn more about the complexities of the industry. This story sticks very much to the safe and non-confronting end of that industry, but all sex workers deserve to be safe and respected.

Thanks to everybody who beta-read, contributed advice, and pointed out problems in the story, including but not limited to AwkwardMD, LaRascasse, LesbianChickLit, stickygirl, Vix Giovanni, BrokenSpokes, Omenainen, Blind Justice, and my partner. Please check out their stories! And thanks to A. for vital Lego fact-checking. Details matter.

Last of all, thanks to those of you who've read, voted, and/or commented on this series (please do vote!) and love to any of my fellow aliens who may have recognised a little bit of themselves in this.