Valerie’s driver politely and professionally refused to give any meaningful answers to the questions she asked. Some of his responses were monosyllabic yes or no in the least informative way possible. The rest he deflected, doing so clearly, directly, and steadfastly.

The following day was uneventful, and it passed in a haze of melancholy and uncertainty. Valerie and Dana shared no more deep conversations about her feelings, only polite pleasantries. Valerie wished she knew how to break the ice that seemed to be forming between them, but she could never seem to draw Dana out when the woman did not want to speak; and being honest with herself, she still felt hurt and wary.

It was most of an hour before Valerie was able to speak coherently. She was huddled under a blanket— an expensive one, presumably, but itchy wool against her bare skin. She barely noticed.

“Please… Not— not like this?” Dana paused, holding the latex hood. Valerie’s expression was sad— grieving. Dana could tell that the feelings were genuine, that the girl was not bratting. She did not understand why that day was so different from past days, in honest did not understand the plea— not like what?— and she felt heat rising in the back of her neck.

The evening before. Dana and Lucca were in an unremarkable cocktail bar, the closest spot to their client’s office, where they could sneak off for a celebratory drink. They sat facing each other across a small two-seat table, leaning in to hear each other more easily over the din of tech workers drinking their after-work drinks.

Dana was unusually quiet for the rest of the morning, and Valerie tried to be on her best behavior, for fear of worsening the woman’s mood. Dana showered, disappeared into her office for a few hours of work. Around lunch time, she summoned Valerie to the bedroom.

“Good relationships are about communication. How can she meet your needs if you won’t tell her what they are?”

A week slipped by with Valerie scarcely realizing; with little discussion, Dana returned to what passed for normal routine. Valerie’s newly complicated feelings about the situation did not precisely fade, but they mingled with the day-to-day mix of boredom, frustrated arousal, pain, and pleasure.

Dana lay beside Valerie for most of an hour while the girl cried herself out. Valerie would have preferred to be alone in her sorrow, even if that meant curled on the bare mattress in the cell. Telling Dana to go away was not a choice she felt foolish enough to even consider.

A short story about love, pain, and making things worse for yourself.