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Bette knows what women like. On a superficial level, it’s the impressive dates, the grand gestures, the expensive gifts. Someone to sweep them off of their feet. On a deeper level, it’s listening. Listening to their interests, learning about their world view, their concerns. And when you listen, you roughly draft their personality and ideals. Bette has mastered the art of listening to a professional level.
She goes through the brochure in her hands, memorizing the topics that will be discussed in today’s seminar about post-modernism and contemporary art. Because the speaker is cute, definitely her type from what she saw in the university’s website and she made it her life mission to have at least one conversation with the woman afterwards.
She’s done the most for women now that she thinks about it. Like that one time she swallowed entire Rimbeud poems in one night just to look like a smartass in front of the girl she was desperately trying to impress because he was her favorite poet. She fucking hated it, eventually, but the girl was so cute, she had to have her. Literature major that got tired of analyzing classical poem after classical poem during her studies so she slowly started drifting to the type of literature they don’t usually teach you in school or even at college. She shopped second hand and knew what Shakespeare ate for breakfast that morning of 1609.
Okay yes, she knows of poetry, she owns books, reads herself but Bette would be a liar if she didn’t admit her love for other art forms wasn’t way bigger.
She chuckles to herself as she thinks about her. It went downhill in the end but what Bette got out of that relationship was a new found love for Rimbaud (maybe it was Stockholm syndrome) and a bruise on her forehead from the book the girl threw her way when she found out what Bette’s actual profession was. Even though she doesn’t really flaunt the fact that she steals art for a living, for obvious reasons, silly her thought that girl was the one. But at least she had the courtesy to not give her away to the police and for that Bette will forever be grateful.
Bette straightens up in her seat when the lights inside the large hall dim and drops the flyer on her lap. All attention is on the stage and the audience claps when the woman from said flyer walks up to the podium.
She introduces herself as Tina Kennard but Bette already knows. Tina is shorter than Bette imagined, blonde hair is tied up in a neat ponytail and her choice of clothes is rather eccentric.
Tina starts ranting about the history of postmodernism followed up by a lengthy introduction to movements of today and all Bette can think of is how much she’d love to get to know her.
For the first forty minutes Bette puts her unexplainable hatred for anything post modern aside (it was more of an apathy towards the majority of the artwork of that era to be honest or maybe she was just picky) and actually does pay attention because it's crystal clear that the blonde on stage knows what she's talking about, her voice literally melting into Bette's ear drums like those golden mixed with platinum earrings she smuggled once.
However, halfway through the seminar Bette realizes that she really has to weigh her chances before making a fool out of herself. She takes out pen and paper, not really to take notes of what the other woman is saying (she’d much rather listen to her telling her all that in person) but to make two columns with all the traits that would potentially put her under the “gay” category as well as under Bette's radar.
It’s 70-30 by the time the seminar ends, 'gay' clearly prevailing and Bette smiles to herself, folding the paper in half to put it back inside her bag. She knows she really must be at her lowest because she just played statistics with someone else's life.
Well, to be fair, even if the percentages were reversed, the woman had such a special way to put bullshit into coherent words that Bette’s sure she would appreciate a conversation with her regardless.
She waits a few minutes for the stage to clear from the people forming a circle around Tina, showering her with compliments and drowning her in questions, before making her way towards her. "Congratulations. That was an hour of my life well spent. You made postmodernism sound less lame."
Tina looks up from her papers to meet dark brown eyes and a hand being extended her way. The tall woman smiles, greets politely with a “I’m Bette Porter” and Tina’s mind works to half of its ability.
It’s the posture, the face sculpted by someone above, the heavenly voice and if Tina were religious she’d be 100% sure she just met an Archangel.
The woman's wearing a long, brown coat and a loose, white top that cuts below her chest. Black glasses finalize her look, making her look terribly sophisticated and Tina bets the woman either studies art, is an artist herself or third, teaches it. And she has to thank the universe that art related shit usually go hand in hand with such looks because the woman has exceptional taste.
She manages to process what Bette said to her once she finally functions again. “Postmodernism is not lame!” She gathers her papers from the podium. “It’s expressive, radical.”
Bette pulls her coat back to stuff her hands in her jeans pockets, "Oh, absolutely. It’s just that the majority of the work that falls under it is pretentious.”
“The word pretentious is seriously the only argument I’ve ever heard from people that oppose the art of today. And it’s not even valid, for the record, because if we lived in the 1500s I’m sure you’d call Caravaggio a pretentious freak too.” Tina argues back.
Bette bites her bottom lip, “Probably. But not for the same reasons. I’m a firm believer that an important factor in making art as expressive as possible is to create a visual with clear intentions, clear interpretations, clear meaning. You mentioned the same thing today.”
Tina’s taken aback because for one nobody has ever approached her after a lecture or seminar to say more than three words to her let alone debate her and second she can’t exactly pinpoint if Bette’s here to make fruitful conversation with her or rile her up. Bette looks like she knows what she’s saying, though, and the smoothness of her voice echoes pleasantly in her brain so Tina bets on the former.
“What’s your favorite contemporary artist?” Tina asks mostly just to confirm the other woman indeed knows what she’s talking about and isn’t just parroting words.
“Lisa Yuskavage. And in fact, I own a couple of her paintings.” Bette states matter of factly and Tina raises an eyebrow.
She’s lowkey impressed but for her own pride she doesn’t let it show. “You own her paintings and you slander her art? Isn’t that a bit contradicting?”
Bette opens her mouth to reply but closes it swiftly, allowing herself a few seconds to gather a response because well, it was her toxic trait to strive to sound smarter than everyone else in the room, what can she say. Even though in Tina's case she wasn’t, and that intrigued her more.
“I think I’m leaving the wrong impression here. I never generalized. It’s just that a good portion of art of that era relies on an absence of morality and non-existent narratives or structure. Artists depending on the fact that their artwork by ‘definition’ is indefinable to create artwork that at the end of the day is empty. To me it’s just a confused genre. In a sense it means nothing… and everything.”
Tina stuffs the rest of her things in the backpack she was carrying, "I'd love to continue our conversation but I really have to go." she says, her tone apologetic for cutting their banter short. She feels Bette’s gaze heavy on the side of her face.
Bette's eyes light up all of a sudden, her mind traces back to something she's carrying and she makes the connection in a matter of seconds. "Well, there's a way we can continue from where we left off." she proposes, catching Tina's attention.
Tina raises an eyebrow (Bette noticed she does this habitually despite talking to her only for about ten minutes). "How so?" she asks curiously, folding her arms on her chest.
"Do you want the long story or the short one?"
Tina grins widely, "If the story is as interesting as you, then give me the long one."
That's definitely flirting, Bette concludes when her brain plays back what escaped Tina's mouth. She flashes her a smile for effect and realizes she might get the other woman where she wants her when she catches her averting her eyes to the wall next to Bette, avoiding to look at her.
Bette reaches inside her bag and pulls out two cards. "Here's the thing. I have two tickets for an open museum night." she pauses to hand them over to Tina. "A friend gifted them to me and we were supposed to go together but, here’s where it gets sad, they called me last night and dropped out with a lame excuse which I definitely did not buy. So here I am, dumped, with two tickets for an amazing tour.”
She takes them out of Tina’s hands once she makes sure the woman has observed them enough to know she isn’t trying to be funny or scam her at that. “It’s for next week.” Bette explains. “And I usually don’t do this but since we mutually agreed to continue our conversation it’s an opportunity for you to convince me about your preferred art movements and who knows… I might be able to instill a bit of my own knowledge into that interesting brain of yours.”
Bette thinks she might have hit the jackpot when Tina throws her bag over her shoulder and looks down at her feet to suppress a smile and hide her face that’s already starting to heat up behind strands of blonde that escaped her hair tie.
Tina’s not dumb. She can smell the interest Bette has found in her and if she were completely honest, she could sense from miles away that the woman would eventually hit on her, because these things feel like electrons in a magnetic field.
There’s a force working upon them, they get pulled and move to a direction neither Bette or Tina can predict at the moment.
“You’re very convincing.” Tina admits, leaning comfortably against the podium and almost tripping when it rolls away. She clears her throat awkwardly, noticing how Bette chuckles under her breath and stands properly, wiping her palms on her jeans. “I’d love to join you. I can… ugh… give you my number, maybe, for the details.”
And so she does. She types it on Bette’s phone (doesn’t miss that Sappho and Erinna painting as lockscreen), hands it back to her with a wide smile and receives a wink in return accompanied by a handshake that lasts a few seconds too long.
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Bette tries to suck everything in within an entire day. Tina Kennard, parents are lawyers, she doesn't speak to them anymore (they have that in common) because she categorically refuses to manage her family's inheritance. She has no coming out story (unlike Bette) because she's a firm believer that it doesn't really matter.
When her turn comes, Bette introduces herself as a painter, trying hard to sell the pretentious image of an artist leaving out the "thief" part that comes along with it. Bette indeed was a painter, in her free time, and she was good at it. However her theft skills didn't touch just good, they were excellent.
Bette has to explain how terrible she is at writing when Tina asks, surprised, if she even is bad at anything because she truly looked like she got the whole package. So she reads her a poem she attempted to write a few months ago to get her point across and smiles widely when Tina only bursts into laughter.
“Well that was fun. Say thank you to your friend for bailing out on you.” Tina says amid laughing. That was the last museum, last of 10, they managed to squeeze within the day.
Bette puts her hands in her pockets and tags along. “Okay, I admit you completely changed my mind about that artist. Maybeee just maybe he deserves that spot in the museum.” They walk further away from the entrance, side by side, Tina’s upper arm staying glued against Bette’s while she goes on and on about what impressed her more. Bette just promises to do this again at some point.
It was late, but her home is close and Bette refuses to let the night end like this, especially after the genuine smile Tina is throwing her way right now. She’s surprised at how easily conversation flows between them, it’s like Tina reads her mind and vice versa. For the first time in years, Bette doesn’t feel dead.
In the busy city, among all the noise pollution, Bette isolates Tina’s voice, letting it be the only sound that reaches her ears. There’s something in the way Bette looks at her, an unfamiliar feeling, like nothing else exists in the world. Just Tina and her excitement about ‘the best date she ever had’ even though they never clarified this was a date. It’s nice. Seeing someone without restraints, so carefree, so easy-going.
Bette doesn’t have a lot of people in her life. Only a small circle of trusted friends who have been there for her since ages ago while the biggest part of her contacts are minor art thieves she’s worked with when she first got into the game.
The majority of the women that passed by her lonely life came and went, not really making a significant impact on it, Bette’s chaotic, self-destructive persona being the common denominator for this. Because in reality, nobody gives a person that’s religiously unavailable a part of their heart and Bette’s starting to get used to coming home to an empty bed.
They just walk in silence for a few moments until Bette stops in her tracks abruptly, an idea passing through her head. “Want to make this day even more fun?” she asks, pulling out the cigarette case she crafted on her own and a perfectly rolled joint from it. She wiggles her eyebrows mischievously and Tina laughs loudly, shoving the other woman lightly and watching her take a few steps backwards.
“Oh God, I haven’t smoked that shit in a while” she exclaims when Bette holds the lighter in front of the tip to burn it. “If I die, you have to carry me.” she threatens with a finger.
Bette nods, taking the first puff to make sure it’s well lit and then immediately hands it over to the woman next to her. “Okay, next time we do this we get stoned and THEN visit all these places.” she proposes.
Tina breathes in, already sensing the burning weed inside the joint “What if we visit something really trippy, like I don’t know… a light installation, something crazy. I’ve done this in Amsterdam once. It was hell.” she waves her hands around for effect.
Bette takes the joint back, since it’s her turn, “I assume you talk about the Moco” she mentions between giggles, “That museum needs hard drugs. I’ve been there… they have no security.” She half whispers the last part, grateful that Tina pays her no mind and doesn’t question it.
After the second joint, walking is starting to become more of a nuisance. Tina stops every three seconds to laugh at nothing in particular, hands slapping her knees from how funny everything appears to be at the moment while Bette guides her through the empty streets of her block.
“The first time I got really stoned, I ended up laying on the cold floor of a bathroom, face down and stayed there for a good thirty minutes.” Bette starts with the storytelling, finding it extremely hard to keep her mouth shut. “I’d swear I was in there for only five until my friends came to check on me.”
Tina grabs Bette’s hand that was in her peripheral view, swinging their linked arms back and forth playfully and neither of them put much thought behind it. They blame all the stuff they’ve inhaled, the action appearing insignificant. “First time I had weed, I felt nothing. And honestly the pride of it not having an effect on you is way bigger than anything you can experience under its influence. On your first time, at least.”
When Tina makes a move to let go of Bette’s arm, Bette only holds on tighter, pulls her forcefully towards her, bodies flushing against each other. She becomes obsessed with the way Tina fits her perfectly, her head is spinning. She waits for a couple of seconds, waits for something but doesn’t know what. Maybe a sign of hesitance, a hand to push her away. Bette feels like a teenager, that youthful excitement pumping through her veins, traveling directly to her brain.
She notices how Tina’s very red eyes follow her every movement intently. She notices the leather jacket the other woman is wearing and the turtleneck underneath that feels tight around her neck and Bette thinks about replacing it with her fingers one too many times. She notices the rhythmic humping inside her chest.
“I told you about all types of art styles in the world today. But one thing I forgot to tell you, is how pretty you look.” Bette compliments truthfully, heart accelerating most likely from the joints, and when there’s not an ounce of reluctance from the other side, she tests the waters, leans in. And Tina meets her halfway.
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Tina doesn't know how she ends up home, Bette's home to be exact. She functions, but barely, her mind is seemingly aware of what's going on but at the same time not really and Bette seems to be in the exact same state as her.
It starts against a cold wall, rough, sloppy. Lips flying everywhere, giving equal force to each other, saliva mixing and Bette tries her best to lick it all off. She whimpers when a leg comes to settle between her own applying pressure and her mouth works on her own when she lets out an unintentional “I want to bend you over every furniture in this house.” She mentally slaps herself because this is a first date after all. But she can’t help it, all lines are blurred.
“Crude.” Tina replies playfully, sneaking a hand around Bette’s waist and ungluing her from the wall. They move it to the living room, half their clothing getting lost somewhere in the middle and Tina falls first on the gray couch.
Tina’s sure she’s obsessed. With the way the heaviness of Bette’s body feels on top of her own, her sweater riding up with every movement, the exposed parts of her skin gliding gracefully against her own, with the way Bette grunts after a hard kiss, with the way the metallic necklace around the other woman’s neck leaves coldness on her.
Bette gets hooked with the way Tina whispers her name like it belongs to her. It's so addicting that if she didn't know the woman for a barely week and a half, she'd say she's in love. She quickly shakes these weird thoughts away, preferring to focus on the task at hand.
It’s clumsy, at first. Bette doesn’t know where her hands go despite having done this multiple times before and Tina starts laughing at random times which is so contagious because Bette joins her and they end up stopping whatever they started for a couple of minutes (she has to thank the weed for that).
Then Bette’s mind refocuses. On thighs that feel full under her hands, on skin that looks a little too good being marked by her fingers that dig wherever they can find, on the remaining clothes on Tina’s body, on how her hair gets tangled among long fingers and then gets pulled just right enough to spread the sensation throughout her entire system.
Bette moves away from the couch and drops to her knees in front of the other woman. She feels fingertips under her chin that lift it up for eyes to connect and this sole action suddenly raises the temperature in the room so much that Bette wraps her fingers around the hem of her sweater and takes it off, throwing it behind her and freeing herself from it.
Her lips come in contact with bare legs and she lets out a giggle when she hears Tina’s breath hitching in her throat. “Spread them for me”, she mutters, her tongue licking a long distance upwards. Maybe it’s the smoke from the joints still stuck in her throat but her voice comes out so raspy Tina has no choice but to comply to this simple command.
Now it’s Bette’s turn to hold her breath because who wears red panties to a first date, it’s borderline demonic. And if she thought Tina was beautiful all this time, now her mind has set her name next to gorgeous.
She sneaks a hand between her legs and touches damp material. “Fuck…”
She doesn’t see much when she uses two fingers to push the only barrier between them aside, with all the rush nobody really thought of turning the lights on.
Small glimpses through rays of light from the city below is all she can settle with.
Bette knows of art, she’s pretty much an expert at it, and her professional mind tells her that Tina belongs in museums. She’d classify every mole and beauty mark to pointillism, her curves feel like Titian renaissance, her sighs of pleasure are surreal. She touches her body with the hands of a sculptor, like she’s a delicate piece, placing a hand on Tina’s right hip and feeling stretch marks, little cracks of perfect imperfection under her fingertips.
Bette glances upwards for a signal of approval which eventually comes with a hand combing through her hair, scratching her scalp. Teeth find Tina’s pantie line, pulling it down seductively to expose more of her, maintaining eye contact while her hands do the rest of the work by taking them off completely. She contemplated ripping them for extra sex points but it seems impossible at the non-functional state her mind is in right now.
Tina is convinced Bette was lying when she swore up and down that she's a bad writer because the way she writes on her now contradicts every single prior statement. Maybe she wasn't good with a pen and actual paper but she sure is very creative with her tongue. Several thoughts run through her mind but only one conquers; How good Bette looks on her knees.
It only urges her to pick up a pace on her own, to match the one provided by the other woman. She throws her head back at the way Bette laps her up. She grinds harder against her face, hands coming to her sides, knuckles turning white from the desperate grip she has on the couch underneath, feet perched up on the coffee table. And after some time Tina has to remind herself how to breathe when all air gets sucked out of her lungs, making her light-headed.
She loses all composure once Bette pulls away only for a few seconds just to lick two of her fingers in the most erotic way possible and then dip them inside to accompany the tongue now drawing patterns on her.
Tina did not consider herself to be a religious person, despite questioning it from all corners at some point in her life. To her it was not a matter of faith but an existential one, being one of those people that only seek God out of desperation. Yet here she was, screaming His name alongside Bette’s.
Bette suddenly becomes eager to learn. She explores the new territory as much as her body can handle, making mental notes of every moan, every indication that whatever she did feels good. She has always been a big fan of women moaning, just the sound being enough to arouse her to no end, and Tina’s moans might become her new favorite noise. Especially when they echo inside her apartment, so provocatively like she wants to let everybody know who makes her cum.
Bette gets a little carried away with the sucks and bites around Tina's thighs because when she finally lifts her head she's only met with bruised skin in light and deeper shades of pink.
She licks and nibbles on the fat below Tina's navel, taking her time and granting Tina a minute to calm down. She giggles slightly when she hears the other woman whisper a very low, almost inaudible 'damn' which becomes her cue to get back to business.
The effects of the drugs completely wear off after some time which means Bette is able to really concentrate on how Tina thoroughly rocks her world. She grinds harder on long fingers that meet her halfway, a hand on her lower back guiding her every movement, dragging itself lower from time to time. Mouth agape, nails dragging themselves across her thighs, lips burning hot on her throat. She finds herself in a state of delirium when wet, squelchy sounds reach her ears, their frequency matching her rhythm.
Tina presses a palm that was previously sitting on Bette’s hips against the other woman’s stomach, feeling the way her muscles clench under her touch, back arching in the process. The sight of Bette in that state was a visual orgasm within itself and Tina tries her hardest to ignore the throbbing sensation down low that makes its return.
“You look so good on top” Tina confesses against Bette’s pulse point, trying to catch thin lines of sweat. It’s definitely encouraging because Bette responds with a bite on the shoulder in closest proximity to her mouth and fucks herself harder against Tina’s lap. She starts chasing it. That euphoric feeling, the waves of pleasure, the final relief. Eyes automatically shut when Tina rubs her just right, exactly where she wants her to, a small, unintentional noise escapes her mouth and at the moment her mind feels so empty.
To a thief like Bette, the act of surrendering sounds comical but just this once she completely hands herself over.
She fully taps out after some time, her body already giving up on her after the nth round (she stopped counting when it didn’t matter anymore). With her hectic life, she doesn’t get to do this often and the after effects are already visible when exhaustion takes over.
She has no idea how long she has been sprawled on the couch, limbs unable to move but when Tina walks into the living room cladded in nothing but her bathrobe, her hair dripping on her shoulders she realizes it must have been long. Bette’s not the type to do stay-overs but she really didn’t have the courage to decline when Tina very politely asked her if she could use her shower. A small favor in return for the orgasms, Bette thought.
Her mind short-circuits when she takes a proper look at the woman across her, the thought of how much black suits her runs along her brain like crazy. Bette knows she’s in deep trouble when her previous opinion about Tina suddenly changes. She doesn’t belong in museums. She belongs in her collection.
“Are those Cecil Baugh?” Tina suddenly says, referring to the ceramics decorating Bette’s hallway she noticed as she was coming out of the bathroom. Two vases carefully displayed on top of a wooden construction that looks hand-made.
Bette makes a move to sit properly on the couch, pulling the drape with her to cover herself like Tina hasn’t seen all that already. “Yes it is. He is one of my favorites.”
Tina thinks she might never get used to the meticulous interior of Bette's home. She didn't really take the time to absorb it all earlier since she was a little too preoccupied with its owner. From the colorful paintings hanging on rather mundane walls, to the figurines carefully placed on the shelves above the TV and some other odd artwork scattered here and there.
She slowly spins around in awe, noticing how Bette owns a lot of plants, has signed the majority of these paintings and has an easel in a corner in the living room which is adjacent to another room behind a closed door.
She didn't see the extra place before. She walks closer, “You know that sign is a psychological mindfuck, right?” Tina points towards the 'do not enter' sign hanging outside.
Bette quirks an eyebrow, disliking how dangerously close Tina gets to the door that hides half life.
"It's like reverse psychology. The more you tell people to not do something the more you trigger them to do it."
Bette makes a mental note to remove the sign upon hearing that. It's not like a billion people come by her house anyways and her one night stands were the biggest reason why she put it up in the first place.
She laughs, getting up and approaches Tina, putting her hands on her shoulders, "It's just my office. Don't worry, I don't have a BDSM room in there or something. I'm not like that dude from 50 Shades of Grey."
"Oh so you've read it? Revelations!" Tina responds jokingly.
Bette’s eyes widen, she rubs her nape awkwardly. "I mean, sometimes I like to take trips to cringy, literary heteroville as a treat. Book's terrible though."
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In the next months Tina learns that Bette is like the seasons. She comes and goes. Sometimes she’s here, alive in the flesh, next to her, sometimes she’s gone, disappearing like a cloud. She travels a lot to places Tina’s unaware of, doing business she doesn’t quite understand. That’s what she claims at least.
But most of the time, Bette is warm like summers. She generously offers her balmy smiles in the mornings, hot kisses right after waking up, she crashes into her life like waves ashore and stays there like sand on a wet surface. And Tina dives into her sea heart first.
In the next months Bette learns that Tina’s skin feels softer at early hours, her cheeks are flushed from sleep and her voice is raspier than usual as a result of not using it for long. She smells like chamomile and Bette finds herself buying the same shampoo to memorize the scent despite arguing with herself about ‘just liking it because it’s a good brand’.
And from that moment onwards, Bette catches herself noticing the flower more frequently whenever it’s around her. She has to shake her head every time that stupid Baader-Meinhof phenomenon hits her like a truck, despising how the illusion corrupts her mind.
Tina is passionate like burgundy, wild like deep, ivy green, compassionate like pastel pink. Bette visualizes it all. She puts the colors on canvas, claims that it’s because they inspire her as an artist and ignores how her heart shivers whenever she mixes them on her palette.
Bette’s not heartless. She just doesn’t do love. Her life doesn’t conform to a romantic story and she can’t afford to have it made into one.
When the nights are calm and the sky above is clear, Tina loves to sit by the window next to Bette’s bed. She does not get to come over often but she’s grateful whenever Bette lets her. Because the view ahead is spectacular, the entire apartment is totally up to Bette’s taste and the outside falls under that as well. It’s located at the top floor of the building, having a clear look over the city, appropriate for an artist like its owner.
Beyond the city’s borders there’s vastness and amid the darkness the horizon kisses earthly surface, becoming one with it until sunlight comes to separate them again.
Bette finds Tina right where she left her. By the window, in her underwear, gazing right ahead at nothing in particular, Bette’s unfinished cigarette from earlier dangling from her lips even though she doesn’t really smoke.
Something ignites inside Bette and she lets herself indulge with the visual. Tina’s hair looks messy, a clear indication of previous activities, the moonlight bathes her skin and a few scratches on her arms (Bette’s art work) become visible.
Bette can’t help herself . She walks over to her nightstand, opening the top drawer and pulling out her sketchbook along with a pencil .
In all honesty, she hasn’t drawn something in a while and the first steps are shaky and hesitant. Tina turns to look at her once she senses her presence in the room, her glance is chaste and she doesn’t notice the sketchbook in Bette’s hands which allows the latter to draw more freely. She knows that if Tina were aware, she’d walk over and take it out her hands, cheeks rosy from embarrassment.
Bette sits quietly on the bed, her back against the headboard and places her sketchbook on her lap. She puts rough strokes on paper, starting with an outline of the mesmerizing woman across from her. She finds it hard to concentrate at first, having to erase what she creates multiple times and start all over again. She blames it on the fact that Tina makes her hands tremble and her mind work in dotted lines.
Facilis descensus Averno Virgil wrote once and Bette catches herself falling deeper and deeper into the abyss of eyes that hold the world and lips that commit the greatest sins on her skin. Maybe Tina is indeed a demon, sent to tempt her to break all rules she imposed on herself.
She puts more effort into this simple sketch than she thought she would, paying attention to every detail, every part of Tina that takes her breath away, forcing her to realize that she’s starting to memorize her more as the days pass. Placing her tongue between her lips to focus better, Bette uses her finger to shade the places that light can’t find, then runs the pencil smoothly over them.
And when she’s done with the majority of the drawing and finds it worthy enough to be a copy of the person that slowly steals her heart, Bette decorates the rest of the paper with little flowers, some specific flowers. Oval petals and round center.
“I love it.” Tina comes to stand above Bette, her voice startling the other woman. She removes the sketchbook from Bette’s hands and takes its place on her lap. Long arms come to engulf her, resting on her hips and an appreciative kiss is being disposed on her lips.
“I’m glad you like it.” Bette whispers, her breath leaving a tingling sensation on Tina’s mouth. It felt so domestic, that Tina considers putting her self-consciousness aside and letting Bette draw her more often.
For now, she settles with just kissing her. It's full and passionate and Tina sinks her teeth into soft flesh, pulling slightly afterwards. Bodies stay glued together like polar opposite magnets, hands travel on exposed territory and Tina notices that none of them takes the lead in that particular kiss.
She breathes in from her nose, holds Bette by the back of her neck, hungrily places her lips wherever she can, getting a taste of paradise. She loves how tightly Bette holds her, like she doesn’t want to escape, that heavenly feeling spreading throughout her whole body.
Bette's struggling not to feel and succumb to her emotions. She thinks of ways she can forget all about Tina and get over her if she has to. And eventually she loses the battle when Tina's tongue enters her mouth and finds her own halfway.
In the next months Tina tells Bette that she loves her, in the backyard of an old, small chapel Bette took her to because she found the relics interesting. It slips out, innocent, thoughtless. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it happened out of fear that Bette will disappear one day and she will have to deal with the ghost of her presence.
Tina doesn't miss the way Bette freezes upon hearing that, legs remaining locked on soil below. She doesn't miss the way Bette reciprocates with a smile and walks over to a marble bench in the abandoned garden once her legs are finally able to walk again, sitting down while Tina trails behind.
Bette, of course, never says it back. She doesn't know how to. She only puts her arm around Tina and places a chaste kiss at the top of her head, letting the silence do all the work.
But what Bette ignores is that it was actually her that fell first. And like every ironic character, she’s completely oblivious of the fact that the play about them has already been written.
"I'm leaving for Istanbul in a week. I'll go to an exhibition to show some paintings." she announces and notices how Tina’s lips flatten. “I’ll be back before you know it, princess. It’s just for work.” She rushes to reassure the other woman, hoping that she’ll distinguish that this one time, among all lies, Bette’s telling the truth (or half of it).
Tina looks into dark brown eyes that hold so many secrets and desperately tries to read between dilated irises. How can you keep a lover of escapism close?
It goes south when there’s zero response to the announcement. Only sorrow bubbling inside her, hurting her lungs and piercing just one step away from her heart. Tina slaps away the hand draped over her shoulder and stands up to leave, legs feeling heavy in the process. She of course doesn’t look back, and thus fails to catch the hint of pain and regret in Bette’s eyes.
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Istanbul
Istanbul is fiercely beautiful. Drowning within its own massive history, its name derives from Greek meaning “to the City” as it once was the center of the universe. One thing is eminent the second you step into the populous city, the merging of cultures. Remnants of Byzantine and ancient civilizations among the beauty of islamic architecture, a crossroad between Asia and Europe divided by water, a religious coexistence.
From the sky, crammed in a metal construction, buildings that under normal circumstances would look like small paper boxes, appear imposing and distinguishable to the naked eye. Mosques with adjacent minarets scattered all over the city, monasteries and churches standing as symbols of Orthodoxy, palaces popping up among green gardens, narrow pathways that lead to the vaults of a rich culture. Multiple story buildings coming to add to its more modern glory.
Istanbul is an enchantress. Poetry has been written about it, it has become the inspiration behind literature and has left its own print on lyricism crafted by people who fell in love with its rare charm and reminisce of it.
Bette walks hurriedly through the narrow path of Mısır Çarşısı, briefcase always at hand. She breathes in strong aroma, one can only experience once in a lifetime. From the plethora of spices to the herbs to rare flowers. She smells nutmeg from a shop on her right and then cumin, heavy and distinctive.
The bazaar is not that long and even though it has existed for centuries it looks brand new. Bette wishes she had the luxury to really take her time, stop at every shop on either side of the street, smell and feel what it has to offer. But she’s not here to admire. She’s here for work and just the simple thought of it makes her palms sweaty. Because in reality, Bette’s is about to pull the biggest heist of her career.
Only one item makes her stop in her tracks. Dried chamomiles, spread generously on a wooden bench outside a small tea shop, ready to be bought and boiled. They remind her of the woman she left behind, the woman she showered with lies and fake promises. They remind her of a kind, pure love she doesn’t dare to experience.
Yellow for the shade of her hair, radiant white for every smile Bette managed to take out of her.
She approaches the bench timidly, like the shop doesn’t sell tea but carnivorous plants. The owner greets her without eye contact, too preoccupied with hanging something on a hook and after a couple of minutes he comes closer to her. He takes a handful of chamomiles in his palm, when he realizes what she's been eyeing all this time and brings it up to her nose. When the smell hits her nostrils, she can picture it all again. She latches onto memories of their mornings, the nights, the times they've showered together for the sake of convenience.
So she buys a few grams with all the money she has on her at the moment, feeling a little crazy inside at how she let Tina get into her head like that.
Her eyes land on the watch that's dangling from his pocket with the help of a long chain. Bette estimates it's probably early 20th century, inherited from a family member because it's clearly custom made and carved with care.
He hands her a plastic bag full of chamomiles and she thanks him with a warm smile and a hug that lasts less than a second, loving how he just laughs awkwardly afterwards at the weird interaction. And Bette walks away with a bag of aromatic, dried up flowers and a newly acquired watch for her collection.
-------
She meets the middle man among expensive textiles and hand-made rugs. He makes her Turkish coffee and tea for himself, asks her about her day and how the flight was as if she’s not about to hand him stolen artifacts in twenty four hours from now. As if both their lives aren’t hanging by a thread.
“I love these patterns” she nods towards the rugs next to her, trying to respond to the small talk before the conversation shifts elsewhere.
He smiles, takes a sip from his beverage, “These on the front are for sale, not much of your style. The ones in the back though…" he pauses mid sentence, waiting for Bette to take the hint. "...19th century, surviving in perfect conditions directly from the Ottoman empire. They used to decorate the houses of Pashas in Greece. They got sold for pennies."
He chuckles in disappointment, his eyebrows furrowing "The people there don't know their worth. They don't know every knot equals a drop of sweat, they don't know how to handle them in a way that reflects the extraordinary skill needed for their production. These textiles are like canvas, they tell a story, they're like mirrors of a culture."
"In all honesty, I was dying to go for a stroll around the antique bazaars downtown and see more of it all. But my time is limited…" Bette clasps her hands on her lap. She thinks how her collection could use some expansion and it's a shame that she'll probably miss this opportunity.
"Are you scared?" he asks out of the blue without eye contact, reaching out to take Bette's coffee cup. He swirls the liquid till it reaches the rim and then flips the cup upside down on the saucer.
Bette scoffs, tries to make herself look bigger, "Please, you're talking to someone who the police can't even get a description of. They can kiss my ass."
The man hums, taking the saucer along with her cup in his hands again, "You drop the things where we agreed and then you disappear." His voice drops. "Your payment is 80-20, non negotiable."
Bette was already aware of that. In the art theft world, you risk your head, sell your dignity over artifacts that cost thousands and millions only to end up with the salary of a 9-5 because in reality, outside the huge halls of these fancy museums, all that artwork means nothing. But regardless, Bette's one of those thieves with zero self worth that do it mostly out of pure love since she almost exclusively steals for that tiny room hidden behind a wooden door inside her apartment.
The man flips her cup, revealing its inside and stays in deep thought for a few seconds. "You have darkness in your cup" he turns it towards Bette for her to see the sediment covering the entire porcelain. Bette has known of coffee reading but nobody's ever done it for her.
"You're confused, afraid even though you seemingly have it all. There's a person in your life that has turned it upside down." he points with his index finger on the left corner, "You see here? There's an open road and that person is showing you the path of your life. You're bound together by strings of fate, they have become your shadow, Ms Porter."
Bette shifts uncomfortably in her seat because the man is wearing a crooked smile and the only person she can think of right now is… "My shadow?" she questions with a raised eyebrow.
"No matter how hard you're trying to get rid of them, they'll always be there. Your patterns are not clear, Ms Porter. You're not easy to read. But your handle… your handle is intelligible." He responds with a laugh and places the cup back on the saucer.
Bette never sees the backroom. She hurriedly walks out the store like she's being chased, the narrow path of the bazaar suddenly closing in, suffocating her.
At night Bette sits with the owner of the apartment she rented for the time that she needs to stay in the city. He is old, doesn’t really understand her and she doesn’t understand him. But he treats her kazandibi and calls her kuzum, despite not knowing her much, and Bette learns later that weirdly enough, its direct translation is lamb. In all the English he knows he explains that it’s a term of endearment when Bette asks him curiously, rolling a cigarette and handing it over to him.
She lights up her own and chuckles lightly, thanking him for thinking so highly of her considering what she’s about to do tomorrow night, when she won’t be sitting in his yard for the first time.
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Mornings in Istanbul are different. The sun kisses the Bosphorus with its first rays, giving life to the big city that greets it with sanguinity. Bette places her feet on the cold floor and steps closer to the window to take in the entire view of the canal below, an unfamiliar warmth engulfing her. She never realized how big the city actually is.
The sky wears bright blue in all its shades, mixed with a soft white and Bette quickly captures the painting crafted by nature, sending it to the only woman she knows that can appreciate it.
"Missing your colors", she types, hoping that Tina will get the hint.
She sees her reflection on glass, staring back at her disapprovingly, judging her entire existence. How can she even begin to tell Tina all the things she can’t even admit to herself, she breaks even at the thought of it.
There has not been a single second that she doesn’t think of the other woman. She wishes she came here with her as a spontaneous trip, as a gift for a future anniversary or to just simply run away. She wishes they’d wake up together, sheets feeling cold against heated skin and then Bette would run to the nearest flower shop, choose a different flower for each day they would be staying and she would give it to her along with a 'good morning' and a kiss.
Because she’d follow Tina to the end of the world.
She wonders how Tina has it all figured out, while she can’t even do the math in her head and come up with a variable that defines what they have. She bangs her head against hard glass, releasing a sigh. Maybe just maybe when she gets back she can close her eyes, say a prayer, let out every thought torturing her mind for the past months and explain to Tina that the Bette she has experienced this far isn’t confident and all powerful but insecure and a huge coward.
Or she can let that insecurity win and her loneliness swallow her whole and announce to the other woman that they should simply cut ties, burn every memory and move on with their lives despite it being seemingly impossible.
Perhaps her biggest insecurity at the moment is that she feels herself changing right before her eyes and she reaches out to stop it, holding onto her leash for dear life but it slips out of her hands out of pure fear of the person reflected on the glass. Fear for hurting herself and then Tina in the process, fear for how her life might turn out eventually, fear of rejection.
Because knowing how to love and care for someone doesn’t come with instructions at birth and in all the years Bette has existed with herself nobody has given her a book on how to do it. And at the end of the day, all Bette knows is how to function under given instructions, with a map at hand and notes she made with deep thought and consideration.
For every heist (like the one in approximately ten hours) exists a careful plan crafted by her hand. For loving Tina, though? She goes blind.
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2:31
Here's what Bette knows. There are two security guards working this night shift, taking turns to patrol the museum every hour. What she’s looking for is in the basement, something that makes her way in and out as well as the entire heist way easier. No complicated mechanism, simple locks, she's scribbled on her paper.
What's difficult is the fact that Bette has never been to the museum for security and identification reasons so she has to rely on various other sources and sketches she was given to map it in her mind. Not to mention the fact that, she, out of pure stubbornness and lack of trust she has for other people, works alone, something that sets her task to nearly impossible.
Bette circles around the block a couple of times, giving herself time to get ready, never staying on the same spot for more than two minutes to not raise suspicion and avoid getting spotted by potential traffic cameras later on. "Boys Wanna Be Her" by Peaches is blasting inside the car and Bette feels the adrenaline levels rise in her system, every hair on her body stands up.
She hits the brakes, ties up her hair in a messy ponytail and puts on her gloves loving how tight they feel against her skin like they always do. She kind of missed this feeling.
Getting out of the car, she circles around it and opens the back door to grab her equipment alongside some plastic trash bags. Bette straps her black rucksack to her front and pops a mint gum in her mouth, the flavor hitting her palate whenever she chews. "Showtime" she whispers to herself, making her way down the street.
For a fraction of a second she hesitates. Because this time it's different, she has someone back home waiting for her, someone that poured out their heart which now Bette's holding in her hands but does not know what to do with it.
Bette has never contemplated whether or not this is a good decision before. She's never thought of the severe consequences that come with the possibility of getting caught, yet here she was putting pros and cons on the scale of her life.
But her trail of thought stops once she finds herself at the back of one of the largest museums in Istanbul, the thrill of a heist hitting her like tidal waves, making every ounce of hesitation vanish into thin air. There's no better feeling than this one and Bette wouldn't trade it for the world.
One thing all these museums have in common is how they drown in their own bureaucratic nonsense to get anything fixed on time. And that's why the backdoor now succumbs to the laws of physics, and to Bette's crowbar, cracking open like a tin can under her hands.
There are no lights in the hallway that separates the back area of the museum with the security rooms, which clearly works to her advantage because she is able to slide through the darkness and into the alarm area. She's meticulously studied the alarm system over the course of two nights, earning deep, black circles under her eyes as a result.
Like in most museums security has to follow a certain protocol when it comes to alarms and any sign of intrusion or disturbance in all exhibit areas. However, Bette knows that within human nature lies the tendency to not really care about property you don't own and most importantly you don't get paid enough to show interest for.
She triggers the alarm, counts the footsteps of the first guard in her head, visualizes how he will not find anything en route to the main halls and the CCTV will come clear. Because the actual disturbance is still in the back, in a room without cameras, without light.
She counts the minutes, triggers the alarm again and again and again till she is left with only two options to work with. Either they'll give up, report a false alarm, a failure in the mechanism, or they'll come down to take a look.
Regardless, Bette still moves away from the room even though she bets on the former because the night is long, the chairs in the security room are comfortable and when the alarm will actually ring for the right reason later nobody will bother to do their job.
There’s metal stairs leading down to the basement and Bette skips a few steps in her hurry. The walls are cold, having a rough texture, clearly indicating that everything’s happening underground.
The room is rather empty, dull, if Bette could scream right now she’d probably listen to her own voice echoing back to her ears. The only thing that fills its emptiness is the large vault built directly on the wall on the other side of the area, standing impressively across Bette and rudely separating her from the loot.
It’s time for the designated watch, the guards moving to the first floor, away from the surveillance room and Bette makes herself visible to the cameras installed in the basement with her back turned away from their lenses.
She's aware she doesn't have all the time in the world and she feels a hint of nervousness filling her up.
Jobs like this one usually require long hours or even days to finish and that's primarily the reason why Bette has dealt with a vault only once in her career, prefering to stick to the good old fashioned theft of artwork above earth surface.
From her backpack she fishes her very loyal hammer that accompanies her in most of her robberies and a few other heavy, metal rods that will help smash the safety lock.
Museums are not fortresses, their entire purpose revolves around displaying art to large audiences, keeping the people in, not out. Plus, the chances of robberies is considerably low for them to waste their entire budget on complicated security measures and Bette has betted on that for years now.
She places one of the rods sideways on the vault's soft spot and strikes the lock hard enough to make the alarm ring loudly. The noise is deafening but it's definitely not bothering her.
She doesn't know how many times she has to hammer on the same spot for it to succumb to her and everything proves to be harder than she thought when after a while (or at least 10 repeated actions) she's only halfway there.
Bette wipes the sweat from her forehead and lifts her leg to kick the mini metal construction she built with the bars directly on the lock, watching it practically shatter under her boot after the fourth kick. She mentally curses at herself for the whole 'i work alone' policy because a partner and a drill are two items much needed at the moment.
From that time onwards everything is easy. Or at least easier than anything happening up to that point.
Bette waltzes into the safety vault like it's her property, re-adjusting her gloves and taking a good look around the secured area.
The vault is huge, well lit, so much that that fluorescent light bounces back on metallic walls almost blinding her. There are a few larger paintings behind plexiglas, surrounded by iron constructions that keep them secured on the walls while the right side of the room is completely covered by safe deposit boxes.
It's exactly like how she imagined it to be all those days she spent above the floor plan.
Disabling the sensors inside the room does not require much skill and even an amateur can do it. Opening the well locked boxes though is an art Bette wasted years (and all her fingers) trying to master.
Her heart is thumping in her chest, drowning out any sound the alarm is making. Her fingers fumble with the rucksack's zipper before she finally opens it and holds out two custom made screwdrivers, both being a little worn out on the handle. She jams the tips into the slots right where these special keys are supposed to go and twists simultaneously.
The locks shake and rattle under her hands, Bette's knuckles turn white from the strong grip she has on the screwdrivers and the first box reveals its content when extra force is applied to it.
Jewelry. Lots of it is left at her mercy. Golden and shiny, carrying valuable stones from another century, created by very skilled hands that delicately carved different shapes and sizes on the gold.
A normal thief would just shove them carelessly in the plastic bags since it takes forever to open only one of those safes. But Bette doesn't. She cares about the artwork, loves it even, she thinks it's valuable not only because of the economic value but also because of their beauty, the fact that they're authentic relics from a time long gone.
If she had more self respect (or wasn't in desperate need of cash), she'd never even get her hands on them for a dirty job like this one, knowing that, at best, their fate revolves around getting melted under the inexperienced hands of greedy dealers that barely know how to handle them.
Maybe whoever comes later and finds them gone will at least appreciate an art thief with feelings.
She spends a couple of seconds just admiring them before cautiously placing them in the sack, doing the same to the rest of ten deposit boxes in total, feeling her palms go numb from the effort and the screwdrivers.
And when she manages to escape, gracefully and completely unseen, through one of the fire exits, vanishing into darkness as if she never came, she throws the plastic bags along with their contents in a bin nearby being fully aware than in less than five minutes from now on somebody will come and gather them and she'll never seen them again.
5:23
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The transition back home is not easy. Bette gives herself a day to collect her thoughts before the need to see Tina becomes unbearable. It piles up inside her, almost eating her alive, forcing her to eventually dial the number she's learned by heart after an embarrassing thirty hours since landing.
It starts a little like this. With open mouthed kisses scattered across her neck, passionate, welcoming her home, with hands that undress her in a way that screams 'I missed you' and with her back forcefully colliding with the mattress on her bed like it's all rehearsed.
The atmosphere is definitely odd, though, but Bette does not really question how Tina's nails dig into her skin, rougher than usual, how her kisses can barely be called kisses with the way teeth scrape her soft spots, how Tina manhandles her on the bed like she's holding some sort of grudge.
The sheets below get wrinkled from moving around, the mattress dips lower when a second body joins Bette's and all it takes is a blink for Bette to suddenly find herself in only her underwear. She isn't sure if she should enjoy Tina's dominant side or be concerned.
Eventually, she succumbs to pleasure when a hand slides past her panties, feeling how embarrassingly wet she already is, the reaction coming automatically under Tina's touch.
Bette hides her face under her palms, her eyebrows furrow and a longing sigh slips past her lips. She sees beyond galaxies when Tina finally stops teasing her after a while and enters her with a low grunt.
Tina thrusts one time. “There are no recent exhibitions in the museum you told me you were in Istanbul,” she bites down on Bette’s neck hard, before continuing, “So where were you Bette?”
Bette shuts her eyes as reflex, her mind getting so foggy, the question completely missing her ears.
“Where were you?” Tina pushes deeper, every thrust coming with a question “Are you lying to me? Do you even love me back?” Heels dig harder on the small of her back, Tina can feel them pushing her muscles there.
Bette reconnecting with reality is rather harsh. Tina tenses above her, stopping the work on her completely and pushes herself off of her. Bette makes an attempt to touch her but she gets a hard shove in return and Tina covers her eyes with her forearm, hating how Bette's staring at her right now. Eyes full of genuine concern and worry and it pisses Tina off even more.
She inhales and exhales, slowly, letting all of the (dense) air around her reach her lungs. It wasn't like her to make a scene and she finds acts of jealousy rather childish but if she were being honest, she didn't feel like wasting her time on someone that can't give even a piece back.
No matter how hard she fell for the other woman and no matter how picture perfect Bette seems as a lover whenever it's just the two of them.
Bette's eyes continue to burn holes into her, she can feel them despite having her own closed. At the moment she wishes she could simply disappear. Or make Bette disappear. From her life, her memories, her camera roll, her heart.
"All I wanted from you was honesty. Not the extravagant dates, not the big, high and mighty actions. Just be fucking honest!" she screams like there are miles separating them even though they're only a single breath away. There's a crack in her voice that rings in Bette's head.
Bette lets her vent at first, cry out all her pent up frustration. It's not like she didn't deserve it, anyways. She gets called a 'bitch' at some point when Tina's hands go flying in her direction. “Can you… can you fucking stop?” Bette hisses amid the fist-fight.
It doesn't hurt, the emotional pain is way worse than anything physical, and Tina isn't using any force but Bette tries to reach out and get ahold of her hands between her own as a way to calm her down anyway.
She maintains eye contact with the other woman just to make sure she won't start acting up again and then, without a single word she stands up (Tina huffing in the process, getting more worked up than intended) and walks to the direction of her suitcase.
Scavenging through her things for a few seconds she finds what she's looking for among clothes. Bette carries the small plastic bag closer to the bed, while Tina's watching her like a hawk, and kneels in front of the woman she miserably let down.
"What is one thing that reminds you of me?" Bette asks, a slight defeat in her tone.
Tina knows the answer at the top of her head, she could answer a thousand times and name a thousand things because the more time she spent in Bette's presence, the more even ordinary things screamed Bette.
There was one thing though…"The sea. You're wild, Bette. Then calm sometimes. Someone can easily drown in you." she unintentionally caresses Bette's cheek despite just the sight of her almost setting her off again " … the depth of your eyes …"
Bette places her hands as well as the bag between them on Tina's lap. "For me it's chamomiles. When I saw them in Istanbul my brain stopped. That's when l realized that I was really missing you."
Tina only chuckles, "that doesn't change anything, Bette." She snaps.
"It says that I want you, T. Truly and I'm not lying to you. I'm on my fucking knees in front of you." Bette brings her palms on her knees for effect, creating a loud smacking noise.
Rubbing her temples due to the back and forth she's currently having with the other woman, Tina takes a moment to recollect her thoughts. "You're still lying to me. Just wordless words, empty phrases. What the fuck are you so afraid of?"
Bette's expression becomes unreadable, her shoulders are slumped, her chest rises and falls in arrhythmia. It's like something is choking her, holding her back. The temperature in the room suddenly falls abruptly and Bette feels the goosebumps on her skin. Tina has never seen the other woman flounder like that before, looking so self-conscious.
She gets up, shyly and unsurely, her legs getting wobbly because they were bent for long. Bette finds herself between an internal battle, a decision that has to be made, a decision whose disadvantages really outweigh its advantages.
She stands by the edge of a cliff, taking hesitant steps towards what can potentially lead to her demise. Because until now, she's only gone this far.
"Come with me" she says, impulsively, in a moment of despair, throwing her robe over her body and walking out the room, dragging a perplexed Tina behind her.
Bette comes to a stop right outside the mysterious door in her apartment, the one that was always off limits. The 'do not enter' sign is now gone and for the first time since she started living that life Bette wishes someone indeed finds themselves in her room.
With trembling hands, she unlocks it, placing her free hand on Tina's back and encouraging her to walk in with a slight push. To Bette, this is more nerve-wracking than a heist because the fear of rejection is eminent, hovering over her like a dark cloud drawn by Delacroix.
Then her problem becomes even bigger when she realizes it's impossible to explain that not only is she an art thief but also the majority of her acquisitions in that exact room, surrounding Tina are, by extension, stolen. She can't even fathom Tina's reaction once she learns that the person behind a good portion of the robberies that make it to the news or get gossiped about in art circles is ... her.
Tina doesn't even blink. The items inside the room shine brighter than gold in her eyes, making her unable to even describe to herself the immense beauty of it all and it takes several moments before the gears in her head start spinning again. This is what Bette was hiding? Because if she casually had a mini museum inside her apartment she'd show off every weekend and holidays included.
The walls are tinged with a warm, dark red and a chandelier hangs from the high ceiling dressing the room in a crystal, white light.
There's paintings carefully framed, books that look like they can disintegrate under the simplest touch, Byzantine mosaics placed on tripods and Tina starts distinguishing the different centuries and continents the more her trained eyes fixate on various artifacts.
"They're the nicest replicas I've ever seen, Bette. Just wow." Tina exclaims, mouth wide open in shock, arms extended to gesture towards the entirety of the room.
Bette fiddles with her fingers, there's a lump in her throat that she can't swallow. "They... they are not replicas, T." She exhales loudly, her heart thumping inside her chest and she places a hand there to calm it down. She's so anxious she can actually hear it pumping through her cranium.
The statement does reach Τina's ears but she doesn't process it until her eyes land on one painting in particular. Torero by Pablo Picasso. Then it clicks in her head that she's seen that painting before. On the front page of a newspaper, reported as stolen.
And a Claude Monet stolen in 2012 and…the more Tina steps into the room the more the magnitude of Bette's collection gets revealed. She sits down in the middle of the room on the white, woolen carpet which she questions if it's actually bought or taken from somewhere like the majority of the items around her.
She only bursts into laughter. A maniacal laughter that comes out more as a reaction to the amount of information she has to register.
Bette comes to sit across Tina, face looking as if someone punched all air out of her lungs, so pitiful, completely contradicting the smile spread on the other woman's features.
She hesitantly places a hand on Tina's thigh, watching her reaction carefully. "You're scaring me." She says. "Are you not mad?"
Tina wipes her tears with the back of her index finger, looking at her in disbelief. "You want me to say I'm proud of you? Because I'm not." She chuckles and for some strange reason Bette's heart warms up. As if she's not backed up against a wall right now with all her secrets out.
"But for some fucked up reason, I can't bring myself to be mad at you." Tina bites her lip, then shakes her head. "An art thief…Insane." She whispers, mostly to herself like she still can't process it. Like it's all a big joke or a dream from which she'll wake up soon with Bette still lost in Istanbul.
When she crawls closer to Bette, spreading her legs on each side of her waist, Bette's words die in her throat. Tina lowers her voice like she doesn't want to disturb all the artwork surrounding them. "Maybe your insanity is contagious. Because even though I won't pretend I'm entirely okay with all that, I do feel a little crazy for still wanting you… loving you, letting whatever we have mean so much to me."
Bette stares at her intensely, her eyes looking directly into Tina's but the moment she dares to speak up, probably to explain her side, the other woman holds a finger up on her mouth, silencing her. Because Bette has done a ton of speaking in the past months and now it's Tina's turn. So she comes clear.
"Every time I gave myself to people all my effort got taken for granted. I guess it's human nature to mistake love for dependance. And I can't waste my time chasing you, Bette. Let you waltz into my life just like that. I'm not that kind of person."
For some odd reason Tina's not afraid of Bette's lifestyle yet she doesn't feel like becoming another one of Bette's pieces on her walls. A decorative item, whose sole purpose is to boost Bette's ego, make her look bigger, only getting attention whenever the other woman wants to keep herself occupied.
Bette gives up. She gives up on trying so hard to Iead her entire life down a certain path, she loosens the grip on the leash she has wrapped around her own self. It flows out of her body in a breath, in a sudden urge of honesty, it happens like a movie still but the director is not her. It's someone else entirely, maybe that strange fate she got told about.
"I'm an emotional wreck, okay? I'm just so used to being alone that sometimes I can't see what's in front of me. But I promise you right here that I'll try with everything that I have. And the only thing I want from you in return, is to at least try to digest all that." Bette nods towards the full walls behind her. "And not throw a book at me or anything." She jokes to lighten up the mood.
Tina traces Bette's neck with a finger, feeling the muscles tense under her touch as the woman speaks. She feels her veins, protruding beneath smooth skin, an indication that this is indeed not a dream. That Bette's real, that her heart does actually exist and works to its full potential.
She looks her in the eye, doesn't turn away and neither does Bette when she musters all courage left in her and admits the next words slowly but surely.
“You asked me if I love you” she strokes Tina’s jawline, maintaining that eye contact to get a point across, her heart screaming in her thorax. “More than you can imagine, more than I’m scared to express.” She might only know Tina for a little over seven months but nobody has ever impacted her this much. She doesn't know what the future holds but she's willing to go to hell and back in order to keep the other woman close. If she meets that guy Virgil there, she might even thank him for that one quote.
Words become a burden.
And then suddenly colors mix on a palette made of wool. Sapphire, sea blue, with all the shades Bette has dressed Tina in inside her mind and at the moment it's mostly that burgundy that dominates. Every kiss becomes deep violet, just like the bruises that will make their appearance on Bette's neck tomorrow, every gentle touch that feels like chamomile white blends smoothly with her, leaving baby blue on her skin.
It's lips that melt first. Tina's hand squeezes harder on the neck that feels tight under her fingertips, then travels downwards with an open palm to caress Bette's cleavage when the latter's own hands come to rest underneath her thighs. She presses against the woman until she's able to sense irregular beats against her own ribcage and her breath getting caught in her throat every time she tilts her head in an attempt to decrease the distance between them to zero.
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They stay there for a little while, only a fine line of sweat separating tired, naked bodies and Bette can't even bring herself to complain about the damage the hard floor is doing to her back.
Tina lifts her head from the chest that has become her pillow for the past minutes, blonde hair falling messily on her forehead, sticking on skin there. She catches a glimpse of the woman below her, watching as her chest rhythmically rises and falls and embraces her tighter.
There's still a million questions flying around her mind, Bette for sure has to do some deep explaining later about well… everything. The future of their relationship included.
For now she enjoys the serene moment, a calm before the storm as thousands upon thousands have written before. All those words that beg to slide past her lips, only get stuck in her throat when Bette opens her eyes halfway and her own brown pierces right through Tina's, glistering due to the lack of proper sleep.
She kisses the inside of the palm that is resting on her cheek and offers the woman above her a loving smile.
Because Tina leaves color on Bette’s gray.