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Miss Wardwell infuriates Zelda, but there’s no denying that she’s a very attractive woman. Sensual. Poised. Clever in a way Zelda has been missing in a companion for longer than she likes to dwell on. Sharp in her dress and her speech and her conduct; hard edges coated over with a sweetness that’s difficult to see through. Oddly, it’s that softness that Zelda craves.
Zelda doesn’t like her, no, but she wants her.
On her knee when she watches Miss Wardwell sip her tea. Over the desk when Zelda visits her office at school. On the breakfast table those mornings when Zelda only pretends to read the paper while she sifts through the lingering images of an enjoyable dream before they fade from mind.
It’s lucky for her that Miss Wardwell — while possibly no fonder of Zelda than Zelda is of her — seems to share her fascination. She meets Zelda’s eyes over the rim of her cup. Her nails tap against the porcelain and she crosses her knees. Zelda unhooks them with her eyes. Pushes them apart.
Miss Wardwell raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at her, her mouth innocently expressionless, but they’re both intelligent women. They understand each other.
Zelda takes a fortifying drag of her cigarette and resists the urge to clear her throat, or worse, shift in her seat. Her pride won’t let her rush, and fine things ought to be savoured.
“Finish your tea first, dear.”