Archive of Our Own ^beta

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She kisses her, a soft press of lips, a short-lived sweetness instead of their usual goodbye hug. She can feel her tense up, but she doesn’t give her time to step away; she does it herself, without opening her eyes. She feels her surprise radiating off her like a physical presence, and then hears her disappointed sigh. Her voice is fake-calm, apologetic, careful, as if she is talking to a spooked animal or to a nuclear weapon.

“Tamar...”

She doesn’t let her finish. She doesn’t let her say,

you can’t do this

we cannot do this

it’s wrong

 remember what I told you about doctors and their patients?

I don’t want this

I do not love you.

She doesn’t think she could stand it without setting the world on fire, so she makes the moment go away. She hasn’t kissed her. Dr. Kessler thinks they have just hugged, and is smiling. She always smiles the warmest when Tamar leaves. She used to think that it was relief, but no... Michelle wants her to know that she will always welcome her back. Even when she shakes like a leave under her patient’s fingertips.

Graham is waiting outside. His smile is dulcet and self-serving, stretched tightly over hidden teeth. He will kiss her in the dark of their apartment, with all the blinds shut tight, precariously restrained to the cameras’ blind spot. The thought of his dry lips, when compared to those she has just kissed in a reality that no longer exists, is suddenly revolting.

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She has told herself she had done it just to try it, to quiet the incessant voice at the back of her mind giving her terrible advice. The what-if would have eaten her alive otherwise. But there’s no excuse when she does it again. And again. And again.

At the end of each season, she kisses her doctor. Sometimes she makes it go away the second afterwards. Sometimes she lets her sigh. Sometimes she even lets her say her name. But never more, never the outright denial before forgetfulness, before non-existence.

She wonders if she’s always sending the moment to another specific universe, if another Tamar has to deal with the fallout after each kiss. If Dr. Kessler has stopped the therapy, sent her back to The Centre. Or if she kissed her back after some fragile hesitation.

Or maybe it just disappears. It never was. However, she hopes their dozen kisses still live somewhere else than just her mind. She cherishes them, like a bouquet of flowers that seem determined not to fade. They smell of Michelle’s perfume.

Graham kisses her at home, and it feels more like scorching fire, leaving blackened tracks all over her body. He caresses her; she shivers. He licks and bites and plunders; she moans on automatic. She doesn’t hate it. She doesn’t love it.

She doesn’t make anything disappear, but where is her uncontainable, uncontrollable joy?

Mostly she wishes she could love someone on whom she didn’t rely, so failure to please wouldn’t feel so much as a death sentence.

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She can’t help herself; she needs to stop, she knows, but it’s an addiction.

The ritual keeps her grounded. Session, kiss, erasure. It’s not a good cycle, one she doesn’t know how to break, but she can’t discuss it with anyone.

She tries, once; she tells Graham.

And he is loud, enraged, obnoxious.

 She expects him to tell her all the things she already knows; how it’s wrong, how it borders on sexual assault, how the kind woman who stays by her side even when she trembles deserves better than this stolen moments she can’t consent to.

Instead, he raves about fidelity, about how could she do this to him. He lists all the things he had ever given her, requesting payment for what she thought were gifts. He puts his hand on her neck and slams her against the wall, hard.

She thinks it should make her cry or lose control, but it only bores her.

He recoils when he realises what he has done, to whom, fearing uncontrolled, deathly retaliation. His eyes are wide with fear. She muses for a few seconds on sending him away, or a part of him.

She imagines taking away his lungs or his heart, and watching him die in agony.

The horrifying thought melts as quickly as it had come, leaving her uneasy and guilty. Graham breaks the tense silence with non-apologies (I couldn’t control myself, you made me do this, what did you expect for cheating) and mounting anxiety. She closes her eyes.

The moment vanishes. Graham frowns, momentarily confused as to what he’s doing, but shakes off the feeling and keeps putting the groceries away.

That night, once she can hear his soft snoring from the other room, she concentrates. She brings to the forefront of her mind every kiss, every caress, every coupling. All his words of love that now feel so hollow, and her answering giddy smiles. She has kept a careful record of it ever since her first kiss with Michelle. She doesn’t leave anything behind.

It’s harder, so much harder than usual. She wipes away minutes here, hours there. She fills the vacuums with white noise of reading together or having meaningless conversation about the weather.

By the end of it, she’s sweating and breathing hard, but she feels so much lighter. She hasn’t solved her problem, but now Tamar’s free, just in case she...

She...

If only, if only, if only.