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A midday nap was a luxurious thing, Petunia thought, stretching her arms above her head as she emerged, slowly, from a series of the most delicious daydreams. The rain had not let up, but the sound of pattering raindrops overhead was pleasant. It mingled with the low buzz from the television; it made the room sound like a memory or a dream. From behind the gauzy curtains were grey scudding clouds, giving the sky a hazy glow.
Petunia was rather taken with those new curtains, actually. They allowed her to peer out at the street without feeling exposed — without being seen. For Petunia did not want to be perceived unless she chose to be seen. And on a day like this, there was only one person worth her attention.
“Petunia?”
“Mm?”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Not exactly.”
Marge laughed. “Not exactly?”
“I’m… considering my options,” said Petunia, sitting up just enough to shrug the throw blanket off of her shoulders. She yawned. “How long was I out?”
“Two episodes, give or take,” said Marge, sitting up in her armchair as she looked from Petunia to the television.
“You could have woken me.”
Marge gave her usual low chuckle. “I didn’t have the heart,” she said. “You looked peaceful.”
Petunia hummed gently. “I was peaceful,” she said after a beat. “I am peaceful.”
It was half true, like most of what Petunia said aloud. Petunia was enjoying the break from Vernon and Dudley. In fact, she was already dreading their return from holiday, and they’d barely left. Without them, Privet Drive was more peaceful than it had seemed for years. Yet peace implied stagnation, boredom — and this was more than that. If Petunia had wanted a peaceful home, she would hardly have invited Marge into it. Marge was loud and brash, and yet…
Petunia drew her legs underneath her, readjusting into a sitting position. It was suddenly impossible to stay still.
The truth, though Petunia was too cowardly to put the thought into words, was that Marge’s presence was as comforting as sinking into a hot bath, as invigorating as a stiff drink after a long day. Simply being in Marge’s vicinity was enough to put Petunia at ease, and yet Petunia had never felt so restless in her life.
“Mind if I join you?” Marge asked, nodding at the empty space beside Petunia.
“Please.”
The sofa dipped down under Marge’s weight as Marge settled beside her. For the briefest, bizarrest moment, Petunia felt a flash of jealousy. She wanted more than closeness; she wanted to bend herself around Marge’s body, wanted to make room for Marge. She needed a closeness that seemed impracticable, impossible in this flawed world of physics and rules and promises.
“Shall we skip back a few episodes?” Marge asked.
It took Petunia far too long to reply. She was too taken by the fact that her thigh was now touching Marge’s.
“What?” Petunia asked, much too late.
Marge chuckled again. “You were asleep for a while. You missed a murder or two.” She shot Petunia a look that was half-teasing, half-appreciative. “Never known why housewives love their cosy murder shows so much. Not much to do in the suburbs but kill one another, I suppose.”
The word housewife stung, just a bit, but Petunia let it pass. In this odd, faraway moment, with the greyish clouds sending skittering rays of light across the room, Petunia let her eyes fall shut and pretended that this was her life — that this was her partner.
“You realise that this town” — Petunia’s eyes flew open; Marge was gesturing vaguely at the television — “must have more murders per capita than any other place on the planet?”
Petunia was in no mood for this, and said as much. She expected Marge to push back, but Marge gave her an odd, inscrutable look, then leaned back against the couch cushions, deliberately draping her leg over Petunia’s.
“You know,” said Marge, a smirk creeping across her face, “we’ve got all weekend, we have.”
“I know,” said Petunia, not entirely sure what Marge was intending.
“Plenty of time to get into trouble.”
Petunia repressed her own smile. “And what sort of trouble can two middle-aged women get into?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Marge lightly, tracing a pattern along Petunia’s bare thigh with her fingers, which were surprisingly gentle. “But I’ve got a few ideas.”
Petunia pressed her leg back against Marge’s, revelling in the touch and the way their bodies felt next to each other. If Petunia’s intuition was correct — and she quite hoped it was — Petunia had far greater pleasures than a midday nap on the horizon.