Practice Makes Perfect: a Sapphic mini-story (NSFW)

I — The Wedding Table When Erin thought back to the wedding later, it wasn't the speeches or the music she remembered most clearly. It was meeting Rikke. She had expected to spend the wedding breakfast passing potatoes to elderly relatives and answering polite questions about university. Instead she found herself seated between a distant uncle with a fondness for monologues and a Danish woman somewhere in her early sixties, in a dark green silk jacket, her fair hair threaded with silver and swept back from a composed, smiling face. "Rikke," she said, as if a handshake would have been too formal. "I'm the groom’s godmother." Her voice was low and unhurried, her slight accent giving even simple words a kind of deliberateness. Erin returned the smile. "Erin. Sister of the bride." As the conversation around the table grew more animated, Erin noticed how still Rikke sat while others spoke, as if she had long ago stopped needing to compete for attention. "So, tell me about you," Rikke said, looking at Erin over the rim of her wine glass. "I'm studying physiotherapy," Erin said. "At Bournemouth." Rikke’s eyes brightened. "Oh, it's a small world. I live in Christchurch. Just down the road." Then she leaned slightly closer. "What made you choose physiotherapy?" The question took her slightly by surprise, but Rikke seemed genuinely interested and Erin began to talk more freely. She spoke about the challenges and rewards — about the small satisfactions of helping someone trust their body again. After another sip of wine she admitted she would soon be starting a hospital placement and was more nervous about it than she liked to admit. Erin was faintly surprised by how easy it felt to admit this. "Nervous of what?" Rikke asked. "Getting things wrong. Looking as if I don't know what I'm doing." Rikke considered this. "You don't strike me as careless." Erin laughed softly. "You've known me about twelve minutes." Rikke gave a small shrug. "I've been in England long enough to notice how you all tend to downplay your achievements," she said mildly. "I think that's what you're doing now." "Maybe," Erin replied. Despite herself, she blushed. Around them the room had settled into a loud hum of overlapping voices and bursts of laughter. At the top table her sister leaned into her new husband and, catching Erin’s eye, waved. "I have back trouble," Rikke said, almost as an afterthought. "Nothing dramatic. Age and gardening. If you ever want someone safe to practise on before your placement, I'd volunteer." "Okay," Erin said, then caught herself. "I mean — yes. Thank you. I'll think about it." "Good. If you decide you would like to, just text me." Rikke tore the corner from a paper napkin and wrote her number on it. "There we are," she said, sliding it towards Erin, and then asked about her course again. By the time coffee arrived, Erin's jaw ached from smiling. She had hardly spoken to anyone else at the table, but it didn’t seem to matter now. And when Rikke reached for the sugar bowl and their knees met beneath the tablecloth, neither of them moved. "Are you staying for the dancing?" Erin asked later, once the cake had been cut and guests had begun drifting into other parts of the hotel. Rikke shook her head. They were walking along a carpeted corridor that led toward the main foyer. They were alone in the empty corridor. "I can't stay. I have to get back," Rikke said. "But remember, the offer is there if you'd like to practise your magic on me." For one brief moment, as Rikke stopped and turned, Erin thought she was about to lean forward and kiss her — properly kiss her — but instead she squeezed Erin’s arm, kissing her lightly on both cheeks. "It's been lovely getting to know you," she said. And then she was gone, crossing the forecourt towards the lines of parked cars. Erin lingered a moment longer than she needed to. She realised she was no longer thinking about Rikke’s age at all. Only that she hoped she might see her again. When she finally turned back towards the reception, she realised she was smiling again for no clear reason. II — The Week Between The torn corner of napkin stayed in Erin’s handbag for several days before she did anything with it. She found it again while looking for her keys on Tuesday morning and stared at it for a few seconds before slipping it back into the side pocket. She told herself she was thinking about the practicalities. Whether it would be useful practice. Whether she would do it properly. Whether she would look as if she knew what she was doing. Behind it was the memory of how their knees had touched beneath the table. How reluctant she had been to move her leg away. On Thursday evening she finally sent the message before she had time to reconsider. This is Erin from the wedding. You said I could practise on you. The reply came a few minutes later. Of course I remember. How brave are you feeling? Erin smiled. Improving , she wrote. If you're still willing. Saturday afternoon would suit me. Bring whatever you usually use. No persuasion. No pressure. Just agreement. On Saturday she packed more carefully than she needed to. Towels folded twice. Notebook. Hair tie. The portable treatment table lifted awkwardly into the back seat of her car. She changed her top once before leaving, told herself not to be ridiculous, and changed it back again. The drive took just under half an hour. At one set of lights she realised she had been mentally rehearsing muscle groups instead of the route. Lumbar. Gluteal. Hamstring. Start with assessment. She let out a quiet breath and re-focused on the road. The house was located in a private avenue, a rambling building from the 1930s that pretended to be much older. Erin pulled into the driveway and switched off the engine. For a moment she sat with her hands resting lightly on the steering wheel. She realised she could still leave. Instead she reached into the back seat and lifted out the treatment table. The gravel crunched under her shoes as she walked to the door, sounding loud in the afternoon quiet. Then she rang the bell and waited. III — The Visit Rikke opened the door in a cream robe, looking just as composed as she had at the wedding. "Right on time," she said. "I nearly wasn't," Erin admitted. "I almost drove past." Rikke tilted her head and smiled. "That would have been a shame." Then she led the way to the sitting room, which was high-ceilinged and furnished expensively, with sunlight lying across the wooden floor in long, slanting strips. "I thought you could set up here," Rikke said. "But can I get you anything before we start? Tea, or coffee?" "I'm good," Erin replied. "And here is perfect." She began assembling the treatment table. Locking the legs. Checking the height. Spreading the towel flat with the side of her hand. When she looked up, Rikke was watching her. "You look more confident already." "I'm pretending to be." "If you say so." Erin smiled. "Lie face down," she said. "And tell me if anything hurts too sharply. I'm mostly checking tension." Rikke nodded, then loosened the belt of her robe. For a second Erin assumed she meant to adjust it. Instead Rikke let it fall open and slipped it off completely, folding it over the back of a chair with practical care. She was naked. Not posed. Not self-conscious. Simply standing there in the afternoon light, her body carrying the marks of time — softened skin, the slight heaviness of hips and stomach, the small asymmetries that bodies acquire. Erin blinked in surprise. "You could have worn something," she said, more to recover her composure than because she meant it. Rikke shrugged. "In Denmark we don't worry about such things." Then, after a beat: "Would it make it easier for you?" Erin hesitated. "Maybe." "Okay. Next time," Rikke said as she climbed on the treatment table and wriggled into position. "Ready?" Erin asked. Then she placed her hands carefully on Rikke’s back, exactly as she had been taught. She began by working slowly along the muscles beside the spine, testing for tightness, letting her hands learn the small differences beneath the surface. When she found resistance she stayed with it, patient, waiting for it to soften rather than forcing it. After a few minutes she stopped thinking about whether she was doing it correctly and simply followed what she could feel. A tight band near the shoulder blade released suddenly beneath her thumb. Rikke let out a small breath. Erin paused instinctively, then continued, more certain now. The room grew very quiet. She worked lower, following the long lines of muscle towards the base of the back, aware that Rikke had grown very still beneath her hands. When she found another knot and stayed with it longer, Rikke drew in a deeper breath and let it out slowly. Something in that breath seemed to echo inside Erin’s own chest. She had done all she needed to, but she didn't step back. The movement of her hands slowed, sliding from the base of Rikke's spine, over her pelvis and thighs, all the way down to her ankles. She now clasped an ankle with both hands, her fingertips applying more pressure as they moved slowly upward. Rikke made a sound, like a gasp, and shifted her weight on the table so that her legs parted ever so slightly. Erin could see a shine on her skin, oily to the touch when her fingers paused on the soft inside of Rikke's thighs. Erin swallowed hard, just as Rikke released another small sound and grasped the side of the table, steadying herself as she rolled on to her side. She looked up and met Erin's gaze. "You want this as much as I do," she said. It wasn’t a question. Erin felt her throat tighten. "Yes." Rikke swung her legs off the table and sat upright in a single, careful manoeuvre. She held out her hand. "Come here." For a moment Erin stayed where she was. She felt a pressure building inside her, swelling and tightening, then swelling once more. Like a balloon filling up. A balloon that could burst. "Come here," Rikke repeated, quieter this time. Erin clutched her hand and sat down beside her, drawn into a lingering kiss that started slowly then deepened. "I think we'd be more comfortable on the sofa," Rikke said softly once they had surfaced from the kiss. Erin didn’t trust herself to speak. So she nodded, and followed. IV — Afterwards Afterwards, they talked easily. That surprised Erin more than anything else. There was no awkwardness, no careful picking over what had happened. Rikke made coffee and handed her a mug as if this were something they had always done. They sat beside each other rather than across from one another, their knees touching now and then without either remarking on it. At one point Rikke laughed about the number of fireplaces in the house. "Six," she admitted. "Completely impractical." "How many do you actually use?" "Two. Three if I'm feeling theatrical." Erin laughed. When she eventually stood to leave, nothing about it felt like an ending. At the door Rikke kissed her once. "Text me when you get back," she said. "I will," Erin replied, and then found herself grinning for much of the journey home. * The following days did not rearrange themselves into anything dramatic. Lectures. Reading. A supermarket trip she nearly forgot. Messages from friends about nights out she might or might not join. But she noticed something small. She stopped rehearsing what she was going to say before saying it. Once, in a seminar, she heard herself disagree with someone without first apologising for doing so. The words had come out cleanly. She hadn't meant them to be brave. They had simply been true. Afterwards she realised she hadn't felt the usual flicker of self-correction. That was new. * Rikke sent a message on Tuesday evening. Did I survive your professional debut? Erin smiled before answering. You did. Though I may need to reassess your condition. A pause. Then: I am prepared to be reassessed. Erin found herself smiling again, and for the first time in a long while she felt no need to decide what any of it was leading to. Only that she was curious to see what would happen next.