Truth or Dare: a Sapphic-themed mini-story

I By the time Freja reached the fourth floor, the bottle of Riesling had chilled her fingers through the paper bag. She paused outside the flat for a moment, listening to the muted clatter of plates inside and the drone of traffic below, and had a sudden, impulsive urge to leave the wine on the mat and go home. She shook her head as if that might stop the fluttering in her belly, and reached for the bell. The door opened almost at once. “Freja! Oh, it’s so good to see you!” Ida crossed the distance between them in two long strides and hugged her. “Come in. Katrine’s dying to meet you.” Before Freja could reply, Ida had relieved her of the bottle and was already steering her down the hallway. The atmosphere of the flat quickly closed around her. So did the years. She had prepared herself to find an older Ida. She hadn’t prepared herself for how little adjustment it took. The same easy smile. The same effortless certainty that everyone else would keep up. Ida led her into a cosy living room that glowed with pools of lamplight. Music drifted from the kitchen, with a woman’s voice humming along, almost keeping time with the melody. A rug with pops of colour softened the hardwood floor, and there was a pile of books stacked neatly beside the sofa, some of them bristling with slips of paper. None of it looked anything like Ida’s old life, which had typically involved eating ravioli straight from the tin, hoarding half-drunk mugs of coffee in her bedroom, and losing every second earring she owned. Freja wondered if time had mellowed her. Then, still smiling, Ida called out in a sing-song voice, “Trine, Freja’s here. Stop hiding in the kitchen and come and say hello.” So she hadn’t changed that much after all. The woman who now emerged from the kitchen was slightly shorter than Freja had expected, dark-haired, in her early forties. She had rolled the sleeves of her sweater to the elbows and was drying her hands on a tea towel before holding one out. There was something composed about her, even in that ordinary gesture, as though she had stepped away from doing something more useful only as a temporary concession. “Hi there, I’ve been hearing all about you.” Freja shook her hand. “That sounds ominous. Ida always did exaggerate.” Katrine glanced towards the kitchen, where Ida was opening a cupboard in search of wine glasses, and she chuckled. “I’ve learned that Ida’s much easier to live with if one allows for a little fiction.” II Dinner disappeared almost before Freja noticed it. Ida had talked while she cooked, moving around the kitchen with the same impatient energy she had always possessed, apologising unnecessarily for the salad and insisting the pasta was overdone when it plainly wasn’t. “It’s her way of fishing for compliments,” Katrine said, carrying the plates through to the table. Ida pretended to look mortified, then grinned. And all the while Freja found herself laughing more than she had expected. It felt oddly familiar, slipping into Ida’s rhythm again. There were moments when she forgot that they had not sat in the same room for almost ten years. By the time the dishes had been stacked by the sink and they carried their glasses into the living room, a third bottle had been opened. The lights were low. Beyond the windows, Copenhagen had dissolved into reflections and scattered points of white and amber. Freja settled into an armchair by the bookcase. Ida slid onto one end of the sofa with a sigh, folding one leg underneath herself. Katrine settled at the other end, stretching her feet out before drawing them back beneath her. “University feels like a lifetime ago,” Ida said, topping up the glasses. “And that house we shared, do you remember the exposed wires in the bathroom? It’s a miracle we weren’t electrocuted.” They drifted easily into swapping old stories after that. The student bar where the floor had always been sticky. The disastrous departmental Christmas party. Mette, who had somehow borrowed everyone’s clothes without ever returning them. “She stole my scarf,” Ida said. “My best one.” “You gave it to her.” “I absolutely didn’t.” “You absolutely did. Probably as a bribe for something or other.” “Well, all right. Guilty as charged.” Freja smiled into her wine. For a while she stopped noticing the gap between then and now. Katrine emptied the last of her glass and set it carefully on the coffee table. “Enough reminiscing,” she said, “It’s time for a change of subject.” Ida looked suspicious. “What sort of change?” “A game.” “Oh God.” “How about Sandhed eller konsekvens . It could be fun.” Ida snorted a reply. “Truth or Dare? Really? We’re not sixteen.” “No, we aren’t,” Katrine said, “which is a relief, as I imagine sixteen-year-old Ida would have been a nightmare. I was thinking of the adult version — we were given a box last Christmas. Remember?” “You mean the version that’s designed to cause adults maximum embarrassment?” “That’s the one. So, Ida, you get the cards. They should be in the drawer under the TV.” Katrine now looked across at Freja. “And we can’t have you sitting over there looking like an adjudicator.” “I wasn’t aware I was.” “You were.” “It’s the armchair,” Ida said, returning to the sofa. “It makes people outrageously judgemental.” Freja laughed, and Katrine patted the cushion beside her. “Come over here.” She hesitated only for a moment before carrying her glass across. There was less room than she had expected. As she settled between them, Ida’s shoulder brushed hers. Katrine freed her leg and shifted to make space. Freja suddenly felt rather more aware of where she was sitting than she had in the armchair. But the first round of the game was harmless enough. Freja chose Dare, and Ida gleefully read out the card. Demonstrate your best seduction technique on the nearest piece of furniture. Freja blinked. “That’s not a dare. That’s a cry for help.” “Don’t be shy,” Ida said, wagging a finger. “You have to obey the rules.” Freja looked around the room. The armchair seemed safest. “Fine.” She strolled over to it, put one hand on the back of the chair, tilted her head and gave what she hoped was a devastating look. “Darling, you have such beautiful legs.” There was a pause. “Is that it?” Ida said, grinning. “No wonder you’re still single.” Katrine leaned forward. “Don’t listen to her,” she said. “I thought you were rather good.” Freja looked at her, surprised. “Really?” “The chair certainly seemed impressed.” Ida burst out laughing. “You’re both ridiculous.” Freja returned to her seat, still smiling. “Thank you, Katrine. It’s nice to have one supporter.” “Any time.” For some reason, the way Katrine said it made Freja blush. III By the second round, Freja had stopped paying much attention to whose turn it was. Katrine’s knee brushed hers whenever she shifted. Ida had become quieter. Not withdrawn exactly. More as though she had started paying closer attention. Once or twice Freja caught her looking from one of them to the other with an expression that seemed amused, thoughtful, and faintly expectant all at once. Katrine cleared her throat. “These cards are getting tedious,” she said. “Let’s make up some of our own.” She turned to Freja. “Have you ever had a crush on someone you absolutely shouldn’t have?” Freja froze, then felt a tingle of heat in her cheeks. “Is that a yes?” Katrine asked. Freja bit her lip, and nodded, and something changed in Ida’s expression. It was the look she’d always worn when she already knew the answer but wanted to hear someone else say it aloud. “Anyone I know?” Freja managed a half-hearted smile. “That’s two questions.” “Then answer both.” Freja’s gaze swivelled from one woman to the other. “You’re awful, you know that.” “Still not an answer,” Ida said. Freja carefully placed her glass on the coffee table. Her voice was almost a whisper. “You know who it was.” For the first time that evening, Ida didn’t laugh. She held Freja’s gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “I suppose I do,” she said softly. “Me. It was me.” There was a moment of quiet until Katrine reached for the bottle, spilling some of the wine as she poured. “Well,” she said, settling back against the sofa. “This makes the evening a whole lot more interesting.” Another few moments of awkward silence followed. “You never mentioned leaving admirers in your wake. Or that Freja was one of them,” Katrine said, leaning over to look at Ida. “No, it wasn’t like that,” Freja said, far too quickly. But the lie didn’t sound convincing. At university she’d watched Ida disappear with girls who looked as though they belonged to another species entirely: black lipstick, expansive tattoos, and silver rings in places that Freja hadn’t imagined could be pierced. For nearly a year, Freja had been quietly, hopelessly smitten with her, despite knowing she wasn’t anything like the women Ida seemed to go for. She was far too straight-laced. But knowing it had never made the crush go away. “Then what was it like?” Katrine asked. Freja looked down. “An embarrassing waste of three semesters.” When Freja looked up again, Katrine was a little closer than before. Close enough that she could smell her perfume beneath the wine. Close enough to see the green speckling in her eyes. “You poor thing.” Suddenly it was as if their lips were touching through some kind of gravitational pull. Katrine kissed her gently, and Freja realised she was kissing her back and not wanting to stop. When they separated, she opened her eyes to find Ida watching them. Her expression looked like… approval. Freja blinked and half rose from the sofa. “I’m sorry—” Ida touched her arm. “It’s okay. Trust me, it’s okay.” With her knees collapsing under her, Freja sank back onto the sofa. Ida’s voice was now a whisper. “Just go with it…” Her kiss was entirely different. Where Katrine had been gentle, Ida kissed with an eagerness that took her by surprise, before the feeling gave way to a kind of warmth that tightened inside her. For a moment she had no clear sense of where one touch ended and another began. She became aware of Katrine beside her again, lips brushing lightly against her neck, then her jaw, taking her time. Freja closed her eyes. The room seemed impossibly quiet. Intense, almost palpably so. Ida now drew back only far enough to look at her. Without a word, she reached for Freja’s hand. Very gently, she placed it against Katrine. Then she let go. Freja could have withdrawn. She didn’t. Her hand remained exactly where Ida had left it. Katrine didn’t move. She simply looked at Freja. There was no encouragement in her expression, no expectation. Only a quiet attentiveness that made it impossible to pretend this was still a game. For a long moment neither of them spoke. Then Katrine smiled, almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.” IV They reached the bedroom in a stumble of kissing, and tugging, and muffled laughter. The room was lit dimly by a small bedside lamp. Freja could feel Ida moving behind her as Katrine reached for the buttons of her blouse. The first two buttons came undone easily. The third did not. “Stand still,” she said. “I am standing still.” Then the button finally gave. Ida’s hands slipped around Freja’s waist, and when Katrine pushed the blouse from her shoulders, cool air moved over her skin so suddenly that she drew breath through her teeth. By then Ida had lost patience. She sat on the edge of the bed and drew Freja toward her while Katrine dealt briskly with the clasp of her skirt. Between them they had the skirt at her knees almost before she had registered that it was happening. After that, the rest seemed to happen in a jumble of movement. There was more laughter, a few whispered words, and the soft thud of clothes landing wherever they happened to fall. By the time undressing was done, the room looked as if a small and rather determined storm had passed through it. And then, suddenly, nobody was laughing. Freja stood between them, aware of the lamplight on Katrine’s shoulder, of Ida’s hair falling loose from behind one ear, of the warmth of both their bodies so close to hers. She had the sharp, almost unbearable sense of being visible from every angle at once. She felt exposed in a way that made her feel acutely self-conscious and vulnerable, and yet the awareness of being looked at — properly looked at, and wanted — went through her like another touch. Katrine was the one who moved first. She took Freja’s face in both hands and kissed her once, very softly, as though to quiet something, then kissed Ida, whose blue eyes were shining. “Shall we?” Ida murmured, nodding in the direction of the bed. And as they clambered on it, there was no real use for speech anymore. V Freja woke to the thin grey light of a Copenhagen morning and for a few seconds had no idea where she was. Then the room came back in pieces: the unfamiliar chair with Katrine’s blouse over the back of it, Ida asleep on her stomach with one arm flung across the sheet, and Katrine beside her on the other side, lying on her back with the kind of stillness that suggested either profound sleep or a blissfully clear conscience. Freja stayed where she was and looked at the ceiling. Her body felt both overused and absurdly alert. One of Ida’s feet was tucked against her calf beneath the duvet. Katrine’s hand, resting palm-down on the mattress between them, was close enough that if Freja moved her own fingers an inch to the left they would touch. The intimacy of it was so complete that it made her feel shy in a way last night hadn’t permitted. She lay there for another minute, perhaps two, trying to decide whether slipping out quietly would be tactful or cowardly. In the end she chose the compromise of picking up Ida’s discarded shirt as silently as possible and escaping only as far as the kitchen. The apartment was cold in the way city flats often were in the morning, as if the warmth belonged strictly to sleeping. She opened cupboard doors, extracting a mug, and had just located the coffee when Katrine came in. She was barefoot and wearing a dark dressing gown tied carelessly over one of Ida’s old university T-shirts. Her hair was flattened on one side. The effect was so unexpectedly unceremonious that Freja stared at her for a second before remembering she ought not to. But Katrine had already noticed. “Good morning,” she said. “You look as though you weren’t expecting me to exist in daylight.” Freja laughed, then wished she had done it less abruptly. “I was thinking you look different.” “That’s a polite way of saying worse.” “No. Just… different.” “Tragic news for everyone.” Katrine crossed to the counter and reached for the kettle. For a moment neither of them spoke. “I was going to leave a note,” Freja said at last. “Were you?” “Possibly.” “How grim.” Freja smiled despite herself. Katrine took down a mug, then, after a moment’s thought, a second. “I don’t mean because I wanted to escape,” Freja said, and felt foolish, realising that was exactly how it must have sounded. “Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to think we’d driven you out before coffee.” Freja leaned one hip against the counter. She was still not entirely sure how to stand in the room. The night before had left her with the unsettling sense that every ordinary movement now carried a second meaning. “I suppose I wasn’t sure what the rules were,” she said. “For leaving notes?” “For this morning.” Katrine considered that, and then shrugged. “There aren’t any,” she said. “Which is either wonderfully liberating or extremely irresponsible, depending on your point of view.” The kettle boiled. Katrine poured the water and handed Freja a mug without asking how she took it, which turned out to be correct. That detail, for reasons Freja didn’t entirely understand, felt pleasantly intimate. “Do you often do this?” she asked, then immediately wished she had found a more tactful way of putting it. Katrine, to her credit, wasn’t fazed by the question. “Not often enough to have developed a handbook,” she said. “Why?” Freja looked down at her coffee. “I don’t regret what happened. I want you to know that.” Katrine’s expression changed, only slightly, but enough. “Good,” she said. “I’d have found a scribbled apology rather insulting. Now, drink up and stop overthinking. Agreed?” Freja nodded. “Agreed.” Through the half-open bedroom door came the faint rustle of sheets and the sound of someone moving with exaggerated care. Katrine didn’t turn her head. “Ida’s awake,” she said. “She’ll pretend not to be for another thirty seconds because she hasn’t yet thought of an entrance.” About a minute later, Ida duly appeared in the doorway, barefoot and sleepy and wearing nothing but the bedsheet wrapped around her. There was a crease on her cheek from the pillow. She looked from Freja to Katrine, took in the coffee, the shirt, the fact that they were both already awake enough to have formed an alliance without her, and narrowed her eyes. “Why do I feel,” she said, “that the two of you have been discussing me in my absence?” “Because we have,” said Katrine. Ida ignored her and came straight to Freja, stopping close enough that the sheet brushed against Freja’s bare knee. “You were going to leave a note, weren’t you?” she said. Freja stared at her. “How do you know that?” “You have note-leaving energy.” “That isn’t a real thing.” “Of course it is. I read about it on the internet.” Ida reached out and touched the collar of the shirt Freja was wearing, her thumb brushing the fabric where it fell open at her throat. It was a very small gesture, but it seemed to alter the whole temperature of the kitchen. She gave Freja a playful nudge. “You’re not in a hurry to go, are you?” Somehow it didn’t come across as a question. Freja shook her head, and Ida grinned. “Then I vote we go back to bed.” Ida held out her hands. First Katrine took one, then Freja took the other. And as the bedroom door closed behind them, and cool air enveloped her once more, Freja knew there was nowhere else she needed to be.