Con (Part 1)

I started cramping somewhere toward the late morning, hard and vicious, the sort that lets you know you're in for it, and it floated over that...that sense...I had, the edgy anticipation of something, or actually, someone, headed my way.

I hate that sense sometimes. I can go days, occasionally weeks, and if I'm lucky, a month almost two, before it hits me again, because when it does? I'm an edge-jangled mess, hyper-alert and twitchy.

That it came now, on top of pain that was four days early--an extremely unusual occurrence--left me gritting my teeth. This...was going to be ugly.

The nerves and the pain were beginning to fuzz me out and the effort to smile, to engage in animated conversation with strangers, the effort of separating mind from the aching throb that begged me to curl up somewhere dark to puke in peace, was surely eating away at the last of my reserves.

A slight lull in the crowd gave me my chance, and I excused myself from the table. I slipped between people and bags, costumes and weapons, the haze between my eyes flowing down my neck, my chest, until I reached the door, the patio of the convention center that overlooked the river.

There were perhaps half a dozen people--mostly in pairs--scattered about the large deck and I found a comfortable spot to lean against the concrete railing, lit myself a cigarette, and let the pain and the edge drift away with the smoke as I watched it.

I was clear and alert, the cramp settled to a warm, mindful discomfort in my belly. A name, a face, drifted through my mind and as the muscles seized--a twist that forced me to shift my legs, compensate with my stance--in the resigned way you know that whatever comes next, you'll still be wrong and have to correct it, I knew she was near.

"JayJay."

Her voice was the same: husky, low, and it sent that spike of resignation through my spine.

"Beth."

I didn't turn around, because she did what I knew she would: lean along the railing next to me.

"I heard you'd be here," she said as her sleeved arm rested next to mine and my peripheral vision caught her staring out over the water next to me.

I couldn't stand the thought of my back so vulnerable to her and I shifted again--pain be damned--and the leather of my jacket rubbed up against the concrete, guarding me.

"Wasn't a big secret," I answered. That was very true; it had been announced on websites and boards, even a couple of stores and a few emails. And then, there was always word of mouth...and there were always plenty of those.

"Hometown girl making it big, everyone whose known you knows," she said.

The afternoon sun shone down on her and reflected back up into her face from the water that shimmered below. Ice blue, winter sky blue, almost colorless eyes stared down at the river and the ice that lined its edges. Grey hadn't taken over her hair yet, a few thick streaks here and there were strung among coal-black waves, waves that still flowed just past her shoulders.

"Are you bleeding?" she asked quietly, turning those eyes, and those soft, soft lips, to me.

"Huh. Around you? Probably," I answered as flippantly as I could.

"You look like you're in pain," she said in the same quiet voice, and she reached automatically, the way she had almost a lifetime ago, to touch me, to reach that spot that would ease the muscles.

I caught her hands half way, gently pushed them back. "Again...around you? Definitely," I told her as I let go.

She stared at me, those ice eyes on mine, and for a brief moment, I wondered what she saw, what my eyes looked like to her. I knew than when I was at any emotional extreme, the outer ring turned a bright emerald green, but when I was hazy, or as both my mother and my beloved partner had told me, half awake and furious, they shone an amber gold. I wondered what she saw--the green or the gold?

Beth nodded. "I deserve that."

"You do, Beth. You do," I agreed.

I tossed my cigarette over the railing--it had lost its appeal--and shoved a hand into my pocket as I edged away.

"Can we talk?" she asked as I took my first step.

I hesitated. The last time we'd spoken, she'd issued an invitation, an invitation to her wedding that I didn't attend. Eight years. Eight years since I'd seen her to that invitation, eight years to this day on the patio.

She edged closer. "We haven't spoken in a long time, not alone." Her face was somber, sad, her eyes fixed on mine.

I glanced around the patio. The chill of the air off the water must have gotten to those who'd been outside, because with the exception of one lone smoker stationed about thirty feet away, she was right: we were alone.

"We haven't spoken alone since..." I let it hang, because the memory was dull, but the pain wasn't, another knife through my gut that made me want to retch.

"Since I hurt you," she supplied. She took another step closer.

"No, Beth. No," I corrected, stepping back with a shake of my head. "You didn't hurt me--you raped me."