Page 20 of The Artist's Rival

I allowed myself to fuck her, though. Didn’t I?

Ellie agrees, and they head towards the disgustingly business-filled area of the city. Nothing green soothes their eyes, every inch of the ground is bathed by concrete. The sky stands shadowed by the overwhelming skyscrapers, and the sandwich or poke bowl shops seem completely soulless.

“Let’s go to the older area?” Ellie offers.

They make their way, inhaling the springtime lightness of air, heading towards the little bustling area nearby. Once there, they’re welcomed by the delicious scents of freshly cooked food, steam flowing out of the tiny, crowded kitchens.

“What are you in the mood for?” Tatiana asks, spreading her arms wide.

She smiles generously, and Ellie knows that it’s partially because she has the upper hand in the conversation. A foolish little play, she thinks, considering what her squeezed-by-stress stomach would like.

“Dumplings?” she suggests, pointing to a Chinese stand with some three or four chairs in front.

“Let’s go,” agrees Tatiana, light-footed and seemingly excited.

They sit down, holding their orders’ little printed numbers. Tatiana’s number is seven.

“Look, mine is lucky,” she says with a grin.

Ellie has no idea why Tatiana seems to overflow with joy. Her every move seems to possess some secret to happiness, entirely perplexing, she thinks, her own smile going unnoticed.

“I have never heard of seven being lucky,” she says as she shakes her head. Her family wasn’t particularly superstitious, failing to pass on many such common concepts.

“At least in Russia, it’s very lucky.” Tatiana shrugs.

And there it is, her order comes out of the kitchen first. Ellie looks down on her “unlucky” number six, still in the belly of the loud and hot kitchen.

“Does that mean,” she begins, the scent of dumplings finally awakening her hunger, “I unluckily will lose the exhibition?” She looks up from the plate, to face Tatiana.

Tatiana doesn’t wait, but packs her mouth full of chicken dumplings, chewing blissfully. She puts one finger in the air, telling Ellie to wait. In the meantime, they hear a cook shout, “Number six!” and Ellie gets up to get her food.

When she’s back, Tatiana’s plate lies half-empty.

“No, Ellie. Maybe it’s good to do something uncomfortable,” she admits, picking up another dumpling. “I’ll do the exhibition with you.”

Tatiana smiles, and her sensual lips glisten in the warm sun. Ellie cannot keep her eyes away, as if a star pulled towards another by the enduring strength of gravity. She craves to feel these lips against hers once more, remembering all too vividly the sensations of that evening. Giving in to the rush of relief, Ellie bends over the little wooden table and clashes her lips with Tatiana’s.

When she pulls away, both women look at each other with feelings mixed across their faces.

“I don’t know…” begins Tatiana, but soon the words she meant to say seem to get stuck in her throat.

Ellie’s heart beats incessantly fast when she realizes how easily she caved in to the feeling. “I’m sorry, if you didn’t want to—” she begins saying, but doesn’t finish, finding her lips licked by Tatiana’s tongue, invitingly.

“Okay, we shouldn’t do this here, though, this is obscene,” she laughs, relieved.

They finish their lunch in peace, having resolved at least some aspects of their troubles. Ellie feels a wave of joy, thinking about working on the project. She suspiciously notices that the joy seems to come from the perspective of working with Tatiana as well, but she keeps that feeling to herself.

“So… Do we kiss, now, casually?” she asks Tatiana, wanting some form of clarification.

“Apparently,” the other laughs it off, clearly shying away from some conversation.

Ellie decides to let it go for the moment.

“Should we call Kirsch?” she asks, hoping to settle the matter entirely.

“Go ahead,” Tatiana says, wiping her lips clean. “I have to keep going.” She gets up. “Do you even have my number?” She smiles.

“I… Well, if it’s the same one?—”

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