She Made a PowerPoint About Our Casual Relationship
Fiction & entertainment
Felicity texted, “Can we have a quick chat about us?” Then she added a thumbs-up, which did nothing to stop me feeling like I was about to lose my job.
We'd been seeing each other for six weeks. Two women in our forties, separate homes, excellent kissing. I'd thought it was going well. I'd even repaired her balcony chair, a fairly serious declaration from someone who struggles to say “I like you” without finding a practical task first.
I arrived with milk. She opened the door smiling.
Then I saw the television.
The first slide said “Us”
Underneath: “A Few Things Worth Discussing.”
“Have I brought the wrong milk, or are we breaking up?”
“Neither. Sit down.”
She sat beside me, then moved her laptop so I could see. Her knee touched mine. Reassuring. The numbered agenda was less so.
“We keep saying casual,” she said. “I wanted to make sure we mean the same thing.”
“I mean I like coming over and I still want my own bathroom.”
“Good. That's slide three.”
There was actually a slide three.
I took an olive and decided to stop making jokes long enough for the woman I fancied to finish a sentence.
Apparently the kissing was going well
The next slide listed what she liked. Separate homes. Making plans. Kissing.
“Happy to discuss that last one in more detail,” I said.
“There's time for questions at the end.”
She was blushing now. I put the olive down.
Below the practical points was another line: “Ruth remembers Mum's appointments.”
Then: “She makes my tea before making her own.”
Then: “I look forward to Saturdays all week.”
“That one wasn't meant to be there,” Felicity said.
She clicked quickly. Unfortunately, she opened her speaker notes.
Across the television appeared: “Tell her you like her. Stop explaining the calendar.”
“Fuck,” she said, and shut the laptop.
We finally stopped discussing the calendar
For a moment we sat reflected in the black screen, two grown women beside a bowl of olives, both suddenly interested in our own hands.
“You can tell me,” I said.
“It sounds more serious out loud.”
“You've already projected it onto a large television.”
She laughed, then took a breath.
“I want to keep seeing you. Just you, if you want that too. I don't want to move in or become someone who argues about how you stack plates. I just don't want to pretend I wouldn't miss you.”
There it was. The thing I'd been trying to say with a screwdriver and a repaired chair.
“I want that,” I said. “And your plates can stay exactly where they are.”
She leaned against me. We talked properly: about exclusivity, about making time, about how neither of us wanted affection to mean giving up our own space.
It took less time than the presentation. It also involved considerably more kissing.
Saturday needed one plan
We ordered dumplings. While we waited, Felicity reached for the laptop.
“I'm deleting that.”
“Can I keep the bit about the tea?”
She sent me a screenshot. No headings, just a few ordinary things she'd noticed and I hadn't realised mattered.
Then she asked about Saturday.
“Free,” I said. “What's planned?”
“You. Me. No slides.”
“Sounds promising.”
She kissed me, slow enough to make the rest of the week seem frankly inconvenient.
“Bring the milk again,” she said. “You'll be here for breakfast.”