Her Rules, Her Way – Part 2: Winter Terms

By February, the list had three new lines and one crossed-out item. Juliette had struck out always in control and written beside it, in her sharp, slanted hand: in control of the choice, not the outcome.

"That's a better sentence," said Noa, reading it over her shoulder in the studio kitchen.

"It's a more honest one," said Juliette. "I've been pretending for years."

They had found a rhythm. Work in the day, honest talk at night, and Sunday mornings in Juliette's apartment with the radiators knocking and the snow falling past the tall windows. They cooked badly together. They argued about films. They tested the rules, one at a time, with a patience neither of them had expected.

One Sunday, Juliette asked for something new.

"I'd like to try a scarf," she said, from the sofa. "Over my eyes. Not for you. For me. I want to see what it's like to trust someone without looking."

Noa set down her coffee. "Tell me the rules."

"You talk me through it. You don't leave me alone with it. And I say stop, and you stop."

"And if you want more?"

"Then I'll tell you," said Juliette, with a nervous laugh. "Eventually."

Noa came to sit beside her. "Can I tie it?"

"Yes."

The scarf was soft and dark. Juliette felt Noa's hands at the back of her head, careful and quick, the knot pressed gently against her hair. Then the room went quiet, except for the snow and her own breathing.

"Green?" Noa asked, close to her ear.

"Green," whispered Juliette, and realised her hands were shaking.

"Tell me when it's too much."

"I will."

Noa's fingers traced slowly along her arm, light and deliberate, stopping before each touch so Juliette could feel the pause. Juliette leaned into it, surprised by how much she liked not knowing what came next.

"Yellow," she said suddenly, and everything stopped.

Noa's hands withdrew at once. "Okay. Take your time."

Juliette breathed in, out, in again. "Just slower," she said. "Please. I'm not running."

"Slower," said Noa, and took her hand instead, warm and steady, while she waited.

When the scarf came off, the light was grey and soft through the snow, and Juliette's eyes were wet, though she did not feel sad.

"That was good," Noa said.

"It was terrifying," said Juliette. "I liked it."

"We'll do it again next week, if you want. Or we'll do something else entirely."

Juliette looked at her, really looked, the way she had looked at a difficult drawing until it made sense.

"Can I kiss you?" she asked. "I want to ask, not decide."

"Yes," said Noa, smiling. "And I'll tell you if I want you to stop."

Juliette kissed her, slowly, with the snow falling outside and the radiators ticking. It was not a command. It was an invitation, and Noa accepted it, and both of them, for once, were willing to stay exactly where they were.