A Matter of Trust: A Carlsbad Village Lesbian Romance

“God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” she wailed. But a moment later she said, “Actually, I do know what’s wrong but I just don’t understand it.” She reached forward to retrieve Clint’s tumbler of whiskey from the coffee table but instead of handing it to her guest, she brought it to her lips and knocked back the rest of it.

Without being asked to, Clint got up, went to the kitchen and returned with the whiskey bottle. He poured a fresh glass for Morgan who immediately began drinking it.

“Care to talk about it?” Clint asked.

“Is it alright if I don’t give you the specifics?”

Clint shrugged.

“Like I said, your choice.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you or that I don’t trust you; it’s that I don’t quite know how to articulate it properly. At least to a man.”

Clint chuckled.

“Probably a good thing you don’t tell me, then. Men often make such matters worse.”

Morgan smiled and reached over to lay her hand on his arm.

“Thank you for being understanding,” she told him with feeling.

“See? I’m more than just a pretty face,” Clint answered. “So, is there someone you can talk to about whatever it is you don’t want to talk to me about?”

Nodding, Morgan made the decision then that after Clint left, she would make a phone call.

***

The phone call turned into a visit, primarily because the person Morgan called heard the strain in Morgan’s voice. So, less than fifteen minutes after Clint left, Naomi arrived.

“Are you pregnant?” was Naomi’s way of saying hello as she walked in the front door. She looked at Morgan with genuine concern in her eyes.

“No,” Morgan stated. “That usually involves sex or accidentally sitting on a vial of live sperm which then pops open in your vagina, neither of which has happened to me recently.”

Naomi let out a relieved breath.

“Okay, thank fuck!” she said. “I mean, not that you wouldn’t make a great mother but, honestly, it’s the last thing you need.”

“Wine?” Morgan asked, guiding Naomi towards the kitchen.

Naomi sniffed.

“Why does it smell like a man in here?” she asked.

“Clint came by. He just left.”

Naomi stopped.

“Oh, don’t tell me. He couldn’t perform and now you’re having a crisis of confidence about your attractiveness.”

“I am sure Clint’s ability to perform is still top-notch,” Morgan sighed. “Besides, it never got as far as that.”

In the kitchen, Morgan poured two glasses of wine. On top of the whiskey she had recently drank, it was going to be a lot of alcohol for her, usually a no-no for a Sunday night because tomorrow she had to go online and teach along with a million other teacher-type things. But she needed more alcohol for this upcoming conversation.

“Hey, we still on for Ikea on Friday?” Naomi asked. “I’ve decided I need a new area rug for my dining room.”

“Still on,” Morgan confirmed. She wanted to get some additional pieces of furniture for her new house and now that California had once again relaxed the pandemic protocol in San Diego County, doing fun shopping like that was possible.

The wine poured, Morgan led Naomi back to the living room and then something interesting happened. Both women sat on the couch, legs tucked up, close to one another like they normally did when they were having what they called “girl time” together; so close that their legs were touching. Even though they had sat like this countless times over the years, the intimacy and familiarity comforting, suddenly tonight Morgan was very much aware of how one of Naomi’s bare feet was pressed against her thigh. The contact was innocent, of course, but tonight it was making Morgan’s heartrate increase and her center respond. Actually respond! To Naomi!