C5 Chapter 5

Céline

“Céline? Did you iron my shirts?” Tobias Kaiser called loudly as he stood before the open clothes closet and looked inquisitively inside.

“I didn’t have time.” Dr. Céline Kaiser entered the bedroom and strode over to him. She brushed a kiss across his cheek. “Sorry.”

He sighed. “You knew I was going to need one today.”

“You knew it, too,” she replied, slightly annoyed. “Why am I always responsible for ironing?”

“Because women are just better at it,” said Tobias. “I never learned how.”

“How practical of you,” Céline responded tartly.

“Could you iron it now, sweetheart, quickly?” He kissed her perfunctorily. “I have to leave in half an hour.” He left the bedroom.

“Yes, of course I will,” she murmured. She retrieved a shirt from the laundry basket. For a moment, she held it in her hand as if she were about to put it back, but then she unfolded the ironing board and plugged in the iron.

Since they’d lost their housekeeper to maternity leave, taking care of the household had begun to consume her completely. She and Tobias worked all day, and when they came home neither of them were interested in doing anything in the apartment. They went out to eat or had food delivered – but unfortunately, that did little to curb the mountain of dirty dishes, and nothing at all about the mountain of laundry.

She knew she ought to take the laundry to a wash-and-fold service that would return it already pressed, but unfortunately that thought occurred to her too late to be of help now. In recent years she’d become spoiled by the fact that her cleaning lady had taken care of everything.

Men must get to feel spoiled all the time, she thought. When they come home, everything’s already been taken care of for them.

It hadn’t ever occurred to her before just how little Tobias did around the house. After all, she hadn’t done much either – not since they’d been able to afford a housekeeper. But if anything was lying around, she was always the one who put it away. Tobias never thought about it; he didn’t even notice.

Suddenly she felt like one of her patients, always lamenting the laziness of their husbands. Normally Céline just laughed and advised them to discipline their men better. But those patients would hardly take her seriously anymore if they saw Tobias.

He was a great guy, of course, but . . . She tested the temperature of the iron with a damp finger. Hot enough.

She arranged the shirt on the ironing board. She was very young when she and Tobias got married; they were both still in college. Really, they’d only gotten married to be able to get a room together in student housing – one of the small studio apartments that were only allotted to married couples.

Of course, back then, she’d believed that she loved him . . .

She ran the iron over the shirt’s sleeves and watched the fabric smooth out. Was this what love amounted to? Preparing crisp collared shirts for your husband?

“What is love, anyway?”

Céline looked up, startled, as if someone had spoken, but there was no one there. It was Anna Lessing’s voice that she’d heard. It was something she’d said during their last session.

Céline didn’t have to answer questions like that, and certainly not when they came from Anna. She’d simply asked back, “What do you understand it to be?”

Always put the ball back in the patient’s court. They had to find the solution themselves; Céline was only a mirror for their wishes, and she had to keep them focused – something most patients weren’t able to do on their own.

“I write about it,” Anna had answered, “but understand?

. . . I don’t understand love. It’s completely foreign to me.”

“You loved Sabrina . . . you still love her,” Céline had reminded her. “Don’t you?”

“Sabrina . . .” Mentioning that name always created a problem – one Céline had not been able to help Anna solve thus far. “Is that really love?” Anna had looked at her, questioning.

“Well, to decide that, we first have to define love,” Céline had answered. “There are so many kinds.”

“For example, mine and yours,” Anna had smiled in her particular mocking way. A woman like her didn’t let the ball be placed in her court so easily, not without sending it back. “How do you define love? Do you love your husband?”

“That’s an inappropriate question.” Céline had fended that one off automatically, but now the question echoed in her head again . . . Do you love your husband?

“Damn you, Anna Lessing . . .” Céline murmured angrily to herself as she turned over the shirt. “What business is it of yours?”

And that kiss . . . Of course, her patients were always trying to cross the boundaries she set for them or that were set by society, but Anna was especially shameless. After that, Céline ought to have declined to continue treating her.

But how would that have looked? Aplomb was an essential requirement of therapeutic relationships. She had to rise above that sort of thing.

When one heard of therapists who couldn’t manage that, it was usually men. Men who got involved in relationships with their female patients. But men were just . . . different.

Anyway, Anna was a woman – a lesbian woman, for whom kissing other women was normal. Céline had never felt that desire, herself. She’d only ever exchanged kisses with men.

Anna’s kiss had been surprising, though. Something out of the ordinary. Women apparently kissed differently than men did. Céline had been astonished to discover that, even if she hadn’t shown it. Really, she was proud of her professionalism.

Tobias came in. “Are you finished?”

“Almost.” Céline looked at the shirt.

“I love it when you do housework,” he said, sliding a hand across her bottom and kissing her on the shoulder. “Too bad I have to go now.” His hand squeezed her backside more firmly. “Although, I could take five more minutes . . .” His voice sounded raw, and he slid his hand beneath her skirt.

“Here’s your shirt.” Céline turned around; his hand dropped.

“Thanks.” He took it from her. “Five minutes isn’t enough for you, I know,” he said. It sounded almost reproachful.

“For any woman,” said Céline, “not just for me.”

“Then . . . maybe this evening,” he said.

“Yeah.” Céline nodded. “Maybe.”

She glanced at his naked, hairy chest as he pulled on the shirt. Anna wore men’s shirts sometimes, too, but her chest would certainly look different underneath.

Where did that thought come from? She shook her head in irritation.

“What’s wrong?” Tobias was tying his necktie.

“Nothing.” Céline turned around and folded up the ironing board.

“I’m off, then.” Tobias patted her on the butt. “Looking forward to tonight!” He laughed.

She heard the door latch.

Slowly, she walked back to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee.

The stories and problems Anna related to her often differed very little from those straight relationships between men and women. Nonetheless, Céline began to reflect on what the differences were. Not just the kissing.

How would it feel to hold a woman in her arms? She knew how it felt when she hugged her female friends in greeting or in farewell, but that was different. They hardly touched one another.

Anna had told her things that . . . well, she would’ve turned bright red, if her professionalism hadn’t protected her from such embarrassment. She’d tried to hold Anna back from sharing too much intimate detail, but because she was a writer, she was used to describing everything. It probably never occurred to her how unfamiliar that knowledge must be for a woman whose experiences in bed were entirely limited to men.

Of course, Anna also wanted to embarrass Céline. She provoked her again and again. It was fun for her. Like a child, she constantly tested Céline’s limits.

Céline had to control her reactions very carefully. It was important that Anna never noticed how disconcerted she felt. Everything had to seem professional, masterful, confident. Under no circumstances should she appear affected or overly interested.

Why don’t I just refer her to a male colleague? she asked herself. A man would surely enjoy her descriptions.

But – she had to admit it – she enjoyed them, too. Sometimes, at least. As in many relationships and marriages, sex with Tobias had become routine. Tenderness outside the bedroom was rare. She blamed it on the fact that they both worked so much, but was that really the reason? And had it ever been otherwise? Every time Tobias touched her, he wanted something – all the way through to the predictable conclusion.

She put her coffee cup down roughly on the countertop, and scolded herself for thinking like that. Was Anna really any different? Lesbian women were exactly like men, weren’t they? When they saw a woman, they wanted to sleep with her, they imagined themselves doing naughty things with her . . .

With horror, she recalled the time Anna had told her what crossed her mind when she sat on the bus behind a woman she found attractive.

She’d imagine the feel of her skin against her fingertips, take in the scent of her hair, lean in so close to her that she could not only smell her but could actually feel her warmth. While doing that, she’d imagine how she would slowly undress the woman, caress her, pleasure her . . . how it would sound when the woman cried out . . .

Céline rarely took the bus herself. But after that session, whenever she did, she always paid close attention to who sat behind her. She preferred men, just to play it safe. Or children. Even elderly women had become suspect, ever since Anna had told her the age of the oldest woman she’d ever slept with.

But if a man sitting behind her suddenly inhaled deeply, she would still stand and flee. She only felt safer with men because she felt that men had less imagination.

Certainly not as much imagination as a writer like Anna Lessing. Her fantasies were so vivid that . . . well, they took some getting used to.

But no more than those of my other patients, she tried to convince herself.

Anna wasn’t her first lesbian patient, but none of the others had been so . . . aggressive. Anna seemed to positively enjoy describing every part of a woman’s body in the most graphic way possible. It was, after all, one of her specialties as a writer.

Céline had never stopped to consider what an aroused woman looked like – and she had certainly never herself been in a situation where she could have observed the most intimate parts of a woman in that condition.

When Anna had described to her how exciting it was to look at wet, swollen, invitingly open labia, Céline had to gulp. Suddenly, she’d become aware of how she herself would look in that condition – and that Anna was guaranteed to have already imagined it.

Her nipples went erect. “No . . .” she whispered, appalled.

She had to send Anna to another therapist. It couldn’t go on like this. Well, maybe she could wear a loose-fitting blouse . . .

Oh, God, this is insane! She rested her forehead in her hands and groaned. This cannot be happening!

When Tobias came home, a surprise awaited him: Céline, in sinfully bare lingerie and garters, literally threw herself into his arms.

After that, he could barely keep up with what was happening to him. He’d had no idea there were so many possible positions. She seduced him with every trick in the book, again and again, until he just lay there, completely exhausted.

In the early days of their marriage, she’d done that fairly often, but he couldn’t remember her ever having been so wild . . .