Wanderlust [Lesbian Story]

V

The suit-wearing woman was seated on the examination table while I was dabbing an alcohol-soaked cotton ball on her bruised cheek. She was silent, once again, while I was treating her minor injury—a splotch of purple on her cheek and a small cut on her lip. It looked raw, as if it was newly made.

"Heard you're a traveler," I heard her say with a bit of humor in her voice. "Where are you from?"

I shrugged, ignoring her question. It was too personal for a 'stranger' to know.

"You know where I am from, this fine quiet town, so I think it would be fair for you to tell me where are you from," she pressed on.

A groan escaped my lips. "Philippines. What happened to you?" I segued.

Her wounded lip curved upward, the humorous grin turning into a cunning smirk. "Another fight. How did you know Ross?"

"He's an acquaintance. Why did you leave early? You could've left a note."

"Work called. How's this small town treating you?"

"It's quaint. I like the people. What work do you do?"

"Anything I was asked to do. For a traveler, you like vests and suits, huh?"

I looked at myself and silently appreciated my preferred wardrobe; a suit with a vest that showed my feminine curves. "It's my preferred style. Is your suit part of your work?"

"Indeed. Have to look sharp in front of everyone..." she answered with a grin, adjusting her suit jacket using her uninjured hand.

While I treated her wound, I learned a bit more about her and she learned about me. We exchanged questions, answering all of it unless it was a personal one. A fair exchange of questions and answers.

After placing a Band-Aid–a blue one–I smiled at my work. "Well, there you go!" I said with a smile, lightly patting her bruised cheek. Again, she didn't wince and just smiled back at me.

She then settled on the examination table, laying on it, and made herself comfortable. "Thank you, traveler."

"Let me guess, you'll be sleeping here?" I asked curiously.

But she didn't answer. She merely closed her eyes and a few seconds after, she was already snoring lightly.

"Good night then, stranger," I whispered, leaving the accident-prone woman, and headed to the second floor to the clinic.

Before I headed to bed, I logged my day on my journal, including the stranger that's sleeping in the first floor.

###

Every night, after my day in town, the woman in a suit would be waiting for me by the clinic.

Cuts.

Bruises.

Dislocated limb.

And every time I tend to her injuries, we ended up talking and exchanging a few short conversations. From something to anything; excluding personal questions. From how my travels were and to how she gained her injuries.

I noticed how her eyes sparkled while listening to the stories of my travels. How she attentively listened to me, interested even, at how I told her of the journeys I had. I was fascinated at how she's listening to me in gusto. And somehow, with the nights of exchanging stories with this woman, I've grown fond of her.

How she shows a cold yet friendly smile.

How her steely gaze could soften.

Her hands, gentle yet could be rough at the same time.

Her liking to chocolate while mine is coffee.

I even took pictures of her and printed it for my journal entries.

A reminder that she exists and not just my dreams.

But what I've liked much more about her are her stories. The stories she shared about the things around the small town, no matter what it was. She spoke proudly of this quaint town, speaking about it verbally and somehow animatedly. Every word she spoke of, it was full of emotions. It shows how much she loves the said place.

And from her voice and smiles, I feel like I'm finding a port where I could weigh anchor for a while. A small trading town, that I could rest and relax.

From her presence, I felt this small warmth on my chest. That even if I was annoyed at her teases, I had fun exchanging banters with her. How I would smile as well when I see her smile. And how her steely gaze made me feel hot and bothered that sometimes I imagined how her lips would feel on mine.

Yet those sensual thoughts would be washed away as every day, when morning came, she would disappear.

No goodbyes, no notes; she would just disappear by the brink of dawn.

I felt like she was just my imagination. A reminder of how my parents told me to settle down. But the scent of hers, light perfume mixed with smoke, that filled the clinic office told me that she was real.

And somehow, I felt like I don't want to wake up without seeing her there.