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Tristan tried to appear relaxed sitting on a work bench cross legged, leaning back against the wall for support. The trembling in her hand was only betrayed by the rippling of coco in the large Styrofoam cup she held. She kept her eyes fixed on Sage in an effort to maintain a cool exterior in spite of the pain pulsating through her body.
Sage was circling the stone block Tristan smuggled into the gutted penthouse the previous day. The hammer in Sage's right hand tapped a steady rhythm against her thigh. Tristan idly wondered if the hammer was attempting to communicate its eagerness to get back to work to its owner.
"Okay," Sage finally spoke as she holstered the hammer in the tab of her carpenter pants, "your turn."
Tristan was confused but didn't resist as Sage took the cup from her. "What should I do?"
"Get on your feet. Get over to the stone. Get the beast inside to reveal itself to you."
Tristan got up but didn't move any closer to the stone. Sage took the now vacant perch and settled in. A stolen sip of coco resulted in a satisfied grin. Tristan's sudden call to duty caused her to miss the rare moment of pure joy spread across Sage's lips. Tristan stared blankly at the rock while maintaining a safe distance. She didn't make a move to approach the stone willingly. It took Sage's bare foot on her ass to push her into action.
"Okay, okay, don't rush me," Tristan said as she stepped an inch or two forward before stopping again. "Wait a minute; you said you couldn't see the shape inside until you released it. How do you expect me to be able to do what you can't?"
Sage sat up a bit straighter at the somewhat foggy memory more than the question itself. "You remember me saying that?"
"Of course, I'm a journalist. Remembering quotes is one of the more important parts of my profession."
"Really? I thought rifling through dumpsters for other people's personal information was the most important part of your profession," Sage flashed a nasty smirk when she saw Tristan wince at the remark.
Tristan, however, refused to be baited into a fight. She remained silent and held her ground until Sage reluctantly helped her.
"Just try to get a feel for a basic geometric shape. We need to practice on simple things first. I need to figure out if you and I are looking at the same stone."
Tristan nodded her head but did not speak. She turned her back on Sage and approached the cold, hulking stone block. She circled the rock in much the same way Sage did but really didn't see any shape beyond the square before her.
"No, that's not quite right. It's not really a perfect square, now is it?" She thought to herself.
Her hand reached out and found the edge to be rough, almost jagged. It was begging to be smoothed down to a sharp corner. Tristan let her fingers trace the outer surface and found subtle dents and bulges and crevasses. Each imperfection needed honing to make the block a right angled square.
Tristan smiled triumphantly as she announced, "It's a square."
"Uggh, this is never gonna work," Sage grimaced and shook her head in defeat.
"Why? What did you see?" Tristan questioned with her hand on her hip and indignation evident in her tone.
"It is obviously a pyramid. Any first year high school art class could tell you that," Sage stated before taking a long drink of coco.
Tristan refocused her attention on the stone. She circled it several more times. Her hand searched the surface and edges in vain. There was no hint of a pyramid hidden inside the rock.
Frustration got the better of her and she blurted out, "How would you teach a first year high school art class to find the pyramid within? There has to be some kind of starting point."
"There is," Sage was smug, "talent."
"Fine, you're the smartest, best artist ever and I'm just a hack writer." Tristan taunted, "Oh wait; I used the wrong verb tense. You were the smartest best artist ever. But, not anymore. Now you're just another spoiled rich girl who, sadly, is not ambidextrous."
Any hint of humor left Sage's face. Her eyes narrowed on the woman mocking her.
"I think we're done," Sage ground out the words.
"Oh, is that how it goes? You know, this is why everybody hates you rich people. You get to say any mean, hurtful thing you want then cry foul when confronted with the truth." Tristan lectured with a wagging finger.
Sage looked wide eyed as she tried to defend herself, "What you said isn't the truth."
"So, you're really ambidextrous?"
"I’m not spoiled," Sage struggled to get the words out without sounding like she was sulking. Her effort was of limited success.
It was Tristan's turn to be smug. She had a good rebuttal ready to fire at the woman. However, she lost her will to continue when she saw Sage's first tear fall. Sage quickly ducked her head and wiped at her face with her upper arm.
Tristan moved faster this time. She took the cup from Sage's hand to give her a chance to wipe her tears dry. Tristan stayed close, brushing her thigh against Sage's knee in an effort to provide some small amount of emotional support. It was quite unexpected when Sage leaned forward wrapping her arm around the reporter's waist and buried her face in the soft cotton of Tristan's t-shirt. Her heavy sob was muffled but Tristan felt the depth of Sage's suffering vibrating against her skin.
"Come on, don't cry. You're not really the crying type," Tristan tried to remind the weeping woman.
Sage rested her forehead against Tristan's hip when she asked between sobs, "What do you mean, I'm not the crying type? How would you know if I'm the crying type or not?"
Tristan rolled her eyes and answered honestly.
"I'm a reporter. I have my sources. So, I know; you didn't cry at your grandmother's funeral or when J. Granville had his first heart attack or when your piece, Hungry Children, was rejected by the Institute for Modern Arts or when I wrote that you did not qualify as a starving artist because a) you're leaching off your parents and b) your skill is marginal at best or," Tristan was certain she'd regret the next statement for a very long time, "when your girlfriend left you for some guy."
Sage was very still. Her tears slowed and her breathing steadied. Still, she kept her hold on Tristan.
"She left me for Cade, not some guy." Sage pulled away and looked up at Tristan, "If you know I'm a lesbian then why haven't you outed me in one of your vicious articles?"
"Because, that wouldn't be fair. You can't help who you love. You're discreet but you don't try to hide it. You're not a hypocrite. It is one of the few redeeming qualities about you," Tristan stated it as a matter of fact. "It might be the only thing you're honest about."
Sage released her grip before asking, "You think I'm dishonest? Now, that's a pot and kettle moment it I've ever heard one but this is about me. So, what do you think I'm not being honest about?"
Tristan opened her mouth to speak but came up short with a direct answer. Her venom for Sage was rooted in their brief early meeting so many lifetimes ago on the police booking bench. She had based her character assessment of Sage on the frightened but angry runaway teenager Tristan had been unable to manipulate for her own benefit. It took Sage asking the right question for Tristan to realize she knew details about Sage's but she didn't really know anything of substance about Sage.
"You pretend you're poor," Tristan scrambled for an answer to justify her contempt and years of relentless verbal persecution of the woman.
Sage looked around her loft for effect. "Tristan, I live in one of the most desirable properties in Boston. Just how does that make me appear to be faking poverty?"
"Well, you," Tristan stepped away from Sage but the woman got up and followed her. "You trashed the place. You keep it like some kind of empty warehouse. It should be a palace and you keep it like a hovel."
"This is my studio. I need the open space for my pieces. My bedroom is upstairs. It, I promise you, is very posh." Sage grinned even though her eyes were still watery, "I also promise you'll never see the inside of it."
Tristan stammered at the seductive tone in Sage's voice, "What would make you think I want to see your bedroom? You're assuming I'd be interested in you. Hell, you're assuming I'm gay."
Sage didn't answer. Instead, she rushed the reporter and grabbed her by the shirt front. Sage delivered a searing kiss to startled lips but parting lips. The deeper she delved into Tristan's mouth the more willing the woman became. Without any warned, Sage broke off the contact and walked away.
"Yep, you're gay."
"That doesn't…you just…you…you grabbed…I wouldn't have let…you forced…doesn't mean, I want…would ever want…you…" Tristan was babbling and breathless.
Sage shook her head in amusement.
"You don't even know me!" Tristan was finally able to form a full sentence of self defense.
"That might be true but I do know straight women never let me put my tongue in their mouths. And," Sage smiled broadly, "only Dykes enjoy it as much as you did. But, trust me, I won't do it again.
"Good 'cause I don't want you to touch me again," Tristan sounded a little less than convincing.
Sage promised, "I won't touch you. I won't kiss you. And, I certainly wouldn't ever fuck you, Tristan. Even if I got a free bar of soap with it to wash your stink off me after deed. So, why don't you just leave because you got nothing I want and I got nothing you can have?"
Tristan steadied herself, "You're wrong. I need your good arm and you need mine. So, why not cut the bullshit and teach me what to do so we can sculpt a pyramid? Then I'll teach you how to write a sentence in your native tongue." Tristan cleared her throat and willed herself to anger, "And, you can trust me, language is the only tongue you'll ever get from me you rich, selfish, spoiled, one armed bitch."
"If you're dumb enough to want to keep this farce up then who am I to stop you?" Sage tried to appear reluctant in her surrender but her heart was still racing from the stolen kiss.