The Way You Look Tonight

The bar was nearly empty when Iris bumped the stool. Eleanor had been sitting alone, her worn copy of Virginia Woolf splayed open beside her glass of wine. The splash of gin and tonic across the bar top—and the first few pages of "To the Lighthouse"—brought her head up sharply.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry," Iris said, grabbing napkins. "I wasn't looking where I was going. Let me—"

She mopped at the book with frantic energy. Eleanor watched her, this whirlwind of a woman in a faded band T-shirt, camera bag still slung across her shoulder. The woman's hands were trembling slightly.

"It's all right," Eleanor said quietly. "It's seen worse."

Iris looked up, meeting Eleanor's eyes for the first time. A wry, knowing smile touched her lips. "I imagine it has. What's it about, anyway? Woolf, right?"

Eleanor blinked. "You recognize it?"

"Photographer," Iris said, tapping her camera bag. "I've shot a lot of book covers in my time. Always thought Woolf had the most interesting faces on her jackets."

This surprised a laugh out of Eleanor. "Is that what drew you to photography? Interesting faces?"

"Something like that." Iris flagged down the bartender. "Let me buy you a new drink. And dinner, if you're hungry. It's the least I can do after ruining your evening."

Eleanor hesitated. She'd come here to be alone, to escape the suffocating routine of her life. But there was something about Iris's energy that intrigued her.

"I was just having wine," she said finally.

"Wine it is." Iris grinned. "I'm Iris, by the way."

"Eleanor."

They shook hands. Iris's grip was warm and firm.

"So, Eleanor," Iris said, leaning in. "What brings you to this fine establishment? Besides the excellent literature, of course."

Eleanor looked down at her book. "I needed a change of scenery."

Iris nodded. "I get that. I've spent the last ten years chasing scenery. Never seems to fill you up for long, though."

There was a flicker of something in Iris's eyes—loneliness, perhaps, or longing. Eleanor recognized it. She'd seen it in her own mirror often enough.

"Where are you from?" Eleanor asked.

"Nowhere. Everywhere." Iris shrugged. "I move around a lot for work. You?"

"Here," Eleanor said simply. "I've always been here."

"And you've never wanted to leave?"

The question hung in the air. Eleanor thought of her quiet life, the endless shelves of books at the library, the empty apartment waiting for her at the end of each day.

"Sometimes," she admitted.

Iris smiled. "Maybe we can find you a new book to read. Something with a happier ending than Woolf."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "You don't think Woolf has happy endings?"

"I think her endings are true," Iris said. "But true doesn't always mean happy."

They talked until the bar began to fill with evening guests. They talked about books and travel, about the things they loved and the things they'd lost. And all the while, Eleanor felt a warmth spreading through her chest—a warmth she hadn't felt in a very long time.

They moved to a corner table, away from the growing crowd. Wine became coffee, then more coffee. Conversation flowed—sometimes fast and sparkling, sometimes slow and deep.

"You're easy to talk to," Iris said. "I don't usually... I'm not usually like this."

"Like what?" Eleanor asked.

Iris gestured between them. "Open. Honest." She looked away. "In my work, connections are transient. You meet people, spend intense days together, then move on. It's hard to get attached."

Eleanor nodded. "I know. I've had the opposite problem. Too much time in one place, with one person. Even after they're gone, you're stuck in the same patterns."

"Married?" Iris asked gently.

"Divorced," Eleanor said. "Almost two years. We were together fifteen years. Comfortable. Until it wasn't."

"I'm sorry," Iris said.

"Don't be." Eleanor sipped her coffee. "It was my choice. I woke up one day and realized I didn't know who I was anymore. I'd spent so long being a wife, I'd forgotten how to be myself."

Iris reached across and took Eleanor's hand. "I think you're doing a pretty good job of being yourself tonight."

Eleanor smiled. "So are you."

They sat like that, hands clasped, the world narrowing to the space between them.

"Would you like some air?" Iris asked.

Eleanor nodded. "I'd like that."

They walked to the hotel's back garden, where a stone staircase led to the beach. Moonlight cast a silver path across the water.

"It's beautiful," Eleanor breathed.

"Yes," Iris said, looking at Eleanor.

Eleanor's heart skipped. "Iris..."

"Yes?"

"I... I don't usually do this. Any of this."

"Neither do I," Iris said. "But I'm glad I'm doing it with you."

She tucked a strand of hair behind Eleanor's ear. Her touch was gentle, electric.

"I've been wanting to do that all night," she admitted.

Eleanor swallowed. "You have?"

"Yes." Iris moved closer, cupping Eleanor's face. "Eleanor..."

"Yes?"

"May I kiss you?"

Eleanor's breath caught. She nodded.

Iris leaned in, lips brushing Eleanor's in a soft, searching kiss. Eleanor melted into it, arms wrapping around Iris's waist.

The kiss deepened, slow and sweet. Eleanor felt something unfurl inside her.

When they broke apart, they were breathing hard.

"Wow," Iris whispered.

Eleanor laughed, unsteady. "Yes."

"Would you... come up to my room?" Iris asked.

Eleanor hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."

Hand in hand, they walked inside and up the grand staircase. The door closed; they were in each other's arms, kissing with urgency.

They fell onto the bed, hands roaming, clothes dissolving. Eleanor gasped as Iris's lips found her throat.

"Iris," she breathed.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I... I need you."

Iris kissed her deep. "I need you too."

What followed was heat and sensation—Iris's hands and mouth everywhere, drawing gasps and moans. Eleanor explored Iris's body with fervor.

They moved like they'd been doing this for years. When Eleanor fell over the edge, Iris's name on her lips, it felt like coming home.

Afterwards, they lay tangled, breathing hard.

"Wow," Iris said.

Eleanor laughed, kissing her collarbone. "Yes."

Iris propped up on an elbow, wonder in her eyes. "Where did you come from?"

Eleanor smiled. "I've always been here. Waiting for you to find me."

Iris kissed her, soft. "I'm glad I did."

They talked into the night, sharing secrets. Eleanor fell asleep in Iris's arms with peace she hadn't felt in years.

Morning brought sunlight. They made love again, slow and lazy.

"I don't want this to end," Iris said, head on Eleanor's chest.

"Then let's not let it," Eleanor said.

Iris propped up. "What are you saying?"

"I've spent too long being afraid. Afraid to want things. Take chances." Eleanor took a breath. "I don't want to be afraid anymore."

Iris smiled. "Are you asking me to stay, Eleanor?"

"Yes," Eleanor said. "I am."

Iris kissed her, long and deep. "Then I'll stay."

They checked out that afternoon, hand in hand. Eleanor didn't know the future, but for the first time in a long time, she was excited.

The bar was nearly empty when Iris bumped the stool. Eleanor had been sitting alone, her worn copy of Virginia Woolf splayed open beside her glass of wine. The splash of gin and tonic across the bar top—and the first few pages of "To the Lighthouse"—brought her head up sharply.

But this time, when she met Iris's eyes, Eleanor smiled. She'd been waiting for this moment, even if she hadn't known it. She'd been waiting for Iris.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Iris asked, her wry smile softened by something warm, something hopeful.

"Yes," Eleanor said. "I'd like that very much."

And as they settled in to talk, Eleanor felt a sense of rightness settle over her. This was where she was meant to be. This was who she was meant to be with.

The rest, she knew, would take care of itself.