Confined to theatre.
Serena balls up her fist on the counter, though she doesn’t strike it. Why does it infuriate her so, that Bernie’s not bothered enough to want to give things a go? Had she given the wrong signals? Perhaps. But the decent thing for Bernie to do would have been to ignore all that rubbish talk and to kiss her again, right there in the bloody office.
Of course Bernie didn’t do that. She’d be decent and caring and understanding and it meant sodding nothing now because it was “confined to theatre” and “say no more” at that.
The red wine seems to go down easier than the emotions which cling at the back of her throat and threaten to strangle the life out of her. She wants Bernie to make the decision for them, but she also wants it to be the right one. She knows confining what they have to any boundary is the wrong one.
But how’s she meant to let her know? She’s not about to talk it over out loud with real words and intense gazes.
Perhaps the arm wrestling again?
—
It turns out though, even when things return to normal with Bernie, and when they’re able to be in the same room without a certain charged feeling in the air, that the blond woman isn’t going to telepathically read her mind.
So after a particularly stressful surgery, after they’ve scrubbed up and begun to wind down, Serena does what any decent person would do in the situation.
She catches Bernie’s sanitized and powdered hand in hers and turns her towards her. Granted she first stares awkwardly at the woman (who suddenly may just mean the most in the entire world to her) but then with a swipe of bravado, takes her face in both of her hands and draws Bernie’s lips to hers.
Bernie’s soft moan is enough to send Serena over the edge of sanity in to the abyss of crazed Sappho, but she doesn’t care. She’s cared far too much about rumors and image and reputation all of her life.
Now she cares about arm wrestling, unlit cigarettes and kissing girls in (or out of) Stepney.