Lise

Frances nibbled at her lip, wishing, for all the world, that Tristan was here to listen to her ramblings. He already had, for hours, and she still wasn't any closer to a decision. It is a decision for yourself, he had told her before leaving for his interview. No one, but you, must make your mind about your future. And if she didn't agree in the first place – how she wanted him to be a part of her life, now! —Frances was starting to see what he meant.

She needed to keep Tristan away from that decision. No matter what, he had assured her he would seek a post in her new city, wherever it was, the next year. And if the idea of separating for a full school year was absolutely appealing, she couldn't let her heart sway that decision. How crazy would it be, to put all that work down because of a romantic whim? What if they ever split up? What if she missed her vocation for the sake of staying, only to resent him later?

Here. Now. Alone in the stifling heat of August, dying of thirst and one breath away from jumping into the river, things were starting to clear.

Option 1. Engineering school. Bad points: Industry. Oil company. Geology. Good points: Good salary, unemployment inexistent. Travels, international colleagues.

Option 2. National School as an independent – her biology catastrophic mark had ensured she couldn't get in as an employee. Bad points: Career in research and teaching doesn't pay. No money forthcoming the first three years. Good points: fundamental geology, cosmology and volcanology, yummy! No industry, not destroying the planet for money. A few travels for the sake of research?

The young woman sat on the floor, eyeing the two dossiers that awaited for her to register. Left, right. Two different lives.

A smile started to creep up her face. Option 2. Definitely option 2. Which meant…

Damn, she needed a drink! Frances stood, sundress flying around her long legs to get to the kitchen. The berberic people always drank scalding tea in the desert, and she could gather why. There was nothing like a nice cup to keep yourself hydrated. A good Sencha would relax her enough to seal that stamp, and tear apart option 1.

Which meant … she would stay by his side. Geology rather than biology, freedom rather than a contract with the government. Love, rather than a brilliant career.

A full smile bloomed upon her face; she couldn't wait to tell Tristan. The door bell rang before she could put the water to boil. Frances froze midway; who could it be? The postman always came in the morning, and it was now 5 pm. The young woman bit her lip.

It was just her luck; Tristan was due to arrive any minute. For a few seconds, she considered playing dead until the buzz sounded again. What if it was important? A neighbour, perhaps? A parcel he might have ordered?

With a great sigh, the young woman made her way to the entrance, bare feet silent, her long braid secured around her head in a Leia like coiffure; it kept it away from her overheated skin.

How she longed for the coolness of the skating rink! But this city wasn't crazy; it closed from may to September to avoid wasting unnecessary energy. Summers in Lyon could get very stifling. It was a pity, really, because she had to keep away from Tristan at night to avoid combustion. Summer heat wasn't romantic at all.

Frances' features softened; the mention of her beloved teacher always caused happiness to dance in her heart. She pulled the door open with a smile upon her lips, intent on greeting anyone that wanted to reach for her companion with gentleness. The sight that greeted her, though, caused her eyebrows to knit. For on the threshold stood a beautiful woman, short blond hair and incredible blue eyes, whose lips formed a surprised "oh".

— "Yes?" Frances said.

The blond woman blinked, taken aback, then stuttered.

— "I … uh. I think I didn't ring the proper doorbell. I was looking for Tristan Kristiansen."

Her head titled, as if she was trying to look behind Frances's shoulder to assess whether or not Tristan was around. Tension filled the air, and the student felt doubt creep in.

— "Oh, no, it's the right place. Can help you?"

There. Polite, without too much prying. The blond adjusted her stance, crossing her arms as she eyed Frances from head to toe. She was slightly shorter, even with her shoes on.

— "Er, no. I have some papers he must sign, then I'll be on my way."

Papers … to be signed in person. This was starting to feel suspiciously like a…

— "Who are you?" Frances asked, her eyes narrowing.

The blond smirked, withholding the information for a little while longer just to hit its mark.

— "Lise Kristiansen"

… a divorce. Tristan's wife. Frances' blood fled her face, the massive heat leaving her body at once. It was all she could do not to shudder such was the anger contained in the woman's gaze. Lise didn't give her much time to gather her wits, launching her attack instantly.

— "And you are?"

There was such condescension in her tone, as if she represented nothing more but a fly to swat away from her husband. Frances steeled herself; she knew Lise had not taken the divorce well. This woman was angry, and hurt. Perhaps she saw her as the person who stole her husband's affection, choosing to ignore her own responsibility in the crashing of her marriage. But Frances wasn't about to back down; Tristan had made his choice, and she had faced the most wicked professors in oral exams. Lise former Kristiansen would not intimidate her !

— "I'm Frances. You can wait for him inside, if you want. He'll be here any minute."

She noticed how her politeness took the blonde aback. Frances opened the door wide, waiting to see if Lise would dare crossing the threshold of Tristan's new home. Their new home – at least, for the summer. After a moment of hesitation, Tristan's future ex-wife – darn, she couldn't wait for those documents to be signed – came in. Her blue eyes glared daggers at Frances, and the young woman only stared back, leading her to the kitchen.

— "Do you want some tea?" she asked.

Anything rather than sitting in front of Tristan's ex, really. The blond snorted.

— "What? Are you some kind of escort? A geisha, perhaps, to keep him busy with tea and conversation?"

Better than being called a whore but still… Frances' hands froze, anger threatening to take over as she fondled with a tea packet. Instead of dragging Lise outside, she chose to use her wit.

— "Your associations of ideas are most peculiar."

— "Save your mockeries, girl. I can make your life a living hell."

The threat hit true, and Frances whirled around, her glare a warning that caused Lise to gulp. She certainly wasn't expecting such wrath, such power to roll off Frances' little frame.

— "Is that what you want? To make Tristan miserable?", she hissed, eyes alit with anger.

Lise shrugged; a display that tried to be nonchalant. Had this woman been a dancer? She certainly had the poise. Frances sighed; it was no use trying to find common ground if Lise was intent on raging war upon her … upon them.

— "It would be only fair after what he did to me."

Frances sucked at her front teeth; Lise was now crumbling down, her control ebbing away. How far she had fallen, this future ex-wife, to attack on sight the man who was been her husband for eight years. Her fists clenched.

— "So, petty revenge?" she spat at the blonde. "How old are you, five?"

— "Look at you, barely an adult!" she screamed.

The volume made Frances wince – internally – but her stony façade remained.

— "My age is hardly relevant."

Her cold voice was akin to a slap in the face, and Lise seethed in anger. For a moment, the blonde seemed to consider leaping over the table to throttle her. Instead, she threw her hands in the hair, pacing on the wooden floor.

— "I can't believe he cheated on me with someone like you!"

Frances shook her head. There was nothing rational about this conversation, and to be called "someone like you" didn't even need to be explicit. She knew she should have kept her mouth shut to avoid more trouble. Tristan would be here any minute, and Lise would be out of her hands. The woman was mumbling insults, now, about the despicability of men and the cowardice of others.

Frances watched her, wondering what to do. She hated the accusations thrown at Tristan. He was such a sweet, wonderful caring man… If she saw no interest in defending herself, she certainly had no trouble speaking up for him. And so, just like she had stood up to Miss Pansy, the young woman voiced her outrage.

— "What do you think, Lise? You think Tristan went out, one day, wondering if he could cheat on you for fun?"

Lise turned on her heels, coming out of her self-induced mania.

— "I was a good wife!!! At home, waiting for him to come back. Rocked by his lies. What will you say when it's your turn?"

— "I trust him, I listen to him" Frances stated. "It won't happen"

And there was no doubt in her voice, for she knew that Tristan would never do such a thing as long as the connexion remained between them. And that they would be adult enough to talk about it if their love waned. Her eyes rose from the ground where Lise had attempted to dig a trench, finding a disturbing smirk at the corners of the blond's mouth.

— "I trusted him as well."

Yeah. Perhaps she did, and it was very sad, somehow, to see a couple crumble like this. But it happened every day. Had Lise buried her face in the sand to avoid seeing that Tristan didn't love her anymore? Divorce wasn't uncommon, separation just as well. After eight years of marriage, she was just grateful that they had no children to throw in the middle of this mess. They would both be able to start a new life without having to handle this constant link.

Frances felt like a reed facing a storm, her poise unhindered by Lise's raging emotions.

— "I'm sorry"

Lise froze, taken aback by the sincerity of her words. Like oil thrown onto a fire, Frances's gentleness set her ablaze. Blue eyes flashed, teeth grinding against each other as she spat:

— "Sorry you were the slut that dragged him in your net?"

Frances' fist landed on the table, producing a loud bang that rang in the open room like a gong. A warning.

— "Keep your insults to yourself! If you cannot be civilised, you'd better hit the door."

The blonde scoffed, aggravated to be scolded by a schoolgirl.

— "Look at you, acting so high and mighty! Who do you think you are, really?"

— "I'm Tristan's companion, now," Frances calmly stated.

And this fact was embedded in her cells. So true, so intemporal that it hit Lise like a wall. The former wife, dethroned by the new one. Had she really lost her seat at the council of Tristan's heart? Was it really over? Truly, deeply over?

Frances watched as spite replaced desperation in Lise's gaze, her features, once so beautiful, contorted with bitterness.

— "Like hell you are, he'll discard you like he discarded me."

The young woman shrugged the words away like a tree gets rid of early snow; she didn't believe a word of it. From the moment her gaze had landed upon Tristan – nearly a year ago – a thread had started to weave between their hearts. Always tugging, pulling them close, pushing them together. It was fated. Soulmates.

— "There's nothing you can say that could convince me. I couldn't keep away from Tristan if my life depended on it. I'm his as long as he wants me."

— "So what happens when he doesn't need you anymore, little slut?" she snarled.

Frances was about to retort icily when…

— "LISE!!!"

The bellow cause the walls to tremble. Frances jumped in fright, heart racing. Her fingers finding the kitchen counter as she turned to the entrance. There stood Tristan, shoulders set, jaw tight and eyes ablaze.