Jordan had been invited to the Women’s Studies bi-annual potluck. She had felt out of place. Her contribution had been a bag of nacho cheese flavored Doritos and a can of bean dip. She put the dip in the center of the table and realized that once again, she didn't fit in. Everyone else had brought typical lesbian dishes: tabouli, humus, salad, stinky cheeses made out of milk that wasn't cow’s, and gluten-free desserts.
Jordan sat alone in a corner of the room munching Doritos when Petronella approached. Petronella stared. Jordan looked into Petronella's glacial eyes and a shiver ran down her spine. At the time she thought it was lust that made her tremble. She didn't realize until much later it was actually fear.
She held out the bag of chips to Petronella. Petronella only smiled. It reminded Jordan of the wolf's smile in the story of Little Red Riding Hood.
"Come," Petronella ordered.
Jordan obediently followed Petronella out the door and to her car. “Where are we going?”
“You will see and you will like it,” Petronella said with authority.
Petronella drove four blocks from campus and parked in front of a beautiful house. She showed Jordan into the foyer, up the marble staircase, through the immaculate white bedroom filled with mirrors and out onto a terrace.
"You wanted me to see your house?" Jordan asked.
Petronella laughed. "No," she said. "I want to show you the only thing of beauty that even begins to compare to you."
Jordan laughed nervously. Petronella gracefully lifted her palm above her head and gestured to the moon. "Behold, the moon," she said dramatically. Everything Petronella did was with great flair as if she knew she was going to shape it into a poem later.
Jordan beheld the moon. It was orange, round and full. When she looked back at Petronella, she was shocked to see that she was disrobing. Petronella let her silk blouse slide off her shoulders to the tile floor. Her breasts glistened in the moonlight. She had large nipples like eyes opened wide and staring.
Petronella stepped out of her white wedge shoes, unbuttoned her linen slacks and kicked them aside. She was ghostly pale in the moonlight. She had no pubic hair. Her entire body was smooth and white like a marble statue.
"I want to make love to you," Petronella said. "From the moment I saw you, I wanted nothing more than to hold you in my hands, suck you into my mouth, to feel your heat against my tongue, to make you writhe in orgasmic ecstasy."
"Wow," Jordan said. "You don't beat around the bush." She thought, but didn't say, "If there were a bush, which there isn't."
Petronella slinked up to her and boldly kissed Jordan’s neck. Her shoulders. Her cheeks. Her lips. She lightly brushed Jordan's nipples and stroked her butt. Jordan felt her insides tighten, then release. Her body was betraying her.
Petronella knelt before her, took her into her mouth, and devoured her greedily.
Jordan stared up at the moon. When she came, she opened her mouth and swallowed the moon. It filled her belly and lit her up from the inside as if she were a Jack O' Lantern. Jordan knew this happened because the next day Petronella detailed their sexual liaison in her newest poem, "The Woman Who Swallowed the Moon."
When Jordan looked back at the sky, the moon was gone and she was in love.
Petronella led her back through the sliding glass doors and into her bed where she made love to Jordan three more times.
"You are my muse," Petronella said while she cradled Jordan in her arms. "I shall write beautiful poems about you. I will never let you go. Never, ever let you go."
It wasn't until months later Jordan realized she meant exactly what she said.
Jordan had been living with Petronella a full month before she noticed the control issues. Petronella told her what to wear, what to eat, what to read, what kind of coffee she should drink. Jordan noticed as time went on that she didn’t even have to talk. Petronella took it upon herself to single-handedly run Jordan’s life.
One day Jordan woke up and discovered that she no longer had a life. And to make matters worse, Petronella became possessive to the point that no one could look at Jordan without Petronella going ballistic. She swore that Jordan encouraged these looks. According to Petronella, Jordan was a vixen that needed watching.
It exhausted Jordan. And when she complained and said maybe she would rather live in her own house, maybe they should break up, Petronella had responded by throwing the Anthology of Feminist Poetry as It Concerns the Vulva at her. Jordan had been too surprised to duck and ended up with a black eye. Petronella cried. She promised things would change. She wrote her a poem. And afterwards, she made passionate love to Jordan.
The second time she tried to leave, Jordan was sneaky. She packed her clothes when Petronella was at work. She was in the driveway, putting the clothes in her car’s back seat when Petronella came home early and tried to run her over with her car. She took a sledgehammer to Jordan’s car’s lights, the engine and the windows and then ran into the back end twelve times. Jordan's insurance didn't cover crazy girlfriends demolishing her car. Petronella cried. She promised things would change. She wrote her a poem. And afterward, she made passionate love to Jordan.
The third time Jordan tried to end the relationship was when she caught Petronella on her moonlit balcony devouring one of her graduate students. Petronella managed to turn the tables and make the whole thing Jordan’s fault. That had to be the master manipulation of the century. She accused Jordan of being frigid, unemotional and unresponsive to lovemaking, consequently Petronella was forced into cheating on Jordan. All these insults were hurled at her along with books, picture frames, frozen fish, chopsticks, bowls, and the microwave.
The graduate student had cowered in the corner until there was a lull in the fighting and then she ran out of the house. She called 911 and the police came and escorted Jordan home. Jordan didn't press charges. She was just happy to be away from Petronella.
That was a mere six months ago. And since that time, Petronella had a knack of showing up anywhere Jordan was. Jordan was beginning to think Petronella had secretly installed a lo-jack up her ass.
The Ice Queen Cometh, Continued
From the safety of under the table, Jordan stared at the pointy toes of Petronella's high heels and listened to the conversation between her and Edison.
Petronella: Hello, Jordan’s little friend.
Edison: Hello, Dr. Bleeker. You look like an ice sculpture today and I mean that in the nicest way possible.
Petronella: Where is Jordan?
Edison: I'm fine, thank you for asking. How are you?
Petronella's right toe tapped three times.
Petronella: I have no fooling-around time. Where is Jordan?
Edison: Okay, I give up, where is she?
Petronella: I need to speak with her. It is urgent. There is an upcoming event that I would like to invite her to attend.
(Petronella did not speak in contractions. As an admitted member of the bourgeois, she considered contractions too lower class.)
Edison: I'll be happy to give her the message. Will there be anything else?
Petronella: No.
Petronella's shoes walked away.
Edison: You have a nice day, too. And by 'have a nice day' I mean go fuck yourself.
Suddenly, Petronella stopped.
"Oh, shit, oh, no," Edison said in a whisper to Jordan. "The Ice Queen is talking to Amy."
Jordan peeked over the top of the table and watched helplessly as Petronella blocked Amy's path and said something to her. Amy tilted her head. Petronella spoke again and pointed at Amy's feet.