Margot by Myron Matuzenko

Margot was ashamed of loving a woman.

She carried her guilt like no one in her surroundings did. It wasn’t a norm for a woman to love another woman in Margot’s times. She could always recall what her father used to say: “All a woman needs is a good husband. “A man and a wife” is what forms our society – so it’s been proclaimed in the scriptures!” He was a religious man, a pious one. His words rang in Margot’s ears like church bells, whenever she’d start to think something “unholy”. Something outside the words of the scripture. Margot would often think about things like that. She knew that she was different. Sometimes she wondered what would it be like to feel another woman’s embrace? What would it be like, to touch her, gently? To kiss another woman on the lips?

Those questions remained unanswered for a long time, however. The father found a match for Margot, as it was common in those years. Her groom was a good man. It was a pity Margot didn’t love him.

She tried to. She sincerely put all the emotion she had into it, but it never seemed to work. “Many women are like this…” – she told herself, trying to cope – “I suppose I’m just like them in this marriage…” 

                  They were a pretty match on paper. Their marriage, however, was a cold one. Most days both of them felt gloomy. 

                  Margot felt some other things too. Sometimes, when pretending to love her husband would get too hard, she’d still think about things “outside the holy scripture”. And she felt ashamed.

                  She deemed herself guilty of it. “Here I am, with a good marriage, longing for something so sinful!” – she scolded herself. Her cheeks would get red, and her hands would get shaky. Margot was haunted by shame. She was haunted by questions, answers to which she didn’t have.

                  It was convenient for her. All those sinful feelings locked away in a corner of her mind no one could reach. It was painful but safe.

                  No convenience lasts forever, though. When Margot’s husband died, she was left all alone. She felt as if she was walking on a tightrope over the abyss. Her shame must have been gone, and it left an empty space. This empty space would be filled with a piercing feeling of loneliness.

                  Margot looked like a ghost – haunting every room she would be in, never fitting in. She felt stupid. She pitied herself.

                  When some time passed, she moved. She saw a strange person. The person was dressed flamboyantly, wearing a purple scarf and a hat with a pink feather, fitted on top of locks of golden hair. It was a woman. From the moment Margot saw her she felt something. She wouldn’t dare to call it love – she was too ashamed to say so. However, that blonde lady awoke something inside of her.

                  Margot tried to ignore her. They shared a moment of courtesy but didn’t even shake hands. Margot was too afraid that if she’d touch the lady, she wouldn’t want to let go. Margot intentionally didn’t ask for her name at first, for she thought that she’d never forget it if she knew.

                  Her name was Georgia. Georgie, for short. It appeared to be an impossible task to ignore her – Georgie was a ray of sunshine in Margot’s dark life. It would have been foolish to close the windows of the soul to the only source of light available. There was something unique about her. She could recite Sapho. She dressed in bright colours. She played the piano and the harp. Her eyes were as green as the forest.

                  Margot tried to talk to her as little as possible. They met for tea once a week, where there were many other people. Others did not matter, however. Georgie’s smile would outshine every single one of them. Then they met in the gardens. Then they talked for hours. Margot laughed at Georgie’s jokes. Then they were reading poetry for each other. Then they began to hold hands. After some time, Georgie tried to kiss Margot, but Margot pulled away. She told her: “This is wrong! I don’t want to do this!”

                  She meant: “I am not ready to do this”, but the damage was already done. Georgie was sad, but only for a moment. She came back to being flamboyant and joyous, lighting up every room she entered. Margot came back to being gloomy and lonely. When Georgie left, this loneliness became unbearable. Now, it was mixed with regret. It seemed as if her grey days were whispering: “It is all your fault!” at her.

                  Margot thought that she’d just forget about Georgie and move on. She managed to forget about her. Partly at least. She could never move on, however. She longed for someone as bright as Georgie. It could have been some other woman with another name. There was none, however. 

Margot tried to walk the gardens where she met with Georgie. It wasn’t the same. Tea was tasteless and poems were stupid without her. And the gardens…The gardens were dull. 

It was at this moment, that Margot realized: she was not ashamed of loving another woman. She was ashamed that she never told Georgie how she truly felt. Perhaps if she did, it could have been mutual. They could have even lived together. Some widows did that sometimes, after all. They could have lived humbly on the outside, but proudly in their hearts. Instead, they were parted. There was no pride in Margot’s heart – only shame and guilt.