She took a deep breath and turned to Bette, “And the other?”

Bette’s arm shook as she moved the light to shine on the other painting.  Tina turned back and gasped.  She stared at her own face consumed with the passion of being loved by Bette Porter—her eyes half lidded, a golden amber glow they became only at this moment, her mouth open, her head thrown back—she could almost see the pulse beating at her neck, hear herself panting. The feelings she had tried so hard to forget came flooding back. What it had felt like to be pleasured by Bette Porter. She remember Bette’s voice making love to her, urging her toward orgasm, opening her up beyond her wildest imagination.  She stared at the painting feeling an intolerable loss.  How had she lost this?  How had she allowed herself to forget this? 

Tina moved toward Bette and reached her hand to caress her face softly and then drew it away.  “Thank you.”

Bette looked at her, questioning.

“Thank you for remembering how much you loved me, Bette. Thank you for this—for reminding me how much we had.” 

“Tina…”

Tina moved toward the barn doors.  “Please show them, Bette.  I’m proud that you remember me that way.”  She felt the tears sliding down her face and moved into the moonlit night.  “Can you drive me back please?”