5 Before arriving at Spirit Moon, Dominique had naïvely thought of housebuilding in purely romantic terms; she'd imagined her lean, long, much admired body becoming even more toned, supple and strong through using it as nature intended – working in the great outdoors, doing strenuous physical exercise, enjoying camaraderie with her co-workers, getting sweaty and dusty and looking forward to showering it off at the end of the day before sitting down to a hearty meal work would be simple, vigorous and life-enhancing well, it didn't quite work out like that having never lifted anything heavier than stage weights, she found eight- hour days of manual labour unbelievably gruelling, her joints ached and never had time to recover, her smooth, elegant hands blistered, lacerated and coarsened, even underneath protective gloves, and she had to wear a helmet that didn't shield her face from the sun
she imagined herself down the line: practically crippled, calloused, with a face as craggy as an ancient fisherman Dominique decided she wasn't cut out for such work, unlike her co- workers who were built like brick-houses, including Nzinga they were the butch ones, she was not, and even if she was (she'd never felt the need to categorize herself) it was clear American butches totally outclassed British butches in the Butch Universe Dominique felt quite femme beside them at the start of her second week on the job, she refused to get out of bed because her back felt like it was broken, yes, broken, she told Nzinga, looking tragic, doleful, tearful, until Nzinga promised her lighter duties cos I gotta look after my baby, don't I? thereafter Dominique's duties involved minor jobs such as hammering nails, stapling insulation to timber frames, painting, decorating, and providing coffee and snacks several times a day at home, Nzinga insisted on cleaning the log cabin herself, because she wanted to make sure it was as dust-mite free as possible Dominique didn't object, seeing as her idea of housework had always involved waving a feather duster-wand over various surfaces as she skipped around a room Nzinga also insisted on doing all the cooking because she alone understood how to formulate the right nutritional balance for them to sustain perfect health, which Dominique wouldn't have minded except Nzinga cooked without salt, which was banned from the house, and spices, which Nzinga said agitated both the stomach and the emotions eating became both an unpleasant ordeal and a performance of enjoyment Nzinga also washed Dominique's clothes, by hand, because I am enslaved by my love for you, she said, in jest or perhaps not, in spite of Dominique's protestations that she wanted to wash her own undies, especially the ones stained with menstrual blood Dominique began to regret allowing Nzinga to do everything and make decisions for her she started to yearn to do the housework herself, yearn to cook, to clean, to do a job that was more intellectually demanding her life was becoming empty of purpose other than to love Nzinga unconditionally, and, increasingly, obey her
even the simplest things became a source of difficulty was it really her fault men ogled her in town when she wore (knee- length) shorts and a (sleeveless) baggy tee-shirt should she really have to cover up instead of being 'provocatively dressed' as Nzinga accused her why should she wear her hair (usually a thick, wavy mixture of Afro and Indo) almost shaved to her scalp, cut by Nzinga herself with the barber's clippers she bought for this very purpose? why shouldn't she have a chat with the gentle community baker, Tilley, when she went to collect bread in the mornings? because the women who appear the nicest are the most passive aggressive and ultimately the most dangerous because they will come between us, don't you realize that people want to sabotage our great love affair? and why shouldn't she read books by men that she'd picked up in the library in town? you can't live a womanist life and have male voices in your head, Sojourner that doesn't make sense, it's taking things too far why don't you shut your goddam mouth they were sitting up in bed, it was the early hours, again, Nzinga had been on her case about her past girlfriends for hours, she brought them up every so often, this time trying to convince Dominique they had been playthings who meant absolutely nothing to her Dominique was fed up of convincing her that past girlfriends weren't a threat to their present relationship, she'd already told her many times that the love she felt for a couple of them was nothing compared to what she felt for Nzinga, not realizing that to admit any kind of love for her exes was unacceptable she wanted to leave the room, to sleep elsewhere in the cabin, or on the porch, anything to escape Nzinga's droning voice; not possible, Nzinga would follow her out of the room and keep it up, sometimes until dawn they were all white women, they were never going to stick around I'm the one who left them, it was true, she was the dumper, never the dumpee
what I'm saying is, only a black woman can ever truly love a black woman okay, I give in, I agree, let's turn off the light and go to sleep I don't want you to give in, I want you to change, to understand my reasoning at a deeper level and accept it as the truth.