Lesbian Epic.
an excerpt

Freddie and I were walking back from the Chinese market when I first saw her.
I caught my breath. The morning light was still a cool steel-blue, highlighting her blonde locks so that her hair shone like a silver halo. My eyes drew lines down her body, following the sleek wave of her hair down to her waist, where it embraced her body like a lightning cloak. I thought I might go blind.
But I wasn’t blind; I was bewitched.
I tripped on the uneven sidewalk, thrusting my fingers deep into Freddie’s arm to steady myself, half conscious of the sharp pain of the canned vegetables swinging in their bag against my calf. I regained my balance and calmed the pendulous swings of my groceries. I let go of Freddie’s arm just long enough to sweep the hair from my eyes.
When I looked back up, she was smiling at me, and I sank into her deep warm eyes, feeling her welcome my presence, my curiosity.
I wanted to feel a warmth like hers – to know what the world was like inside her skin. I imagined myself beneath the soft curve of her lips, my soul reflected in the quiet intelligence of her eyes. I held on to her as we passed, never letting go of her eyes. Soon we were shoulder and shoulder, breath and breath.
My lips parted, as if I was surprised that walking could bring me face to face with this stranger.
Freddie hurried me impatiently past.
The moment she was out of my eyes, the sounds and scents of the world rushed in at me.
The fierce huff of Freddie’s breath painted monsters in the cold November air. The heavy buttery smell of roasting duck invaded my nose, causing me to swallow heavily. The acrid taste of gasoline in the air slid across my tongue, settling unpleasantly at the back of my mouth
Half-awake drivers screeched and honked, making me tighten and tense.
I had been roughly pulled out of the safety of her gaze, and the city invaded me, hostile and grotesque. I turned my head over my shoulder to see her again, but when I looked for her, she was gone.

We stopped back at the apartment long enough to clean up before heading to Freddie’s childhood home. I slipped my feet from my shoes and threw them on the mat as I rushed to the bathroom and closed myself in.
Slowly, a stranger to myself, I studied my reflection. I looked at my face. And I wished to find her gazing back at me. But I didn’t see her sleek and shimmering blonde and gold hair; only a face framed and obscured by a dark and uneven brushstroke of red and brown. There was no smooth ivory skin in the face in the mirror, only my butterscotch brown complexion, interrupted by freckles and moles. I looked to my brown eyes, hoping to find the warmth in hers; but my eyes glow orange like jack-o-lanterns, dangerous and feral.
I studied my lips, and only there could I see her. My darker skin leaves my lips looking bruised and burnt, but the shape was similar: full, innocent, exposed. I pursed my lips, tried on her smile, turned my head to the side, and wet my lips with my tongue.
I didn’t know her name or anything about her. I just knew that she had the face that I wanted. That she invented a beauty that I could never touch.
I ran the faucet until the water was scalding hot. I dipped my fingers under the running water, and splashed it across my face: one hundred liquid freckles simmering on my skin. I brought a handful of water to my face, and held it to spite my burning skin and fingertips. I sighed a bubbling breath into the hot pool of water, and pretended it had begun to boil. As my skin heated to acclimate to the temperature, I imagined that I was washing my face away, sanitizing my soul of self.
When the heat had dissipated and my face began to feel cool against the air, I returned to myself. I patted my face dry, handling my flushed skin so gently I could barely feel my own touch. I gazed at my face with a tentative tenderness, wondering if I was ordinary or beautiful.
Freddie called my name, and I could hear how late we were in the veiled growl that slipped into his voice.
I gave up on fantasy, and sank into my own dark skin, smudging black smoke around the edges of my eyes, weighing my lashes heavy with mascara, painting my lips a shining crimson.

I spent the hour-long ride to suburbia tipping my cheek and forehead against the cool window of the train, feeling the jitters and jerks of the tracks rumble into my skull. I counted the miles in slow blinks, opening and shutting my eyes in an attempt to flush her out.
Freddie had one of his books open on his lap, and he rested his hand on my thigh between turns of the page, squeezing my skin in a quick goodbye every time he had to let me go.
I kept my silence, listing to the rumbling of the train, and the quiet murmur of voices around me, the intimate hiss-puff of Freddie breathing. I smiled as his breath suddenly hitched and stopped. Four years as his close companion had taught me to recognize the stages of the plot in his demeanor. When he held his breath, he was waiting for fiction to braid delicately into technology, for science to unravel. I snuck a peek over my shoulder to see what he was reading; I tried to hold the pages open, and he swatted my hand playfully.
I didn’t let go.