you’re not keeping track.
Things like me oversleeping too often and slowly poisoning my lungs , and her wanting to talk certain things to death and leaving wet towels on the floor, her clothes in a heap in the bedroom, and piles of dirty dishes in the sink. But none of these issues are the real problem. It’s just that I’m only nineteen and Freya’s only seventeen. Our paperwork lends us a couple of extra years but essentially we’re what people in 1986 would call ‘playing house.’ We’re not used to being half of something bigger and it’s tricky. Before this neither of us had a job or had to keep on top of cleaning, cooking, and hitting the supermarket. Where we’re from, the laundry did itself. And on top of that, we’re the only two people who know what each other’s been through. The pressure builds quickly.
“Bad choice of words,” I apologize. “I didn’t mean it.” I look Freya square in the eye so she can see I’m sincere. Her hair and skin are damp. So are mine. Vancouver Mays are drier than winter but that’s not saying much. “And I’m too tired to fight again tonight.” I run my fingers along her wet cheek.
“Yeah, me too.” Freya leans her head against my shoulder as we walk. She’s only about five inches shorter than I am, less in the heels she’s wearing, and she has to tilt over a little to do it. “But we’re so good at it.”
I let go of her hand so I can wrap my arm around her waist and pull her closer. “We’re good at a lot of things.”
Whether we’re fighting or not.
We’re almost home now. Only steps from the apartment. Freya stops on the sidewalk and turns to face me. Her eyes are defin ite; she knows what she wants. I do too, and I reach for her. Freya presses her wet lips against mine, sinks her hands into my back pockets and clutches my ass. The rest of her begins to melt into me in slow motion. Her thighs, her hips, her breasts. It happens by degrees but takes no time at all. She quiets my head and does the opposite to the rest of me. It’s amazing how that works. Almost as simple as flicking a switch. I kiss her back, my hands on her waist and my tongue on fire.
It was never like this with anyone else. Not that there were many other girls back then , but I don’t think it would’ve made any difference. I can’t imagine feeling this way about anybody but Freya.
We make each other spark.
Like this moment, in the rain, when we’re getting so heated out on the sidewalk together, drops running off my face onto hers and our bodies already not our own, that it’s hard to stop and walk away, even for a minute, even just to get inside. But when I feel Freya shiver in my arms it wakes me up. I tear my mouth from her skin and tell her I’m taking her upstairs.
She doesn’t answer. She just walks into the building alongside me, starting things up again in the elevator. When the door pops open I make a beeline for our apartment, fumbling for the keys in my jacket pocket. We stumble inside, heading for the bedroom, hurling ourselves at each other on the unmade bed.
Shortly after coming out west we went to a clinic that gave Freya a prescription for birth control pills. Waiting for them to take effect was rough, but the last thing we wanted was to drag a third person into the equation, so we managed it.
In the beginning I thought it might be harder for her to get used to being together like that, never having been in the grounded movement. But it seemed like second nature to her. When I whispered that to Freya during our second time together, she folded her hands across her bare chest and said, “It’s because it’s you.”
I grinned so hard that she covered her face with one arm, embarrassed. I pried it gently away and leaned over her to say, “It’s the same for me. It’s you .”
Now neither of us says anything. We peel off each other’s clothes, tonight the same as so many other nights we’ve spent together in the past fifteen months, our
Things like me oversleeping too often and slowly poisoning my lungs , and her wanting to talk certain things to death and leaving wet towels on the floor, her clothes in a heap in the bedroom, and piles of dirty dishes in the sink. But none of these issues are the real problem. It’s just that I’m only nineteen and Freya’s only seventeen. Our paperwork lends us a couple of extra years but essentially we’re what people in 1986 would call ‘playing house.’ We’re not used to being half of something bigger and it’s tricky. Before this neither of us had a job or had to keep on top of cleaning, cooking, and hitting the supermarket. Where we’re from, the laundry did itself. And on top of that, we’re the only two people who know what each other’s been through. The pressure builds quickly.
“Bad choice of words,” I apologize. “I didn’t mean it.” I look Freya square in the eye so she can see I’m sincere. Her hair and skin are damp. So are mine. Vancouver Mays are drier than winter but that’s not saying much. “And I’m too tired to fight again tonight.” I run my fingers along her wet cheek.
“Yeah, me too.” Freya leans her head against my shoulder as we walk. She’s only about five inches shorter than I am, less in the heels she’s wearing, and she has to tilt over a little to do it. “But we’re so good at it.”
I let go of her hand so I can wrap my arm around her waist and pull her closer. “We’re good at a lot of things.”
Whether we’re fighting or not.
We’re almost home now. Only steps from the apartment. Freya stops on the sidewalk and turns to face me. Her eyes are defin ite; she knows what she wants. I do too, and I reach for her. Freya presses her wet lips against mine, sinks her hands into my back pockets and clutches my ass. The rest of her begins to melt into me in slow motion. Her thighs, her hips, her breasts. It happens by degrees but takes no time at all. She quiets my head and does the opposite to the rest of me. It’s amazing how that works. Almost as simple as flicking a switch. I kiss her back, my hands on her waist and my tongue on fire.
It was never like this with anyone else. Not that there were many other girls back then , but I don’t think it would’ve made any difference. I can’t imagine feeling this way about anybody but Freya.
We make each other spark.
Like this moment, in the rain, when we’re getting so heated out on the sidewalk together, drops running off my face onto hers and our bodies already not our own, that it’s hard to stop and walk away, even for a minute, even just to get inside. But when I feel Freya shiver in my arms it wakes me up. I tear my mouth from her skin and tell her I’m taking her upstairs.
She doesn’t answer. She just walks into the building alongside me, starting things up again in the elevator. When the door pops open I make a beeline for our apartment, fumbling for the keys in my jacket pocket. We stumble inside, heading for the bedroom, hurling ourselves at each other on the unmade bed.
Shortly after coming out west we went to a clinic that gave Freya a prescription for birth control pills. Waiting for them to take effect was rough, but the last thing we wanted was to drag a third person into the equation, so we managed it.
In the beginning I thought it might be harder for her to get used to being together like that, never having been in the grounded movement. But it seemed like second nature to her. When I whispered that to Freya during our second time together, she folded her hands across her bare chest and said, “It’s because it’s you.”
I grinned so hard that she covered her face with one arm, embarrassed. I pried it gently away and leaned over her to say, “It’s the same for me. It’s you .”
Now neither of us says anything. We peel off each other’s clothes, tonight the same as so many other nights we’ve spent together in the past fifteen months, our
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