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I woke slowly. I could feel her rhythms of slumber through the sheets, her deep, gentle breathing, the rising and falling of her bare, freckled chest. Her russet hair was tangled slightly in my fingers, where I had fallen asleep holding her head against my breasts. She smelled heavenly–of crushed lavender and peppermint, a splash of ginger in her hair and traces of my scent on her fingers. When I opened my eyes, the early sunlight of Sunday pooled over her slender shoulders, casting her in a soft, sunflower yellow glow.

Next door, the church bells began to ring the start of service. Their call was clear and silver, reprimanding yet soothing. They alerted me to the fact that I was a blatant sinner in the eyes of the Lord, and I reveled in the feeling. Beside me, Lewellen stirred, roused by the bells. I slid my hand up her back, imagining constellations in the smattering of freckles that dusted her shoulders, and she stretched against my palm like a happy cat.

“Good morning,” I murmured.

She rolled over and blinked her sleep away, sea-green eyes crinkling in a smile when she saw me. I breathed a short sigh of relief at that–I hadn’t known how good of a morning it would be. I had only hoped. Lewellen, as if to assure me, drew her hand to my face, stroking. “Good morning, my Claire.”

She had a man. Just married, which broke my heart–not because she was taken, but because her husband believed she loved him. We had spent last night driving down two-lane roads that spidered long corn and tobacco fields, laughing and smoking a joint I had rolled earlier that afternoon. She spoke of him with deep affection, drawing out how good a man she was, how lucky she was to find him. Then, when we stopped at the crest of a hill to look at the stars, she began to cry.

“I don’t love him, Claire, I don’t. What should I do?” But I hadn’t an answer. Before long, she had confided in me all the things she had ever wanted to say, but could not. “I don’t know why I like women. It scares me.”

“Why should it scare you?” I lit a cigarette. The cherry sparked immediately, lighting the two of us in dim red.

“Because…because I’m married! I’m supposed to love my husband!”

“Lewellen, just because you marry someone does not mean you have to love them.” I smiled encouragingly. I wanted her to be gay. We had been friends for years and I had always had a feeling, but when she married I perished the thought. If she truly were gay, and her marriage a show, she would always be unhappy. As her friend I couldn’t allow that. I took a drag and watched her hair light up with the cherry’s glow, catching the reflection of the stars in her sparkling eyes. So beautiful, I thought.

I spoke long to her about it, and she listened on my every word. When we returned to my house, she called her husband, told him that it was too late for her to drive home, hung up, and put her hand on my knee. I loved her hard. I pushed against her with my hand until she cried out into the remainder of the night, her hands in my hair and my name on her lips. I tasted her depths with lips and tongue for as long as she wanted, worshipping her body and the brilliant mind it held within. She was poetry. Pure poetry.

Lewellen looked at me, and I returned to the present, realized my hand had long gone to cup her ripe breasts. “Are you scared?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered finally. We were silent, until she leaned close and kissed me. She tasted of me. “But it’s going to be okay, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I told her, firmly believing it. “In the end, it will be okay.” After a minute, I ventured, “…Because I will be with you.”

Lewellen was not the type of woman to talk needlessly, and neither was I. She had been serious when she told me she wanted to be with me, though I had not truly believed it–we were in the throes of lovemaking, why should she be serious?–but here she was, curling into me, her hands around my body, proving her love. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered, and I held her close.

“Never,” I said, and we burst into laughter, the kind of laughter lovers on Sundays share, sunsoaked and precious.

“Make love to me,” she begged after we had settled, and I rolled her beneath me without another word. Her body was lean beneath mine, which was made of curves and stretchmarks. I loved every inch.

I remembered last night as my kisses trailed down her slender neck, blessing her sharp collarbones, absolving her breasts. By the time we had torn her jeans off before we fell into bed, she was wet for me, blessedly wet, and I had licked her clean without a second’s thought. Now, she was just as ready, firm and ripe in my hands and waiting for me. With a delighted moan I slipped between her legs, stroking her sex, which was hot as fever and slick with essence. I wanted her, and she me, and we took each other with all the passion of new lovers, sharing in our bodies as we had shared in our minds years before. It was an eloquent release, just as poetic and lovely as starstruck newlyweds in sonnets penned by famous men.

Submitted by: Textphish