It smelled of a forest at dusk, with maple leaves and disturbed moss and a hint of warm earth beneath your toes. Weed spun within the aroma, spiraled, danced, slipping in and out like a tiger patrolling her territory, glimpsed only as the moon caught upon her pelt. The crackle of a candle popped and snapped, bringing to mind a campfire as warmth settled upon my chilled bones. I edged closer to the burning crimson tongues, closer to the woman who curled her back against my stomach. I squeezed her, my hand on her waist, and my lips against her shoulder. A Portrait of a Lady on Fire played upon the monitor past the foot of her bed. Two women stared at each other over the flames of a bonfire. 

The woman in my arms took my hand and wove her fingers between mine. Her skin, hardened by work and softened again by time, caught on the fibers of my own. The square shape of them contrasted my elongated set, in a way that made me fond of the differences between us both. 

Her hair bore the perfume of flowers sprouting along a stream, disturbed briefly by a tender wind. It held the color of gold, of wheat, of leaves during the onset of fall. It flowed down to her shoulders like that of a siren’s, beckoning any such unawares sailors to crash upon her shore. As I rested my cheek against her temple, I found myself willing to be a fool and listen to the song she sang, to let myself be lured.

I dreamt often of afternoons like this, when I aged no older than fifteen. I yearned to wake in the speckled daylight after a rain, to smell the stench of asphalt, of petrichor, of Portland, and find myself wrapped around a lady I fancied. I longed for a morning of peace, a time in daylight where I could let my affections spill out into the world of sunshine. Where I could be bold without the shadow of night keeping it all a secret. I wished, as a young girl, to engage in the dangerous act of dating a woman. 

We made it, little me.