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Living by the coast brings salt from the sea inland, biting at the iron railings and wearing them down into weakened rust. Her ma spent hours telling her not to play on fire escapes with their brittle grates, and even after her passing, she can still hear the warning, pressed deep into her memory. She used to be wary of the creaks, the groans, and flaky paint that gathers on her trousers after she's been sat for hours, pencil in hand, her girl at her side.
She is fearless, even on the sixth floor, she sits facing out, legs dangling over the edge, slotted between the rails. In the late summer, she sits with her too big men's shirt, vest tucked in to her slacks. Her hair is as golden as the sun, but the lone photo she has of her mother shows her with blinding white hair in braids, a scowled expression her ma used to tell her she would be stuck with. Her girl sits with her back to the rails, her dark hair curled and over one shoulder as she sings quietly the old songs that make her miss a homeland she has never stepped foot in. They sit barefoot beside each other, thighs touching, sharing cigarettes and she sometimes even lets her keep her hand on her thigh. She is supposed to draw the bridge, the view below, but try as she might, her sketchpad is filled with girls with flowing skirts and full lips.
is that me?
She asks so sweetly, she can’t lie and she feels a blush creep up along her neck and settle at her cheeks when she nods. Her eyebrows raise and she takes the sketchpad from her, turning the pages slowly, absorbing each of the images drawn. She settles on one, a woman drawn on the page, her face obscured, but with a body that is familiar to the both of them.
do you show them off?
She's turned to face her completely, her legs tucked under her, her knees pressing into her thigh, dress riding up to mid thigh with her graceless movements. Still, the look on her face and the gentle tone of her voice doesn't convey embarrassment at being the subject of countless drawings and paintings. She's as gentle as ever and the close of the sketchpad is quiet when she puts it down.
you can
She says in response to a quick shake of her head. All she wants to do is to take her inside and kiss her until she complains that she'll kiss the breath out of her. not here she tells herself.
She puts her pencil down and the graphite on her thumb leaves a gray smear below her lower lip. Her girl isn't as small as her, she's taller, her waist is bigger. She wears dresses and wears rollers to bed some nights, unlike the hand-me-down slacks and shirts that fill her side of the closet. She always pushes into her touch, her heart skips a beat at the flutter of her eyelashes as she closes her eyes, it's as familiar as they allow themselves to be outside their four walls.
The sun sets in the west, drenching their tenement in soft orange light, and her sensitive eyes squint a little at the brightness. Her skin is pale compared to hers and even though her eyes are lighter, she doesn't squint as much. She glows in the setting sun and never burns, always warm to the touch and with a smile that reaches the corners of her eyes, she realizes that every hour is the golden hour when she is beside her.