Work Text:
Lisa sets aside her book.
It’s silent, and the lamp illuminates her desk across the room cluttered with maps, books, scraps of notes, and a laptop still warm from hours of typing. She stares reproachfully at the mess, a reminder of how much her most recent story needs to be reworked before it can run.
It’s a dangerous story, the kind that will keep her moving from place to place for at least the next few years. She feels it’s the only realistic way for her to live; the thought of putting down roots somewhere tends to make Lisa sick.
She sits up in the queen sized bed and gingerly removes her reading glasses. The sleeping figure next to her stirs, and a warm hand lightly grips her right thigh. She smiles at the contact, and gently cards her fingers through the woman’s curly black hair. The action is soothing and affectionate, but it never fails to start an ache in Lisa’s chest, a pang that can’t quite ever be rubbed out.
What if—
Lisa stumbles out of bed almost violently, as if to shake off the thought, and walks over to the window. Moonlight streams in brightly through cream colored blinds. Maybe her eyesight isn't as good as it was when she was sixteen, but she can always make out the moon clearly.
Pale yellow.
Sometimes she’ll stare and stare until it’s burned into her mind, brown eyes and brown hair and a smile like the sun.
I’m glad I met you.
Even though it’s been years, sometimes she’ll roll his words around in her mouth late at night like this, tasting them, something far stronger than homesickness hitting her.
Thank you, Lisa.