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It’s early morning when Villanelle wakes. The Paris sky is streaked with brilliant shades of pink and orange and you can hear the faint bustle of cars outside. The city is stirring, but Eve is far from it. Their entire comforter somehow wrapped around her, she lies still and asleep beside her, snoring ever so slightly.
If you had told Villanelle months ago that she would have Eve Polastri asleep in her bed, she probably wouldn’t have believed you. She was confident in always getting the girl, but Eve made her work for it. Never did she think that she would be living a life of relative normalcy. She did mundane things now like grocery shopping and playing Scrabble, but she did them with Eve.
Villanelle grabs a robe draped over a chair in their living room and wraps the smooth silk around her body. She then gets to work making coffee, hoping that Eve is up soon enough so it’s still hot. As the pot begins to brew, she crosses another day off on the calendar. Today is March 8th. Four days until her dreaded birthday.
Thinking about her birthday now didn’t make her quite so angry. So many of them had been spent in dreary orphanages, always without celebration. She forces herself to think of that last good one. Despite her mother’s disapproval, her father was more than happy to let her skip school. She was woken by him bringing her a towering plate of blini with cinnamon and honey in bed. He took her to the cinema and they watched some silly American film she can no longer remember the name of. He gifts her a new book, some sort of Russian fairytale, and they end the night dancing in the kitchen. When she thinks of the dancing now, she tastes cinnamon and honey. That, she decides immediately upon setting foot in the orphanage only months later, was my happiest day.
Villanelle finds herself making blini, just as her father had taught her so long ago. Her fingers work quickly and nimbly. She knows that Eve doesn’t like honey (which she learned after a terribly unfortunate tea incident), so she tops it instead with raspberries and whipped cream. She pours a cup of coffee and leaves it black, just the way Eve likes it.
She’s not even slightly surprised to find Eve still passed out, sound asleep. The sky has brightened more and streams of light are coming in through their curtains, leaving sunbeams on Eve’s bare back. Villanelle sets the plate and cup on the bedside table and kneels until she is eye level with Eve. She looks so peaceful, Villanelle almost feels bad waking her.
“Rise and shine,” Villanelle speaks gently. She traces her finger down Eve’s nose and brushes it onto her lips, which makes her stir. By the time Villanelle has her hand cupped on Eve’s cheek, she is awake.
Early morning Eve is Villanelle’s favorite.
Eve yawns and meets Villanelle’s hazel eyes. A dopey smile crosses her face as she leans forward to kiss her. “Good morning.” She sits up and wraps the comforter further around herself, covering her breasts. After a few seconds, she narrows her eyes and sniffs the air. She looks around, then back to Villanelle. “Do you smell that?”
The blonde smiles and hands her the plate. “I made you breakfast!” She exclaims and excitedly jumps back into bed. She rests her head on Eve’s shoulder as she waits for her to try it.
Eve doesn’t bother asking what it is. She trusts Villanelle’s cooking abilities a lot more than she trusts her own. The instant she takes a bite, her tastebuds erupt into song. “Oh my god,” She points at the plate with her fork, “This is incredible!” Eve feigns offense. “Why have you never made this before now?”
Villanelle smiles, shrugs, and manages to steal a raspberry. They sit together for a while longer, until Eve feels like she might explode. She abandons her plate and looks to Villanelle, who appears to be deep in thought.
“What are you thinking about?” Eve runs a hand down her back.
In all honesty, Villanelle hadn’t realized it, but she was thinking about her father. She wondered what he would have to say about her life now. Would he be thrilled that she was finally at rest with herself, despite what it had taken for her to get there? She decides this is too much to talk about at 8:30 in the morning, and instead settles on, “I’m happy, Eve.” She turns to face Eve, who is looking at her with such love and adoration that she could her melt. Villanelle places a hand on her cheek and pulls her in. The kiss is long but gentle. When they finally part, she pushes a stray curl out of Eve’s face. “You make me happy.”
If there was a heaven, this would be it, Villanelle concludes. Their tiny and rather messy French apartment, breakfast in bed, Eve, Eve, Eve. This was everything.
As if on cue, the faint sounds of a trumpet outside drift to them. A saxophone joins in a few measures later. Villanelle stands from her spot on the bed and extends a hand. “Eve, would you like to dance?”