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The door was shut, the curtains drawn, but Marianne still felt exposed. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but her own- she supposed she shouldn’t have fallen in love with a betrothed woman.
It was quite impossible to prevent, though, when Héloïse stared into her like she was the only thing present in the room. Like she was the work of art, not the other way around. Marianne sometimes felt self-conscious, but mostly she just felt seen. For the first time in her life, she was someone’s object of affection, she was someone’s muse.
Marianne felt the naked body beside her move slightly, Héloïse’s arms pulling tighter around her torso, squeezing; even in her sleep it seemed she wanted to be closer. Marianne’s heart stuttered and she reminded herself to breathe, breathe, breathe.
She thought of Eurydice and of the underworld. How could something so compelling be so dark? She tried to picture a life without love, the life she lived outside of this room, this bed. She tried to imagine a life without Héloïse but she couldn’t. She couldn’t imagine it but it seems she doesn’t have to for much longer because soon, she’d be experiencing it.
Perhaps she’d see Héloïse again, on canvas. It wasn’t likely she’d forget the shape of her lips or the curves of her body, or the faint blush that coated her cheeks when she grew embarrassed. She would never forget those things and they would haunt her until she took her very last breath, Marianne was sure of it. She would remember always, forever.
Oh, how she longed for a forever.
“Turn around,” she whispered, careful not to disturb her sleeping lover. Héloïse took shallow breaths, like she was running from something in her dreams. Maybe she’d always be running to the shoreline and back, the waves lapping at her feet. Maybe the ocean would be her constant, like she was Marianne’s. Maybe whenever she saw the water she’d see the universe, all wrapped up in the memory of what once was. What could’ve been.
“I love you.” The words were soft, reverent, but they bit at her tongue and she was sure she could taste blood. She repeated those words over and over inside her head until they turned into a mantra, until they flooded her senses.
Héloïse opened her eyes slightly and the dim light of the moon reflected her warm, lazy smile. There, in bed, Marianne was never more sure of anything in her life- she would fall in love with her girl on fire over and over again for the rest of her life.
“You’re staring at me,” Héloïse mumbled, but she still wore that same smile.
“I’m admiring. It’s different than staring,” Marianne replied, trailing a lean hand over her cheekbones, the side of her neck.
“How so?”
Marianne leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, hoping her adoration would spill over onto her skin.
“Staring is mindless. Admiration tugs at the very depths of your soul, it requires you to pay attention.”
Héloïse huffed out a small laugh. “I quite like your attention,” she said. “Will it be on me always?”
Marianne nodded her head and molded herself further into the sheets beneath her, into the curve of Héloïse’s spine.
“Yes, my love, it will be on you always.”