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Lydia watches Isabelle dance, a blur of red in the sea of people mostly wearing darker shades of black and leather. Izzy’s hair whips across her face, brushed back by delicate fingers tipped in maroon polish which draws attention to the ruby. The gem was once worn around Izzy’s neck, but it now resides set in a clever bracelet of Izzy’s own design.
It’s just a momentary glance, but it’s enough to bring a wave of memories to the forefront of Lydia’s mind.
She remembers the start of their relationship. It was a haze of love and lust. It was losing track of time and staying up so late that it was morning again. It was kissing the crimson lipstick off of Izzy’s lips that tasted of the rich merlot they shared until they were drunk off more than just the alcohol. Lydia remembers laughing when Izzy accidentally spilled wine on her t-shirt, and the surprising flush across her cheeks at Izzy’s first intimate touches and the marks left behind afterward.
Lydia remembers when things started to go wrong, too.
It came in the same rush, as quickly as it began, and just as dizzying. The wine stains on a shirt Lydia needed to wear for a Council meeting mere minutes later with no time to change. The flush of embarrassment when Isabelle shamelessly flirted with the other members of the council in front of Lydia. The red marks on Lydia’s arm, not from passion but from when Isabelle tried to pull her back when she started to walk away during a fight. Lydia wasn’t sure when their shouts settled into a silence that withered roses, or when frustration melted into apathy… one day it was just over.
They both knew it.
They both hurt.
And now here they are, both dancing in New York like they weren’t both a little bit broken.
Only now, instead of dancing together barefoot under the streetlights on their way home, they dance with strangers in the dark.