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You glance inside the coffee mug in front of you with apprehension. One more healthy sip and it will be entirely gone. You already resent its emptiness.
Your eyes travel to the clock on the wall above the main counter on your left. If it was up to you, you would order yet another coffee. If you were to indulge, it would be your fourth this afternoon – also, your heart is probably beating way too fast already – but any excuse sounds good enough to keep the moment alive, to stretch it, to drag it, to make it last forever. But it's not your call. At least, not your call, only.
In the window behind the outstanding woman sitting in front of you, the sun is getting lower and lower in the sky. Soon, it will reach the city skyline, shine brighter and blinding for a blessed span of seconds, before disappearing into an array of purple, pink, yellow, orange, and coral hues. You don't know if she has plans after your date, but you don't think it's too wild to assume it will soon be time for you both to go home.
After all, when she asked you out for an afternoon tea, at the coffee shop around the corner of the park where you keep meeting her, she didn't mention anything about seeing where the afternoon would lead or about the possibility of letting the date bleed into the evening. At the moment, taken aback, you didn't think to ask for more details, too busy trying to remember how to breathe and nodding dumbly along.
You still have no idea how to act around her, or how to ask to stay a little longer – how to do any of those things smoothly anyway. You're not rusty, you're simply new at this. You internally groan at yourself for waiting for so long before allowing yourself to go on a date. If you hadn't, maybe you would have been prepared for her, to rock her world, to woo her into asking for one more drink. Into asking you to see her again.
And yet, here you are nonetheless, observing the sun setting behind her, the early evening sky rapidly swallowing your afternoon date, her soft unbothered smile burning a wild tempo into your ribcage.
You met her months ago. Well, you first saw her months ago, really – actual introductions only came yesterday morning – but at the time, back then, Powder was still a highschooler, she was still living at home with you, and your daily life basically revolved around looking after her, working out, and your job at the local florist. In that specific order. It didn't leave you much room for more than a small handful of friends, let alone a love life. Or an intimate one, at the very least.
You've always lived in this neighbourhood and you've been jogging first thing in the morning, in the park two blocks away from your apartment building, for more than a decade. It's a habit you picked up as a teen, because Vander was trying to channel all your wild energy into something positive for you. Good for your heart, good for your strength, good for your will. No matter the weather, no matter your mood, you've never missed a morning. Not even when you moved out of Vander's. Not even when Pow started crashing at yours four nights out of seven. Not even when you finally got a grip on your life. You kept jogging alone in the early morning – every day of the week and every week of the year – until one day, completely out of the blue, she was there, jogging, too.
You remember it as if it was only yesterday.
Legs for days, clad into tight navy yoga pants, stretching into the air in slow motion. Slightly oversized lilac sweater, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, chest heaving in an hypnotising rhythm. High ponytail, loose strands of midnight hair dancing at the same tempo. And as she came closer – heart-stoppingly tall, harbouring the most delicate and elegant features – high cheekbones, blushing cheeks, knitted eyebrows and focused gaze. Her eyes, briefly flying to you, like an afterthought, something sharp and quick as a lightning – something positively electrifying – travelling through them when she glanced at you.
You remember the sky painted in a darkish pale blue – very similar to the one settling outside of the coffee shop at this very moment – the young woman's light shining so bright, challenging the sun to rise and be. Shaming the sun into staying hidden beneath the horizon.
You remember her coming up to your level – her lips slightly parted, her eyes widening just a tad, her stride somewhat slowing down… before she kept on jogging. You thought she was about to say something, to acknowledge you, but she just kept going. And as soon as she was at least ten metres behind you, you stopped dead in your tracks, grateful for the cover of the darkness, your heart pierced through, the breath knocked out of your lungs, dizzy and drunk on the knowledge of her existence coursing through your veins.
The intensity of the memory is enough to summon you back into the moment, your hands slightly shaking under the table, your heart sent into overdrive, and your throat suddenly incredibly dry.
You grab your mug and drown the last sip instantly. You knew it was coming, but you find yourself surprised anyway and tip the mug further up, in hope to drink some more. The last drop tastes like disappointment and heartbreak. You wince and pout as you set the mug down, and when her eyes find yours, they are twinkling with mirth and fondness. You figure you'd be okay drinking disappointing last sips for the rest of your life if she was to look at you with such adoration every time it happened.
You've finished your drink, you think she did too, but she doesn't make a move to get the coat neatly folded on the back of her chair, and something in your chest loosens. She's not in a hurry for the date to be over just yet, either. You make your peace with the empty mug in front of you, discard it on the side, and allow yourself to relax into the back of your own chair. You smile softly at her, inviting a comfortable silence to complete the peaceful scenery.
Everything you've learnt about her has been just enchanting so far.
Her name – Caitlyn – as it rolls off your tongue, making her blush and dip her nose behind her cup of tea to hide it, her eyes fleeting to land everywhere but on you.
Her voice – deeper than you expected – and her accent – British – singing an alluring melody made just for you, like a siren call, pulling all your strings and pushing all your buttons at once, leaving you a mess.
Her eyes – so blue, there's no words in the history of poetry to compare them to, not the deepest oceans, not the clearest skies.
Her smile, tooth-gaped, sometimes shy and soft when you try to compliment her, sometimes full and vibrant when you let escape one of your worst dad jokes. And again, would it be so bad if Vander's horrible sense of humour had rubbed off on you if she finds it that hilarious?
She's told you about her job at the local bookstore and you couldn't stop yourself from wondering about what your home would look like if you shared it with her, house plants on overflowing bookshelves and the scent of peonies and lilies of the valley floating in the air as you read a book leaning against each other.
She's told you about the dog she's always wanted to have back when she was a kid, and you couldn't help but picture her on Christmas morning, her eyes still full of sleep filled with wonder as you hand her over your new puppy, a German Shepherd you've named Cookie. She'd disapprove of the name in silence, she'd thank you in the same excited breath, before running to the bedroom you share to put on her jogging outfit and take him out for a run.
You felt stupid, and slightly embarrassed, imagining all those things with her when you don't know anything about her except for the things she shared with you during the afternoon. You've heard about lesbians and their U-Haul thingy, but experiencing it first-hand during your very first date ever, when you weren't even interested in dating before meeting her… it's throwing you off.
She's always had a certain effect on you, even from afar. Greater than anything – or anyone – you've known before. But you still can't believe that you might have been that needy for closeness.
After the first time you crossed paths with her in early November, she's been there every day since. You never jog the same trail as her, and you always meet her in the second half of your loop, about a kilometre before your face gets too flushed and sweaty to be socially considered attractive. But no matter how many times you saw her – disarmingly graceful still as if she was just starting her lap – it took you a few weeks to stop acting like a dumbass and function around her for the short thirty seconds where your paths overlap.
A few weeks to stop your step from faltering upon meeting her intrigued gaze, to not drop your eyes to the floor and avoid her completely, to not look cold and aloof when you wanted to appear cool and laid back, to try your best not to run into a bush because you were too busy taking her in. A few weeks to find your footing around this woman who turned your mind upside down, and when you finally managed to smile at her – in a friendly, not-douchey, and hopefully charming way – the small grin slowly and carefully splitting her face in two was enough to keep you awake that night. And the night after that.
She looked like she had been waiting for you to acknowledge her all this time.
Back at the coffee shop, there are less and less people coming in and more of them getting out. A barista is wiping the table next to yours clean, and you know you won't be able to stay much longer. In front of you, Caitlyn is peeking at her wrist watch, her eyebrows furrowing.
The look she gives you then is apologetic and you definitely know she didn't expect for the afternoon to fly by so quickly. "I think we are about to get ourselves politely thrown out."
And, oh , how lovely she is. The awkward wince that graces her smile has your heart in a choke hold. You can't do anything but smile at her reassuringly. You chuckle, and keep your voice as soft and warm as possible. "Better hurry and not give them the opportunity then." You wink at her, she blushes, and you figure you have more game than you thought you had.
She nods at you, hands folded in front of herself on the table, fingers twisting nervously, but doesn’t make any move to stand. You nod at her, your hands coming up from your lap to hold onto the edge of the table by the tip of your fingers, suddenly more shy than you were a second ago. Neither of you rise to your feet, neither of you say a word, you just look at each other. You take advantage of the occasion to breathe in and out discreetly, readying yourself for what’s coming next.
Walking out, telling her you had a fantastic time, finding a way to make it happen again in the near future, and at last, saying goodbye.
You don’t allow yourself to think about this last part, anxiety creeping in when you realise, yet again, how unprepared you are.
You wonder if you could excuse yourself to the bathroom and call your sister. She would make fun of you for being this useless, but at least, she would end up telling you if you’re supposed to wave awkwardly from a distance, to politely shake her hand, or to allow yourself to be bold enough to hug her. The mere thought of touching her, of feeling her inside the safety of your arms, is sending a massive shiver running down your spine and has you rethinking the whole boldness thing. You sheepishly break eye contact with her.
“Come on, Violet, it’s getting cold, we should go.”
You look outside the large window pane once again. The sun has now definitely set, the street lights are giving the winter night holiday vibes even though it’s late January. You want to tell her that you’ll be more cold outside than you currently are, that you’re not even that cold, but your brain is still stuck on how your full name sounded at the tip of her tongue. You wish she would say it again. You consider asking her to. But you are a bit star-struck and you can’t do anything but dumbly nod at her some more.
She is standing now, her woollen coat is already sitting on her shoulders, her loose hair carefully pushed over one of them, and she’s making her way up buttoning it closed. You rise to your feet and put on your leather jacket, adjusting the collar around your neck, your bare hands falling limply along your thighs when you're done and don’t have any purpose for them anymore.
You decided at the last minute before leaving your apartment to meet her, to forgo the bandages you normally wear around your palms and wrist. She seemed way out of your league, and you wanted to make an effort to look nice for her, more refined. You wanted to give her a snapshot of the person you can be when you’re not working out – even if it doesn't happen very often – and give her the occasion to decide if she's still into you when you're not running.
Reflecting on it now, it seems silly, because you usually never look this nice, mostly covered with dirt at work, and sweat at the gym. You feel like you're lying to her, lying to yourself, but you read somewhere that girls like eyes and hands and you thought she might appreciate the sight. It seems even more silly, because now you just feel naked and vulnerable, when you should feel sexy and confident.
You itch to bury your hands inside your pockets, you almost do, but Caitlyn is ready and looking expectantly at you. You force yourself to spring into action.
You don’t want her to have to call all the shots, to have to take all the first steps – even though you have no reference of what you are supposed to do. You like her too much, even without knowing her very well, to let her feel like she has to hold your hand all the time. Not that you would mind holding hands with her. But she was the one who started the first conversation when you were happy enough smiling at her from afar, the one who asked you out on a date when you were still making sure she was real, the one to pick the time and the place, to even pick the table… It’s your moment to shine, and you muster all the courage inside you to confidently cross the distance that separates you from the front door, and pull it open for her.
She catches up to you, and you catch her off-guard by offering her a low and exaggerated bow. She lets a short and vibrant laugh escape and it makes you beam. It makes you smile wide and proud, an untempered joy bursting out from your chest. When she walks past you to step outside, you tease her with a reverent “Milady” which makes her unexpectedly snort loudly. You think you might be a little bit in love already.
The cold that meets you both outside is harsher than you anticipated. It makes you regret your bandages even more, and you don’t think too much this time before pushing your hands into the pockets of your jacket. The fabric is cold and rough on your sensitive knuckles, the zipper scratching the usually covered patch of skin, but it will have to do. You tighten your fists into balls to make them fit better and keep them shielded from the assailing wind.
Next of you, Caitlyn is looking at her phone, her thumb swiping and scrolling on the screen, her face slightly scrunched up in concentration. You want to reach out and smooth her eyebrows, but instead you busy yourself counting the heart beats drumming inside your chest, forming the next words you are going to say to leave the best impression. I had one of the best afternoons of my entire life. The best actually. Or something more casual. We should do this again sometime. Or something bolder. I know this bar, right around the corner, would you be up for one last drink?
Anxiety slowly takes over you once again.
Your heart beats faster still, you feel it colliding against the walls of your ribcage. If a bystander was to look closely, they would probably be able to see your chest thumping – even under the layer of your leather jacket – and the artery running against the column of your neck pulsating wildly. You observe her not paying attention to you, but you can’t seem to find the best way to move forward. Soon she’ll put her phone away and you still don’t have the first clue about what to say.
There's a reason why you weren't the one doing the talking yesterday morning either. Under the shower, when you came back home, while replaying the conversation in your head, you convinced yourself it was because you weren't expecting it, expecting her.
You had gotten comfortable within the boundaries of your routine, meeting her during your jog for a short amount of time, only having to wave a hand and smile at her before going your own way – admiring her already flushed cheeks darkening some more at your acknowledgement. Only having to think about this short interaction for the remainder of your day.
You were back at your starting point, stretching your leg muscles against your usual bench, your mind pleasantly buzzed by the workout and the encounter, when she came up behind you. You didn't expect to see her twice.
You heard her steps slowing down, her breathing heavier than it was twenty minutes ago when you first saw her, and something in your soul just knew. By the time you turned to face her, you already knew the colour of the eyes you would be meeting.
It also helped that you two were the only people – that you knew – visiting the park at this hour of the day.
Everything happened really fast.
She was suddenly there, standing in front of you instead of running away, all height and charm out, speaking words you were having trouble registering. You watched her fingers twisting in front of her, her hands flying around her. You could see she was rambling, but the cautious confidence she was showcasing made her look like the most courageous woman on the planet. And, God, was this hot.
"Anyway, my name is Caitlyn."
You missed everything she said before that, and rather than trying to catch up, or make her repeat, you tell her your own name.
"Violet."
You never use your full name. You were about to correct yourself, to let her know people call you Vi, but a blinding smile bloomed on her lips and, well, how could you have denied her this. Shortly after that, she was asking you out, and there was nothing much else to do but agree wordlessly and meet her at the coffee shop the next day.
You're thrown back to a few hours ago, picturing yourself standing on the sidewalk where you're currently standing, watching her waiting for you at your table, and inhaling deeply before opening the door.
In front of you, Caitlyn is finally putting her phone away in the inside pocket of her long coat, and you are back in the moment, with her.
"I'm so sorry about that, my friend has been blowing up my phone all afternoon. It is rather uncommon and I wanted to make sure everything was fine."
It's kind of an endearing apologetic ramble and you want to stop her, to tell her it's fine, that you don't mind. You're ready to brush it off, but you remember her furrowed eyebrows, and everything you were about to say, every word you had started to rehearse inside your head, dies in your throat. You really shouldn't be surprised at how much you care for her already.
"Are they okay?"
Your face is open, your expression soft and genuine, the gentle worry barely colouring your tone, and everything that was stiff about her loosens. She takes half a step toward you, her rosy hands springing out of her own pocket to reach for you before stopping halfway.
She immediately croaks out a "yes" before clearing her throat. "Yes, very much so, thank you. He's just… nosy." And after a beat, into a chuckle, "And annoying."
You laugh, and the tension of the moment instantly melts away. If your sister knew you were on a date – the first in your entire life no less, and hopefully not the last either – she would have been nosy too. Surely even more than Caitlyn's friend, because "nosy" sounds too weak of a word to qualify how she would react. You try not to let the guilt overtake you, reminding yourself that you're allowed privacy and selfishness when it doesn't hurt her. You're happy to keep this magical moment protected inside a bubble for a few minutes more. You'll call her once you're home.
"I'm glad." You smile and you register your own words. The smile she gives you in return leaves no doubt that she understood the meaning of your words, but you rush to elaborate nonetheless. "That he's okay, of course. Not that he's annoying. My sister will probably be, too."
"Will she now? I wonder why…"
The teasing in her voice is blatant and you blush. The back and forth flirty banter punctuating the middle of all your soft conversations has you on your toes and you're not ready to say goodbye. You swallow. Hard.
"Cait, I had a wonderful time, I don't know if you have plans or anything, but my place is that way," you nudge behind yourself with a shoulder, "and if yours is too, I would love to walk you home."
What a roller-coaster of a sentence.
As you heard your words as they were coming out of your mouth and watched her facial expressions change as she was processing them, you realised it could have gone in a million different ways. A plain goodbye, an invitation to keep this going, an invitation to something even bolder, and then, a request. Honest and humble, considerate and respectful.
For an instant, you fear she's going the opposite way and you'll have to make a fool of yourself and tell her you don't mind going home the long way. But she softens then, her teasing gone and forgotten on the curb of the sidewalk.
"I would love that, too, Violet."
You give her a watery smile, feeling surprisingly emotional all of a sudden, bow your head subtly this time, and extend a hand in front of you, encouraging her to lead the way.
The street is busy, people are striding left and right, and for the worst just as for the best, you're forced closer to her. Your hands have regained their place inside your uncomfortable jacket pockets, bending your left elbows in a weird angle so as to not hit her arm as you walk next to her.
You don't talk much.
If she jogs in the same park as you do, then she probably is more or less your neighbour and then, you know you don't have a lot of time before you are stopping at her front door. You don't want to spoil the moment with small talk and insignificant chit chat. You're not afraid of being silent by her side anymore, and when you glance at her from the corner of your eyes, she seems content enough to keep it that way.
Your life used to be so full before Powder had to leave for college, your days filled with strings of occupied slots. Running in the small hours of the morning, coming home to have a shower and breakfast before leaving for work, a small lunch break at noon, coming back home, helping with homework, prepping dinner and going to the gym, having dinner later and sometimes, at night, a movie.
You used to make fun of the characters in them, young and in love, wasting time not doing anything. But there, walking silently by her side, the cold winter wind pushing your hair back, you don't feel like you're wasting time. You're savouring it. Next time, you'll just have to bring a warmer jacket, with more inviting pockets, and life will be absolutely perfect.
You arrive at the park.
You've been fidgeting inside your pocket for the best part of the walk, trying to fit inside them the best part of your hands, but it hasn't been the most effective move of your day; the size of your fists is keeping your pockets open and allows the cold to spread inside them. Your fingertips are so frozen they start to actually hurt and burn. You shuffle inside some more.
You're freezing but you're so happy, you can't bring yourself to care. You just look ahead as you keep walking by her side.
You feel her gaze, burning a hole into the side of your head, and from where you are, without even looking at her, you can picture her eyebrows furrowed and her adorable pout. She glances at your left hand, and you do too. A red patch of cold skin is peeking out of your pocket, yet another proof of your discomfort. Well, you can't fault her observation skills.
Her eyes snap to yours. "We're almost there."
Her voice is apologetic but resolute, as if you being cold was her fault. As if it was her mission to make sure you're okay. You instantly brush her off and lightly laugh. "It's fine, don't worry. The walk is nice."
She worries about you. It makes you want to kiss her silly. It makes you want to hug her and never let her go. And damn, you just laugh some more.
She doesn't humour you, she keeps walking beside you, but suddenly, your world is shifted on its axis. Without saying anything more, you feel more than you see her right hand coming out of the pocket of her woollen, welcoming coat. You can almost make out the wave of heat emanating from her, the thought makes you shudder, but you try not to focus too much on it.
But then, but then.
It starts with her fingers, burning, purposeful yet tentative and slow, coming up to brush the thin skin in the inside of your wrist before sliding inside your left pocket – already too tight to contain your hand, let alone to contain both of yours.
You snap your eyes closed, your jaw tense, your whole body going haywire, apart from your left hand, slackening impossibly to accommodate hers. You have no idea what to do, what to feel, but everything is scalding, and life-altering, and mind-blowing.
She gently intertwines her fingers with yours, and you don't know how you're still walking. How you're still standing. How you're still breathing. A wave of warmth spreads from your fingertips to your forearm like warm water would. You don't know if it burns that much because you were freezing to begin with, or if because it's her touching you.
She's the first woman – who isn't family – you've ever touched, and sure, you've heard about young love and electrifying touch, but the intensity of it all has been greatly understated for your taste. In the corner of your mind something is set alight, the memory of an old story like a fairytale, of " you'll see if it's real when it happens to you", but everything is too hazy and confusing for you to pinpoint just yet.
You look straight ahead, and force what's left of your attention to rest on the alluring softness of her skin. You don't really understand why, but you start shivering, your teeth chattering loudly, and you almost miss her frustrated groan. By the tips of her fingers, she coax your hand out of your tight pocket and down into the warmth of hers. With the new and welcome added space around your hands, you can now feel the tentative brush of her thumb against your knuckles and there's nothing left for you to do apart from swallowing hard and tightening your hold on her hand.
I want this, too.
You turn at the corner of a street, just a block away from your building. Caitlyn slows down without stopping either, and you know she's dreading your destination as well. Or at least, the end of your short journey there. You wish for the world to stop spinning for a minute, just so you can make sure you won't forget any details of what's happening here. You feel like you've been running after time, after her, your whole life. You only have time to put your finger on this truth before she reluctantly comes to a stop in front of a very well lit building entrance. Fancy.
There's a moment of uncertainty. You've been walking slowly, but you feel breathless. Beside you, she looks breathless too, but she's holding your hand oh so tight, and oh so soft, you know you'll be okay. Both of you. She doesn't lose her grip on you, but she takes a step back to face you, and she takes the rest of your breath away in the same movement. She looks magnificent.
Her thumb brushes the back of your hand one last time before she drops it all together. You miss her touch instantly. Now alone inside her pocket, you feel slightly awkward, and you don't waste any second burying your fist inside your own, your eyes never leaving hers.
She smiles like the sunset earlier, bright and blinding for a blessed span of seconds, and leans in to whisper, her voice suddenly even deeper than it was before, raspier too. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”
You nod, once again, dumbly. Because it seems to be your first instinct on every occasion, but you can’t let it be this time. You won’t. You clear your throat.
“And everyday after this one.”
Seemingly satisfied, she steps farther away from you and walks to the front of her building. You stay put, hoping she will turn around to bid her last goodbye. Your left hand is still burning. You figure you could warm your other one up pretty easily with the quiet fire running under your skin. You could set the park ablaze, just by dragging the tips of your fingers along the bark of the trees. You feel powerful in the best possible way.
Under the light of her porch, slowly, slowly, she raises her hand up in the air. You’re struck by the elegance of the gesture, effortless and light as a feather. You don’t wait before raising your hand too, your body in complete sync with her tempo. You don’t wait, but something catches your attention. Something that has you squinting your eyes. Something that has you forgetting how to breathe for a minute.
You try to remember the immaculateness of Caitlyn’s hands, as they were resting in front of you on the small table of the coffee shop, curling around her teacup. You remember thinking how life must have spared her so far, callus-free, unmarked. Perfect. You try your best to remember any trace of ink marks, washable or not, because something doesn’t track.
At the tip of her fingers, a bluish swirl – very similar to a watercolour stain – is running along the shape of her bone to the palm of her hand.
Your mind doesn’t catch up right away. But then it does, and when it finally does… Your eyes snap to your own hand, raised into the evening air, already waving excitedly at her.
"You'll see if it's real when it happens to you!"
You keep laughing at her, and Powder's pout grows deeper, her thin arms firmly crossed high on her tiny chest. She is seven, and she just came back from school with the wildest story you've ever heard. You're a teenager now but you still haven't learned how to be gentle and kind; you are offending her. It wouldn't cost you much to humour her, but this soulmate stuff is down right crazy. You laugh louder.
Your mind catches up, and you turn your hand to inspect it, amazed.
You're laughing so hard, you're holding your ribs because your abs hurt so much. Your eyes are tightly shut, teardrops running down your cheek from the corner of your eye. It's not the kid-story itself that brought you to this state but the wonder and excitement in Powder's voice when she told you about it. You will hear from Vander later, for laughing so hard at her gullibility, but you can't help yourself.
"I hope she first touches you right on your face, so you're reminded I was right everytime you look in the mirror."
Your mind catches up, and your hand is still burning.
She looks so upset when you open your eyes, it makes you falter. You set aside your amusement and crouch in front of her. She refuses to look you in the eye and you feel slightly guilty for a second. You sigh and grab her chin by the tip of your fingers, holding her gaze when you finally meet her eyes.
"Who cares about soulmates and soulmarks Pow-Pow. I don't care for any of that, I don't need anybody else when I've got you."
The reluctant small smile that graces her pouting mouth is enough to put the matter to rest. To discard the old tale – the one of a soulmate who would mark your skin where she'd first touch you – far away in the depth of your mind, in a box, for you to explore later.
Your mind catches up.
Right on the patch of skin on the inside of your wrist – the patch she caressed earlier, gentle like a promise, before holding your hand in hers – the same blue mark you distinguished on her moments ago is running down to your own palm.
You look up at her.