Work Text:
firefly - ola gjeilo
(there’s a firefly wandering, fluttering in the night. We don’t know where she’s going; that’s the beauty of it.)
‘I’m tired but not sleepy. You get what I mean?’
‘Yeah,’ Ingrid replies to her girlfriend, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her voice is drowsy, rough at the edges.
A breeze glides through the window, and Ingrid suddenly remembers about the draft. Thankfully, Mercie pays no heed to it. Perhaps it’s the warmth from under the covers, which were freshly washed this morning. A faint scent of floral detergent diffused into the room.
There’s barely any sound aside from the quiet murmur of leaves. The blackout blinds render the room near pitch black. Ingrid lazily rolls over to her side to face Mercedes.
‘Mercie,’ she says.
‘Hmm?’
‘I don’t know why, but I’m thinking about university again.’
Mercie mirrors her, rolling over so their faces are a few centimetres apart. She says nothing, waiting patiently for Ingrid to continue.
‘I remember when I was in first-year. On some nights, I’d wonder if I’d ever have anyone beside me. It just seemed so obscure, so unlikely that I could be loved. I don’t know,’ Ingrid sighs. ‘To be honest, I didn’t think I was nice to talk to. I panicked a lot when speaking to my coursemates.’
A pause. Ingrid suddenly feels a hand running down her hair. Gentle, smooth strokes. Ingrid feels her stomach sink as the thoughts flood back.
‘Do you ever feel as if you have nothing important to say?’
A twinge of sadness pulls at Ingrid’s chest, and she desperately tugs at her shirt to defuse it. Mercie grips her other hand, squeezing it firmly.
‘My Ingrid, nothing you say is unimportant.’ Mercie soothes. ‘Even if you complain about how dirty our front porch is.’
At that, Ingrid gives a weak giggle. She feels Mercie’s soft body encircling her, and the feeling is so warm; it’s like the fervent, swelling strings from last week’s concert. That was from Rachmaninov’s Second Piano Concerto, Ingrid remembers. She had to write about the second movement.
‘Ah…I’m sorry about that too,’ Ingrid says weakly.
‘No, no, it’s okay. I really should be more careful with the flowerpots. They’re easy to knock over, and you know how clumsy I am.’
‘Haha, you are pretty clumsy.’ laughs Ingrid. The pain has assuaged now.
‘Anyway, the point is,’ Mercie continues, ‘you should give yourself more credit, darling. You deserve to be listened to.’
Ingrid thinks she might cry. Had she not been so exhausted, the floodgates would have crashed open by now.
Instead, Ingrid pulls Mercie tighter against her and burrows her face into her neck. It seems silly, even childlike, but the comfort she receives is worth it. Ingrid exhales deeply into the older woman’s collarbone.
‘Teasing me, are we?’ Mercie hums. She continues to weave strands of Ingrid’s hair through her fingers.
‘Saying are we, are we?’
‘Making references to that British TV show made for middle-aged people, are we?’ laughs Mercie. Ingrid bats Mercie’s back playfully, knowing she had lost.
‘Mercie, Miranda is hilarious. I won’t have you cussing one of my favourite sitcoms.’ she huffs.
‘True, even if we aren’t the target demographic.’
A couple moments, and Mercie releases Ingrid from her embrace. She knows Ingrid can’t stand extreme heat from sleeping, so they seldom sleep in this tightly-wound position. That is, unless Ingrid is really, really wiped out from work.
‘What’s your plan for tomorrow?’ Mercie asks. ‘Are you going to the office?’
‘Mmhm. My editor wants to discuss some new formatting for the magazine. What about you?
‘Actually, I’m staying at home tomorrow.’ Mercie says, ‘I’m delivering the health and safety courses to the new trainees. We can’t have paramedics who cross-contaminate.’
Ingrid hums an affirmative, and indulges herself in her girlfriend’s eyes.
‘Yeah, that wouldn’t be good. I remember my mother scolding me for contaminating my vegetables when I cooked.’
‘It’s a little more complicated than that, darling.’ Mercie giggles. ‘But you’re not far off.’
A few seconds of quiet breathing.
‘I think a lot of people underestimate how tolling it is to write for a magazine,’ Mercie says, and Ingrid nods in agreement.
‘Watching the concerts is the fun part. Writing is enjoyable, but tedious. Editing is just painful.’
‘But you love it.’ Mercie smiles.
‘I do. It’s worth it in the end, seeing my article printed and distributed across all the shops.’
The pair remain in the same position for a couple minutes. When the birds start singing, that’s when they decide to doze off for their working day tomorrow.
‘Goodnight, Mercie.’ Ingrid says, yawning. ‘And thank you.’
Mercie places a chaste kiss on her forehead, and falls back onto the bed.
‘Sleep well. You know I love you, no matter what.’
***