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When Cynthia first held Lydia’s hand in public, the year was 1994, and they were both 56 years old.
It was the first time they really held hands, at least—openly, freely, where anyone could see. The way straight people did all the time, always taking the simple action for granted. It was different from discreetly linking pinkies under a table at the Frosty Palace, the way they had as teenagers, and it was different from the way they embraced in the back of queer bars, the only place they could do so in front of strangers. It was different because it was in broad daylight (well, not really, but Cynthia thought it still counted).
They were 56 years old, but the radicalism of it made something childlike shine on their faces.
It didn’t last for long—just a stolen moment on an empty sidewalk in San Francisco in the dark of the night, nudging each other’s sides and giggling. But it meant the world to them. They’d been fighting for their love their entire lives, and any tiny victory felt like winning a whole war.
Many tiny victories had been won over the years, some more war-like than others, but every single one was special.
By the time Cynthia shared the truth of their relationship with every Pink Lady and T-Bird, the year was 1955, and Cynthia had just recently caught up to Lydia’s 17 years of age. The revelations were… a happy accident. At least in the end.
To keep a long story short, as Cynthia preferred, both Nancy and Shy Guy were horribly bad at excuses, and their thinly veiled schemes quickly fell victim to suspicion. As a result, Nancy’s warning of “Don’t go see Cynthia tonight! She said she’ll be very busy taking care of her aunt’s cousin’s friend’s pet owl,” went ignored, and one by one Jane, Olivia, Hazel, Richie, Gil, and Potato popped by Cynthia’s home to check in on her, instead walking in mid-makeout and giving her a mini heart attack and breakdown at each occurance. When her partners-in-crime found out about the group-wide incident the next day, Edward just barely held Nancy back from strangling every one of them.
Ultimately, letting her friends in on it was for the best. It let them be affectionate in front of others in a way they hadn’t been able to before, and Hazel was much better at coming up with cover stories than the rest of them. Plus, they all showed their acceptance in little ways—Jane would slip extra hall passes into their lockers to be used at their discretion (aka go make out in storage closets), Richie would give her unwarranted and terribly inaccurate ‘girl advice,’ Olivia would divulge her in the risqué sapphic plots of certain novels she kept hidden from her parents—and it all lifted an unbearable weight off her shoulders.
It was bliss.
It was also the first of many hurdles to come.
The first time they went to an LGBT bar, the year was 1956, and they were both 18. They’d just graduated a few months prior and recently moved to San Francisco for Lydia’s acting career, the nearest big city. (Despite it all, it was still hard to truly leave Rydell behind. Cynthia visited her dad at least once a week, and Lydia went to see her family too every once in a while.) They got an apartment together and even shared a room, but told people they were roommates if it came up. Their guest room was framed as belonging to Cynthia—she stored her belongings there—as part of the cover, so the arrangement worked well enough.
(Living together was the easiest decision they’d ever made. There wasn’t any place more private and free than their own home.
Ha, home. Cynthia smiled at the word. They’d built a home together. She could look at their toothbrushes sitting side-by-side in a cup at their bathroom sink and know what it really meant.)
With her expertise, Cynthia was hired at an auto shop—a much larger and busier one than her dad’s—and quickly rose through the ranks. Best of all, she no longer had to wear putrid skirts all the time. They were impractical, first of all, and Cynthia swore even the idea of putting one on again gave her hives. (Everyone there doubted and looked down on her, but that was nothing she wasn’t used to.)
Lydia did the same as Cynthia but in theater, establishing a reputation for herself throughout the city like she had back home. Cynthia went to all her performances, unable to tear her eyes away from the stage whenever Lydia was on it. She always had extravagant flowers in tow for after the curtain call. She’d present them dramatically, falling to one knee as she held them high above her head, proclaiming that her liege deserved to be showered in gifts. She did it both to hear Lydia’s musically resounding snort and to take advantage of the chance to spoil her in front of others.
Their jobs allowed them to live comfortably and come home to one another at the end of the day, breathing out a sigh of contentment as they got wrapped up in each other’s arms. They were all they needed, the rest of the world be damned.
Even still, going to a queer bar was revolutionary. There were plenty in San Francisco, they knew, but the idea was rather intimidating—at least, until Lydia met others like them through her work, and they talked her into it.
The freedom of what they could do in those dank, mood-lit basements was terrifying, in the best way. In the way that it was completely overwhelming because they’d never experienced such open, blatant queerness before. At first, with the drunken smells and loud music and scandalous acts of people dancing with members of the same sex all over the place, they were tense and uneasy, clinging to each other in that not-quite-romantic way they were accustomed to doing in public. But then, almost like magic, two girls shone like a beacon in the middle of the dance floor, swaying back and forth as their lips came together…
Dread sweated down Cynthia and Lydia’s foreheads. They braced themselves for the inevitable upheaval, the roar of hate that would consume the entire room, but it never came. The world kept spinning, and the girls kept dancing together, and the two of them were still there.
With time, it became easier—almost second nature—to peck Lydia’s lips the moment they were safely tucked away inside those bars. There was still that risk factor, that air of danger, but being able to kiss each other in a crowd without fear of being instantly struck down made it worth it. They still tried to be careful, though, limiting their visits. Police often enacted raids on those places, and they’d much prefer to not be caught up in it. (They knew what would happen to them if they were caught.)
Mostly, they found relief in the tiny, private moments scattered throughout their lives. Their love was shared through breakfast in bed, an “I love you” note stuck on the fridge, thoughtful gifts every now and then. It was their goodnight and good morning kisses, when Cynthia surprised Lydia with an attempt at cooking. They had bad days too, yes, like when Cynthia was a little too headstrong or Lydia was a bit too dramatic, but they worked through it together.
In short, they didn’t need to flaunt what they had to the universe, as much as Cynthia might have liked to. What they had was good enough on its own, was great on its own.
Though, perhaps they did get a little carried away every now and again.
They were 19 and still as desperately in love as they’d been at 16, so god forbid they liked to flirt a little. Sue them. On a trip to the mall, they found a photo booth inconspicuously tucked away in a corner. Cynthia, feeling particularly worked up from Lydia’s constant too-smug nagging, tugged Lydia inside and swooshed the curtain shut.
Lydia must have seen the look in her eye, because she leaned in and teased, “Oh, wanted some privacy, did you?”
Cynthia floundered—she’d been caught. “No,” she bit out, defensive. She glared and turned away, rustling around in her pocket for a few coins. As she shoved them into the machine, she said stiffly, “I wanted to take some pictures with my girlfriend, is all.”
Lydia chuckled. “Yes, of course, because you love pictures. My bad.” Her hand snuck to rest casually on top of Cynthia’s thigh, and Cynthia bristled at the contact.
“Jeez, can’t a girl change her mind?” she replied with a raised brow, catching Lydia’s gaze out of the corner of her eye. Their stares remained locked as the booth started up, electrified sparks fizzling in between the atoms between them.
They lasted all of one picture before they were rushing in toward each other, hands in hair, teeth clacking, breath stolen out and away from anything and everything until their very lungs were aching…
When the final click sounded, their eyes widened and they broke apart, frantically fixing each other before they tore out of the machine and snatched up their photo strip before anyone else could see it. Cynthia felt like she was on fire, staring down at the four images—cheeky shared gaze, kissing, kissing, kissing. Without wasting another second, Lydia slid it into her bag, face trying desperately to remain neutral, but her flickering smile and red-hot cheeks proved that to be difficult.
The photo strip was incredibly incriminating, undoubtedly. Lydia wanted to destroy all traces of it (Cynthia suspected she also was a little embarrassed), but Cynthia couldn’t bear to get rid of it. She tucked into the bottom of her pants drawer—a place out of sight, but where she could still reach in and hold it close when Lydia had those particularly late rehearsals and she missed her. It was a perfect solution. Foolproof.
When Cynthia’s dad found the pictures, the year was 1960, she was 22, and he was 48.
He was staying the night at their apartment for a change due to some business he had to tend to in the city. Cynthia insisted that he stay in “her bedroom” rather than on their stuffy old couch. He was getting older, after all, and it’s not like she used that bed anyway—not that he knew that. She slept on the couch instead for the length of his visit, at least until…
She didn’t know why he’d snooped, but he’d found it. He came out of the guest room, holding it up between trembling fingers, fear sparking ripe out of his gaze, and for a moment Cynthia thought she was going to pass out. Her vision blurred and everything she was holding fell out of her palms, clattering to the floor.
But then he smiled, hesitant but well-meaning. “It’s okay, kiddo,” he said, just like he had a million other times in her life—when she’d scraped her knees on the playground, when she’d cut her hair without permission, when she’d confessed that she liked wearing his shirts more than she did her own, when her mom had left them. And then tears were running down her face and she was running into his outstretched arms and everything was okay.
That night, they ate dinner together as a real family for the first time, no secrets between them. Cynthia warned her dad away from shovel talk and comforted a slightly-terrified Lydia. Most of all, Cynthia slept in the same bed as Lydia again, her dad snoozing in the next room.
She was so, so grateful. She’d lucked out in life, in every way imaginable. Even with so much hate spewed into every inch of the atmosphere, somehow she’d managed to find the one molecule where every person in her life loved her unconditionally.
Despite the distance between them, the original Pink Ladies and the T-Birds never quite disbanded. Jane moved to Los Angeles for college, majoring in Education at UCLA. She wanted to work in a school system and make a real difference. Richie went with her with the promise that they would travel the world whenever they got the chance. Hazel moved to LA for college too, majoring in astronomy despite the struggles she’d have to face in that field. Her and Jane relied on each other throughout their courses and heavy workloads. Nancy, meanwhile, moved to New York to pursue her fashion dreams, and Potato followed after her like the lovesick puppy he was. She was the furthest away and completely on her own (save for Potato), but she marched forward nonetheless, undeterred by that prospect. On the other hand, Olivia and Gil stayed in Rydell to take care of their families, though Olivia was working on becoming a bestselling author in her free time. Lastly, Shy Guy moved to San Francisco with Cynthia and Lydia, and it wasn’t long before he met a partner of his own (Cynthia took credit for that one; she’d been the one to give him the final push to go after what he wanted). They all didn’t see each other as much as they used to, but they did when it mattered.
The first time Cynthia thought about marriage, the year was 1958, and she was 20 years old. The thought was sparked by one of the rare times their old group had all managed to meet up. It was one of those times that mattered: Jane and Richie’s wedding.
It was a joyous occasion, a celebration of all that they’d been through together. And if the ceremony brought every single Pink Lady and T-Bird to tears, even those with the biggest aversions to emotions, that was besides the point.
But it was during the reception after the sun had set, sitting at a table with her girlfriend as the laughter of her closest friends echoed all around her, that something hit Cynthia square in the chest: an ache. A longing for something they couldn’t have.
She looked to Jane, in her beautiful white gown, and to Richie, in his dapper suit, and something ripped away in her heart, baring her to the elements. The sudden force of it left her winded and raw, like there were spiky shards of glass embedded in her lungs. But then Lydia said, “Hey, you okay?” and Cynthia turned back to her concerned eyes and soft curls and felt the intoxicating brush of her hand along her arm, and the feeling melted away, like it’d never been there at all.
The second time Cynthia thought about marriage was in 1964, age 26. This time, the wedding was Gil and Olivia’s. Cynthia was surprised that they’d lasted so long before tying the knot, but she supposed the whole “child bride” fiasco of their youth would have been enough to scare them away from it for a while.
They were a little older at this point, more subdued, but they partied into the night nonetheless. It’d been a while since they’d all met up, and they had a lot of celebrating to catch up on. Olivia had published her first book last year, Jane was a certified teacher shaping young minds, Nancy was a valued designer at one of the biggest brands in New York, and Hazel got to spend her time studying the ever-changing stars up above like she’d always dreamed. Richie had seen more of the world than he’d ever thought he could, Potato had found joy in working odd jobs and tending to Nancy’s various whims, Gil’s family was finally steady and he’d turned to working in Cynthia’s dad’s shop, and Shy Guy had pursued his love for art, something he’d always tried to keep hidden, painting a dozen murals around the city that Cynthia always smiled at when she walked past.
It was as the night drew to a close, as Gil pulled a grinning Olivia into his arms, that that same feeling from Jane and Richie’s wedding resurfaced, stabbing in its prevalence. Her mind chugged through the events of the day, searching for the answer to the question she wasn’t even sure of. When she reached the recollection of the ceremony, of the two of them holding loving hands at the altar, it hit her.
She wanted that. She wanted to have a big day, wear a tailored suit to match Lydia’s fitted dress, invite all their friends and family to celebrate their union of love. She wanted to wake up in the morning and see a ring adorning Lydia’s finger, wanted to wake up and be able to call her wife. And wanted to be called wife in return, wanted them to be bonded together irreversibly and officially.
And maybe she was really, really drunk right now.
She swallowed down the overwhelming tangle of thoughts, tucking it into the recesses of her brain for safekeeping. She turned back to Lydia, her beautiful, beautiful girlfriend, feeling far too dopey for the heinous joke the boys had just cracked.
Halloween of that same year marked the ten year anniversary of their first kiss. They were adults, mind you, so they didn’t celebrate it with costumes and trick-or-treating the way they had in the past. Instead, they bought bags of candy from the store and gouged themselves on it in the privacy of their own home, curled up together in front of the TV as it played spooky movies. Very adult.
Cynthia often liked to stretch out across Lydia’s lap when they watched TV, limbs splayed in all different directions in a way that Lydia swore could not be comfortable, and tonight was no different. What was different, however, was Lydia smiling down at her, turning her head to face her by a thumb against the chin, and leaning down to press a sickly sweet kiss to her lips.
When she separated, leaving their foreheads pressed together, Cynthia licked her lips before she murmured with a quiet laugh, “What was that for?”
Lydia just dragged her finger down the curve of her cheekbone and said, “Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”
A surprised cackle echoed out of Cynthia’s mouth. If that wasn’t a blast from the past, she didn’t know what was. “Then have my lips the sin that they have took,” she answered anyway, deeply amused.
Lydia seemed pleased by her cooperation. She instantly upped her dedication to the role, falling into the drama faster than a blink. “Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.”
She sounded far too alluring, in all her exaggerated enunciations. Though she knew the script called for Romeo to kiss Juliet, Cynthia lunged upward and reconnected their mouths, reveling in the muffled sound of shock the action earned her. She threaded her fingers into the hair at the nape of Lydia’s neck. The scrape of their lips was just as potent, just as heavenly as it had been that first time all those years ago, before she knew what it really meant.
They savored the moment, and Cynthia breathed in velvet, chiffon, and delicious vanilla through her nose.
Lydia moved back to pepper kisses along her jaw as Cynthia finished her line. “You kiss by th’ book,” she said, giggling as she gently pushed her away.
“Not bad, Juliet,” Lydia said, the hand not cradling Cynthia’s head running along the side of her body. “I’m surprised you remember your lines.”
Cynthia raised a brow. “Oh, really? How could I forget? We ran that scene together like a bajillion times— Hey!” Lydia cut her off with a swift jab to the stomach. Cynthia raised her defenses as Lydia did it again, holding her arms in front of her and continuing through cackles, “You know, Romeo, I think those words are permanently burned into my brain— AH— Ow!”
Lydia, having rolled her onto the floor, looked fairly satisfied by the victory. That is, until Cynthia’s mouth stretched into a melodramatic pout.
“Wow. I cannot believe you’ve done this. We’re breaking up, you hear? I’m leaving you,” she deadpanned. “I’ll be gone by the time the sun rises.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I’m deeply sorry for my actions and all that jazz. Now get back up here, you idiot, I want to cuddle.”
Cynthia stood and brushed herself off—probably more thoroughly than she needed to, but she was making a point, god damn it. “You’d think you wouldn’t shove your girlfriend off the couch, then. Funny how that works, hm? I see how you are.”
“Well, you’d think I wouldn’t be girlfriends with such a birdbrain, but here we are.” Lydia grinned at Cynthia’s responding frown and plucked another piece of candy from the coffee table, unwrapping it.
But Cynthia wasn’t frowning at the comment, exactly. Her mind was elsewhere—it was suddenly struck over the head by that want she’d been ignoring for months. Maybe it was their easy back-and-forth, their encapsulating kisses, or the domesticity of it all, but it’d been dredged up nonetheless. She wanted.
She wanted it more than anything. She wanted it so desperately, all her inhibitions melted away.
Before she even really knew what she was doing, she snatched the twist tie from the candy right out of Lydia’s fingers, much to her bewilderment, and curved it into a circle. The prospect of getting down on one knee felt a little too dramatic, so she plopped back down on the couch and angled her body toward Lydia’s, suddenly deathly serious.
“Marry me,” she said, and it wasn’t really a question. It was more so a plea, a beg, a proclamation.
A thousand expressions roved across Lydia’s face at once. “Wh— What?” she laughed, sitting up straight, movie forgotten.
“Marry me,” Cynthia said again. Her eyes darted down to the makeshift ring and then back up to make it clearer. Were her hands shaking? She couldn’t feel it; all of her focus was narrowed in on the girl in front of her.
Lydia’s eyes went wide. Her gaze dashed from the ring back to Cynthia. “Wh— But— But we can’t…”
Cynthia shook her head. “I know that. It’s… symbolic. I mean, obviously, I’m using a goddamn twist tie. My point is, we don’t need government approval to consider ourselves married. Not for the parts that matter, at least. If— If you’d want that, with me, that is.”
Lydia blinked. Then her eyes welled up with tears faster than Cynthia had ever seen them do so before. “You want to marry me?” she asked, her voice hoarse and barely louder than a whisper.
Cynthia nodded, unwilling to look away, feeling her own eyes start to moisten. “I do. God, I do, so badly.”
A wet laugh choked out of her. “Of course I’d want to marry you, Cyn,” she said. She grabbed for the hand not holding the ring, entwining their fingers. “God, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
Cynthia tackled her into a raging inferno of a kiss, tears streaking down their faces to douse the flames. She could put the not-really-a-ring on her later; for now, she just wanted to kiss her until they passed out.
Nancy and Potato got married in 1965, and so did Cynthia and Lydia, as far as they were concerned. The two felt a little bad for stealing their spotlight, but Nancy insisted that they at least do something small for Cynthia and Lydia while the whole gang was together since they really couldn’t otherwise. Thus, the day before Nancy and Potato’s wedding, the T-Birds and Pink Ladies went out to a nearby park for the afternoon, convening under a sheltered gazebo away from any passersby.
Cynthia and Lydia stood facing each other, holding hands, as the T-Birds took charge of officiating, circling the pair as they giggled.
“Now, do you, Cynthia, promise to take care of her, even when she’s sick and can’t even get out of bed to turn the lights out?” Gil began, shooting a mocking glance at Olivia as she scoffed.
Cynthia laughed. “I do. Um, I don’t think that’s how this is supposed to—”
“And do you, Lydia, promise to unclog the shower drain every time? I see that long hair. I just know that drives Cynthia crazy,” Richie added, eyebrows raised. He ignored Jane’s sound of protest in the background.
Lydia gaped at him, almost scandalized by the insinuation. “I’m not a monster. It’s gross, but it’s mine. And it’s not like Cynthia would do it. Yes, I do.”
Richie nodded sagely. “Wise words. Hear that, Jane?”
“And do you both promise to love one another unconditionally, as long as you both shall live, till death do you part?” Edward jutted in, looking between them conspiratorially. His brows furrowed and he muttered, “Er, that’s not quite right…”
“We do?” Cynthia said. “Okay, yeah, this is really not—”
“Lydia?” Edward cut in again dramatically, leaning in so close Lydia had to lean back.
“Yes, I do?”
“Good.”
Potato clapped loudly, and somehow he was standing tall on a log that hadn’t been there previously. “Then, by the power vested in the T-Birds by the jackets we still sometimes wear even though it’s been nine years since we graduated, we now pronounce you—” He pursed his lips. “Woman and wife? No, that sounds weird… Wife and wife!”
“You may now kiss your bride!” the Pink Ladies chorused behind them, and the moment was so imperfectly perfect, perfectly imperfect, and so much more than Cynthia could have ever hoped for when she first discovered this part of herself at 16, that she grinned right into their kiss and never stopped.
(She told her dad about it the next time she visited, and he was all sappy smiles and teary eyes at every word.)
Life didn’t really change all that much for them after that. The effects were only prominent in the way they held each other tighter under silky sheets, brushed soft strands of hair out of each other’s faces, kissed a little too sweet and a little too long whenever the opportunity presented itself. In reality, though, they barely acknowledged it past celebrating the anniversary with a candlelit dinner or thoughtful gifts. They didn’t even have rings, after all, because Cynthia wasn’t one for jewelry and it would simply be too suspicious. Lydia kept the original twist tie tucked safely away with her other jewelry, however.
The same couldn’t be said for Cynthia’s other married friends. It wasn’t long before they started having kids.
Cynthia loved them, every last annoying little pipsqueak. Even though she’d grown up an only child, children were fascinating to her, and they always seemed to be attracted to her superior sense of humor. (“At least someone thinks I’m funny,” she’d remark over her shoulder to Jane, a little one giggling in her lap.) Plus, she got to be a cool aunt, a title that caused just a bit too much pride to pour into her chest.
Lydia didn’t share the sentiment. Children terrified her, in every sense of the word. She’d steal away to have wine with Jane or Olivia as Cynthia distracted them with exaggerated expressions and obnoxious sounds.
(Nancy was very much in agreement with Lydia. She often complained about her parents nagging her about it, once remarking, “Children are the bane of my existence. If I ever get pregnant, none of you will ever hear from me again. I’ll just blip out of existence the second it happens.”)
Cynthia wasn’t sure if she wanted kids, ones of her own, if she’d ever even considered it. She liked hanging around them, sure, but Lydia didn’t. And, well…
Her and Lydia, they couldn’t have kids. That was just a fact, and it was one they couldn’t pretend their way around like they could with other limitations. (They could always get a pet or something, but Cynthia preferred dogs and Lydia preferred cats and their professions often had them working late hours. Maybe they could when they were older.)
So, for now, Cynthia was satisfied with being a cool aunt. That job was pretty great on its own. She was influencing their tiny brains one whispered bribe at a time, and she was watching them grow up.
(She was watching her friends grow up, too. When did they all get so old and responsible?)
Then, in 1969, the year in which they turned 31, something groundbreaking happened. Something that caused glorious chaos to erupt across the nation.
Stonewall.
It was a police raid on an LGBT bar in New York that turned into a protesting riot. It was the first prominent instance of collective, loud, overarching solidarity, of fighting back against the violence and stigma that had plagued queer people their entire lives. The night Cynthia and Lydia heard it on the news, they just shared a scared, hesitantly hopeful smile, the entire thing feeling so unreal. Like an ice-cold shock to a system that didn’t know it needed it.
As similar riots broke out in nearly every big city in America, including San Francisco, it was no surprise when Cynthia wanted to join in. But, out of the two of them, Lydia always was the rational one.
“Cyn, we can’t.”
“What?” Cynthia tore her hand out of Lydia’s, throwing an arm to the footage replaying on their TV, vibrating with the strength of her emotions. “Look at what’s happening! You don’t want to be a part of that!? Things are changing. For the first goddamn time, things are changing. Edward said he wants to—”
“I don’t give a shit what Edward is doing,” Lydia cut in, more iciness spiking her tone than she’d intended. At the way Cynthia flinched, she took a breath and reeled it in, folding her arms. “Look. We’ve worked too hard to build this life for ourselves to just go risk it on something that’s not bulletproof. We can’t. I know you want to help, and I know there’s strength in numbers, but we can’t.”
Cynthia’s eyebrows pulled together. “What, so you’re just giving up? You’re just accepting that this is how things have to be? I don’t want to do that. I’m not doing that.”
Lydia shook her head viciously, begging with her eyes. “No, I’m not doing that either. Things shouldn’t have to be this way, but they are. We’ve been so careful our entire lives, Cynthia. One wrong move and it’s all over.” Something about the words loosened a piece of Cynthia’s defensiveness, and her raised shoulders fell. Lydia reached out tentatively, waiting to see if Cynthia would pull away. She didn’t, so Lydia intertwined their fingers again, brushing a thumb over a healing cut on Cynthia’s rough skin. She trained her eyes on it as she spoke. “You’re reckless. And I love that about you, but I don’t want it to be the reason I lose you. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want it to even be a possibility.”
Cynthia sighed, deep and loaded. Then she stepped closer, curling her free hand into Lydia’s carefully-styled waves. “Your hair is brown.”
Lydia breathed out a half-laugh through her nose. “My hair is brown.”
“You’re scared.”
She swallowed harshly. “I’m scared,” she answered, voice trembling.
Cynthia smiled, her eyes sad. “I’m scared, too. And I don’t want to lose you either. It’s okay, we don’t have to do it.”
Relief oozed out of every pore on her body. She leaned in to tip her forehead to Cynthia’s. “God, thank you.”
Cynthia answered with a chaste peck to her cheek. “Anything for my wife,” she said, the corner of her lips tugging up cheekily.
Lydia poked Cynthia’s stomach half-heartedly, smiling again herself. “Shut up.”
In the years following the events of Stonewall, celebratory marches began taking place every June to honor the bravery and sacrifice of the rioters. And with each passing year, Lydia refused to let the two of them attend. Cynthia understood her fears; she’d lived with the same horrifying what-ifs keeping her up night after night, too. They were thespians, and the way they presented themselves to others was a careful, careful act—a balancing act, off-kilter and liable to teeter and collapse at the slightest shaky breath. They resigned themselves to watching from afar, knowing that even a dip into the shallow end might ultimately drown them.
And drown many, it did.
The AIDS epidemic of the 1980’s and 1990’s was a terrifying time to be alive. Government officials turned a blind eye to those begging for help, to those bleeding out only an inch from their faces. Cynthia and Lydia lived every day fearing for their gay friends. They lived in agony as they lost them, one after the other, helpless to do anything at all.
Cynthia especially worried over Edward. She’d known him since the fourth grade, after all. He was the reason she’d wanted to become a T-Bird, and then consequently the reason why she’d become a Pink Lady. He liked art, and he was good at it. He didn’t want to be a boxer, and he didn’t let his dad make him become one.
But most importantly, he was careful, and he was lucky, and he was safe.
Even still, every New Year after the countdowns would draw to a close, Cynthia and Lydia would embrace under glowing lights, murmuring ‘I love you’s and ‘I’m glad we’re still here’s. They decided that they would live their lives for all those who didn’t get the chance to.
When they were first legally married, the year was 2004, and they were both 65, due to turn 66. It was mid-February, and San Francisco was doing something revolutionary: issuing marriage licenses to same-sex couples.
Only one state had legalized gay marriage by that point, and it wasn’t California. But there wasn’t any time to question it. The whole thing was as fragile as glass, likely to fly out of their grasp at any given moment. They rushed to the courthouse the second they had the chance, feeling as giddy as a couple of teenagers sharing their first kiss on a dark Halloween night. It was rebellion—the sun rising over the horizon, more beautiful than they’d ever seen it.
And more than anything, the act was a love letter to their youth. A ‘just hold on, it’ll get better, have faith.’ It was a tribute to those that had come before them, those that had lost their lives for this, and those that would infinitely come after. It was a hope for a better world—the world that was becoming a reality, day by day. It was radical, and it was liberation, and it was freedom.
It was their love, every bit of it, shared across their lifetime and cultivated in a single document.
By March, the practice had been ordered to stop, but around 4,000 queer couples had been able to get married. The lucky ones. The ones tasting something sweeter than the bitterness they’d been dealt so many times before.
By August, every single one of those marriages was considered void and illegitimate, Cynthia and Lydia’s included.
The blow was devastating. Times were supposed to be better, society was supposed to be better. But it wasn’t. It was the same old limitations, same old hate, same old barriers and prejudices and unfairnesses plaguing the entire world the same old way it always had. It was an endlessly vicious cycle, always circling right back to the start where it would take off again just to rip the carpet right out from under your feet when you finally thought you might be getting somewhere.
The cards were never theirs. The cards had been graciously gifted to them for all of five minutes, just so that they could feel them under their fingertips and miss them when they were taken away.
They’d bought rings this time, real ones. Cynthia wasn’t one for jewelry, but for those five and a half months, she wore it every day and proudly presented it to anyone that noticed. There was still a risk to it, but more often than not, the worst she’d be met with was only disgust. Disgust was nothing compared to the violence the same fate would have afforded her only ten, twenty years before.
Lydia was more subtle about it, but she still cradled her ring tenderly every morning, noon, and night, brushing the pad of her thumb against it whenever she was stressed. It was like a little puzzle piece, clicking in all the right ways.
They’d considered themselves married for years, but it being a very real and very tangible thing was entirely different. It was release, a release of every worry and doubt and fear built-up from decades of suppression.
When that was taken away, they still wore the jewelry. Despite everything, it was still a symbol of hope, and clinging to that hope was the only way they could push forward. If it’d happened once, it could and would happen again. They just had to hold out and keep holding on.
And it did. It happened again in 2008, when they’d just turned a ripe 70 years. Same-sex marriage became legal in California, making it officially the second state in all of America to do so.
Their wedding bands had long left permanent impressions on their aging skin, but the resealing of their union wasn’t any less special or tear-filled. It was a clear, sunny day, brimming with kisses and possibilities of that long-awaited sweet, sweet taste of progress.
Cynthia’s only lingering wish was that her dad could have seen it.
Of course, good things don’t ever really last for long. This time, they were wary and paranoid, anticipating the joy to be snatched out of their hands at the drop of a hat. They were almost prepared for that reality, but the shock of it still left them reeling when it did happen.
Proposition 8 passed in California mere months after the legalization, stripping LGBT people of their rights all over again.
And Cynthia and Lydia…
They were old, and they were tired. So unbelievably tired and utterly exhausted by every step forward only resulting in two steps back. Their marriage continued to be honored at the very least, but marriage wasn’t even in the realm of possibility for other queer couples anymore, and that fact was somehow almost worse.
So, they resigned themselves to quiet days together under a dying sun, the rest of the world be damned. What faith could they still have in it, after the trickery and deceit that had tripped them up and been shoved down into the cracks of their broken hearts?
But they had each other, and their love, and all the other love that still somehow echoed in the barest, far-off corners of the globe, growing louder and angrier each day.
In 2013, when they were 75, same-sex marriage was legalized in California for the final time, permanently. In 2015, when they were 77, that became the reality for every state, the Supreme Court ruling any and all bans against it as unconstitutional.
And it was a war won on behalf of everyone queer in any capacity. A great, majestic battle, built upon by the tiniest of everyday victories, earned by the blood, sweat, and tears shed along the way.
***
The year was 2023, they were 85, and nothing in particular was happening—and that in itself was the beauty of it. It was just them, their shared home (with no fake bedroom made to look like Cynthia’s), their polished wedding bands, their cat named Juliet, their dog named Romeo, and peace.
Cynthia, being far from a morning person, would often wake to an empty bed and an already well-risen sun, though the smell of coffee floating through the air would eventually entice her to get out of bed. She’d tug a robe snug around her frail body to brace against cold chills and stuff her aching feet into a pair of house slippers. Lydia would often be off somewhere in their house watching TV, trying to figure out her dreaded phone with a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, or reading a book she’d read a hundred times before.
Cynthia would shuffle into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and Lydia would look over her shoulder with a smile and say, “Well, good morning, sleepyhead. Or should I say good afternoon?”
“That really gets funnier every time you say it,” she’d deadpan back.
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t sleep so late, and I wouldn’t have to,” Lydia would respond.
Then, Cynthia would lean into her warmth, head tilted up expectantly for her morning kiss, and Lydia would happily give it to her.
But today, Lydia soon leaned back, a grin highlighting on her face as she released her hand with a final squeeze. “Earlier, I was looking through an old box we stored away when we moved out of that stuffy apartment—”
“Of course you were.” Lydia always accomplished at least fifty things before Cynthia even got the chance to open her eyes for the day.
“—and I found something,” she finished. She reached behind her, and then held up her hidden treasure with glee.
Cynthia’s mouth went dry, and her eyes suddenly felt scratchy.
It was a single fragile, yellowed photo strip, well-loved with crinkled edges, of them kissing in a photobooth in their late teens. The existence of such an item felt so poignant; in a time where they couldn’t openly love each other, they’d been able to find meaning in the stolen moments, only a curtain separating them from the public’s view. And the evidence of that, these images, had endured and survived over the years, just as they had together, in the most fittingly poetic way possible.
Cynthia reached out for it with a shaking hand, rubbing a thumb across the surface as she had so many times before. “I haven’t seen this in forever,” she choked out.
Lydia just smiled at her. “I know.”
Cynthia looked back up into her blue, blue eyes, and let the affection wash over her unabashedly, in her smile lines and flushing sun-spotted skin alike. “Well, we should stick it on the fridge.”
Nodding her agreement, Lydia looked much the same—gorgeous in her upturned lips and the short, gray curls framing her face. She turned to the fridge and carefully considered their options, ultimately reaching out for a heart-shaped lesbian flag magnet in the corner. Perhaps she understood the symbolism of this moment, too—the freedom of being able to do something they couldn’t do back then. “Use this one,” she murmured, tucking it into her palm.
Something that’d fractured in Cynthia’s heart long ago bandaged and healed itself as she positioned the photos front and center, in a gloriously completely unmissable spot. They stood there and admired it, Lydia’s arm around Cynthia’s shoulder, the afternoon sunshine spilling onto Romeo’s sprawled out form, the white noise of chattering people on the television drifting in from the living room, where Juliet was surely sleeping.
Relishing in the coziness and familiarity, Cynthia grabbed out for her other hand, murmuring, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Lydia whispered back, kissing her forehead.
Their bones were tired, but that was only evidence of a life well-lived. A life Cynthia wouldn’t trade for anything. A life Cynthia wished she could relive, with every bump and fear and roadblock, over and over again on an endless loop, if only so that she could end up right here, Lydia by her side, their wrinkled hands entwined.
Lydia was her life. She’d made it all worth fighting for.