Work Text:
A,
You are my religion, you are my God. Your skin is my Bible—my doctrine that I religiously read from cover to cover. Memorizing each word from all its verses. Our bed is my altar, a place where I show my sweet devotion to you. I tried to make others understand you, but they only elucidate that I was led by my blind faith to you. Like a foolish man, I'd say, "Even if you're a false God, I'd still worship you."
But how could you be fallacious? For when I utter your name like a reverent prayer, you answer at once—you grant my appeal using those luscious vermillion lips. Like some deity waiting for a plebeian's plea.
I know heaven is true, for I go there when I'm touched by you, and I know for sure that hell is true, for I arrive there when I'm not with you.
So now tell me, my dear Andrea, how could I not preach my religion if my religion is you?
I will preach you but keep the revelations I have found to myself—like a prophet who keeps their covenant with their God.
- M
Andy read those words again for what appeared to be a dozen times since she opened the elegant card that came with the bouquet of red carnations. "Red carnation," she mumbled.
She had once written a fluff piece about flowers and what they convey from the time when she still worked at that newspaper five years ago before she decided to do freelance work. So, if she remembers correctly, red carnations meant deep love and affection.
"Oh damn, this woman can be romantic if she wants to," she muttered to no one but herself.
"And she knows her way with words."
Here she stands in her not-so-small apartment anymore, in the middle of her living room, holding the flowers in her left hand and the card in her right, delivered at exactly 9:30 on a Saturday morning.
She knows what pushed the woman to send her flowers and write this "you are my religion" card. There have been some differences between the two about their relationship. Miranda now wants to stop their clandestine meetings and make it "not very clandestine" anymore. There might have been some serious conversation about it last night at the editor's townhouse.
For Andrea, the only issue is how the press would react if they found out that the very enigmatic Editor-in-chief of the famous Runway magazine, a three-time divorcee, has a relationship with someone who's not only a woman but also 20 years her junior. It's not that she doesn't want others to know or she's ashamed; she just doesn't want them to write some ludicrous things that will put to shame the field of journalism pertaining to hers and Miranda's relationship.
"I'm tired of this silly hiding, and I don't want it anymore," the white-haired vixen said.
"What about the press, Miranda?" Andrea asked, her voice smeared with worry.
"I don't care."
"Where is this coming from?" The younger woman asked once again.
"Nowhere in particular."
"Liar," the doe-eyed woman teased.
"Me, a liar? Did you smack your head somewhere, darling? Mhhm?" Miranda said with feigned irritation.
"I did not," Andrea chuckled. "I'm just worried about how those 'little vultures' would write about you."
"I know, and I do appreciate your concern, Andrea. But it has been a year since we started—" Miranda halted because of the brunette grinning.
"We started what, Miranda?" Andrea knows how much disdain the older woman has in using that one simple word.
Miranda glared. "Since we started 'dating,'" she said as she air-quoted the word 'dating' as if she's only spitting. "I want to stop this clandestine affair, Andrea."
"You are not my dirty little secret," she continued.
"Oh, so this is not about a certain situation in a certain journalism awarding?" She teased more and now she can see the blotch of red skin on the older woman's cheeks.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied with feigned disinterest.
She shook her head as if trying to stop the flashbacks of last night's occurrences.
"Oh, you absolutely know, my dear," she whispered to herself.
It was last Saturday, where Miranda was invited to a journalism award event as a guest of honor and speaker, the very same one that Andrea received an award for. She was awarded the American Mosaic Journalism Prize for her work covering issues such as fatherhood from the perspective of Indigenous men and a movement by homeless Black mothers to reclaim a vacant house they were evicted from in West Oakland, California.
After the awarding, a man who is famous in the publication extended his congratulations. They had a small talk until the man asked if she were available for dinner. As if she was Spider-Man with his spider sense, she felt a set of eyes looking at her and her talking companion. She turned around to see a pair of blue eyes shooting daggers at the man in front of her.
She placed the bouquet with the card on the living room's coffee table. Then she went to her bedroom to find her phone lounging on the bedside table.
She dialed the number she knew by heart, the very same number that gave her PTSD every time her special tone for the number rang during her tenure as a second assistant.
"Hello," came a reply from the other end.
"Did I disturb you from anything?" She said, the phone to her ear while looking out of her bedroom's window.
"No," Miranda paused. "Have you received it?"
"Yes. They're beautiful, Miranda. Thank you."
"I'm glad you liked it."
"So red carnations, huh?" Andrea said with a hint of teasing.
"What about them, Andrea?" The other woman said, her lips making a line from trying to stop herself from smiling.
"I love you too, Miranda," she said with such sincerity that warmth swelled in the other woman's heart. "And okay," she continued.
"Okay, what?"
"Okay," Andrea repeated.
"Oh."
"Preach your religion," she said without giving Miranda the chance to reply as she ended the call.