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You are not sure you had ever been happy before you met Florence Vassy, you think as she takes you by the hand and spins you around the kitchen, the soft crackle of the radio filling the air as you dance completely out of time with the music. She laughs softly, and you lean in to kiss her nose, before she bats you away.
‘We’re dancing Tolya, don’t disrupt the dancing.’ Anything for her, you think as she twirls you under her arm, that nightgown of hers you have borrowed floating around you softly. You almost make to smooth it down, hoping it’s not exposing anything, but then you remember it is just the two of you, and the fifth floor is high enough that no-one could be watching. If anyone could see you, you would have not put the nightgown on in the first place, but when it is just her, you can relax.
‘Sorry I didn’t realise this was so serious,’ you say, twirling her as she just has done you. She is tall, but you are a little taller; you dance well together. Well, if you didn’t have two left feet. It’s not like Florence is any better though, as she almost sends the pair of you careening into the sink. At this point, you give up, collapsing into giggles, and following her lead as she pulls you down to sit cross-legged on the floor.
Now that the dancing is over, you lean in and press kisses into her cheeks. From this close you can see her freckles, which are only a little darker than her warm brown skin, and you try and kiss all of them individually. She kisses you back, and then starts laughing even harder when she pulls away.
‘What is it?’ you ask, raising a hand to where her lips were pressed against your cheek, and finding your finger tinted red.
‘You’re covered in lipstick lovebug. You look so silly,’ she pauses for a moment, thinking about something or other, and then it comes to her. ‘Wait we should put lipstick on you too.’ She cups your face with her hand, swiping a thumb over the lipstick mark, surely smearing it even further. ‘That one would be far too dark for you ghostbug, but I’m sure we can find something a little pinker, like those flowers.’ She gestures to the floral print of your nightgown. It had always been your favourite of hers; you think she had known this when she picked it out for you.
‘Give me just a second,’ she says, pushing herself to her feet, and then dashing through to the bathroom. You know it will take her far more than a second, with that extensive makeup collection of hers. At first you had tried to buy your own things, but when it took you half an hour to find your bottle of shower gel amongst her vast array of products with names you aren’t sure you have ever learned the English for, you had decided that smelling like cherry blossoms wasn’t such a bad fate after all.
The song playing on the radio stops, and it switches over to the news. You reach up to turn it off. For a while, they had talked about your defection, but you think at long last that is out of the regular cycle of things. You do not want to think about any of that, when you’re here with Florence. You don’t even want to think about chess. You want to live in this moment, and pretend the happiness of it can stretch out forever. What happens in a year’s time is not relevant. Here, you are with Florence, and for the first time in a long time, life feels like it’s worth living again.
At last, Florence bursts back into the kitchen, and you notice that she has touched up her own makeup. She is carrying so much that it is almost spilling out of her arms, lipstick and blush and nailpolish and even things for your hair.
‘Flo, you said lipstick…’ you say warily as she starts sorting it out. You don’t think you could ever get mad at her, not really. Sometimes she doesn’t remember things, and you get a little frustrated at having to tell her important things over and over, but really you just wish she wouldn’t have to relive finding out about the painful stuff again and again. You can be patient, you think, she’s so important to you that you’d do anything for her.
You had turned up outside her hotel room—maybe about a month ago now, but it feels like lifetimes—having not slept in days, stumbling through the door barely able to keep yourself upright with the way your body had shaken, as you had told her that you wanted to defect. Together you’d made some phone calls, and then she’d invited you into the oversized hotel room bathtub, where she had held your face in her hands and washed your hair until it was soft and fluffy. She had noticed the crescent shaped scars up your arms, that you had always made a conscious effort to hide from everyone, and she hadn’t been upset about it. She had held you close and called you lovebug, and you had started to think that maybe this would be the closest you could come to romance. After all of that, you are more than happy to be as patient as she needs. She has done the same for you.
‘Well, I got a few different shades for you, but then I thought this little clip would look so pretty in your hair. See, it’s got a star on it.’
With anyone else you would roll your eyes, but this is Florence, so you just turn around to give her better access to your hair. ‘Okay, do what you will with me darling.’
She tries a few times to clip your hair back—’Why is your hair so slippery, Tolya?’—but then she lets out a little sound of joy.
‘Nice?’ you ask her, knowing already exactly what her response will be.
‘Beautiful. A beautiful star for my beautiful spacebug.’ Spacebug , that’s a new one you think. Another thing that endears you to her. She says all these things, with such seemingly genuine earnestness, that you have to love it. On anyone else, you think, it might be a little much, overexaggerated. With Florence though, it’s so real that she pulls it out in you too, a side of yourself that you did not know was even possible.
‘Thank you Flobug,’ you say, reaching up a hand to brush a few strands of hair out of your face. ‘I’m sure it’s very pretty.’
In the end, the lipstick comes to the bedroom with you. You sit on top of the purple bed covers as she makes you part your lips a little, and then sits very close with an expression of utmost concentration on her face, as though she is determined to get it perfect. For a minute, as she pulls back to admire her work, you feel a small rush of doubt about it all. You know that this is so far from what you are meant to be doing. It isn’t proper, it isn’t right . Maybe you should just wipe this off your face now, strip the nightgown and pull the clip out of your hair. But then you remember that you have already defected. You have already committed the greatest sin of them all, so really, can any of this be so bad?
‘What are you thinking about lovebug?’ Florence asks you as she pulls out a small mirror, holding it up so you can see the lipstick she has put on you. You had expected it to be a little more aggressively pink, but actually it doesn’t look as bright against your pale skin as you had feared it might. It’s more of a muted shade; it suits you perfectly.
‘Well it’s nice lipstick…’ you say. You know that your tone can come off as rather flat, but you hope she realises how happy you are with it as your hands twitch a little by your sides in that way that you are trying to stop suppressing so much now that you know Florence doesn’t mind seeing it. ‘It would be a shame if we were to mess it all up.’
She looks at you for a moment with that devious glint in her eye, and then lunges, pushing you down against the bed, and plastering you in lipstick-coated kisses all over your face. You try and get in a few of your own in response, as she moves down to your neck. You want to tell her that it’s going to stain the sheets, but it doesn’t seem like she cares about that, so you decide not to ruin the moment. Instead, you just cover her with your own lipstick, both of you working to equal measure to ensure that your faces are thoroughly pink.
The sensation of it makes your skin crawl a little, but it’s hard to focus on that as Florence presses kisses on every inch of bare skin, even to your arms which makes you flinch a little.
‘Sorry, sorry should I not have touched that lovebug?’ Florence looks at you, her brown eyes wide and you worry all over again. Sometimes she thinks that you are going to get mad at her for saying something wrong. You tell her all the time that she can say what she wants, that it’s okay, you could never hate her. It’s another one of those things you don’t think will ever quite stick in her struggling memory.
You don’t know who made her think you would get angry, but it upsets you to consider that Florence sees you as capable of that. You don’t say this though, you just reassure her that it’s okay, and let her run her fingers over your arms until she feels quite sure that it’s not upsetting you. Maybe things will never be smooth and perfect, but this is still the best thing you’ve ever had. You will hold her hand as she figures it out.
Once again, you sit with Florence in the bath, as you wash each other clean of lipstick marks. The bathtub in her London apartment is considerably smaller than that of the hotel room in Merano, and both of you are rather tall. The result is the pair of you sitting with your knees pulled up, crashing into each other, limbs spilling out everywhere. Somehow, you don’t mind it.
You rub a wet flannel over her face, and watch as her eyes flutter closed at the touch while you wipe the lipstick marks away. You don’t think you have ever seen anyone half as beautiful for her; you are a very lucky man.
When she moves to do the same for you, you let your mind drift a little, losing yourself in the gentle motions of the cloth against your cheeks. It doesn’t matter if this won’t last, you realise. It matters that it existed. Right now, you do not know how you would function without Florence Vassy, but you are aware that this will not last forever. Still, you hope you can carry this feeling of warmth forwards, and alongside her for as long as the universe will allow you to do so.
‘Can I wash your hair again spacebug?’ she asks, as she removes the little star clip, and you look closer to see that there is a flower on there as well, something small and purple in design.
‘Sure Flobug.’ You don’t know why she loves your hair so much, you think hers is far more beautiful, in its full and bouncy curls, but if it makes her happy you won’t question it. As she faffs around with all her shampoos and hair treatments on the shelf, you take the opportunity to observe her. She is beautiful and radiant in this moment as she turns back towards you, reaching out a hand to cup your chin.
‘I love you lovebug,’ she says with a grin that crosses her entire face.
You have never been one for exaggerated expressions, but you can feel the corners of your mouth mirroring her smile as you hear those words. ‘Love you too Flobug,’ you tell her. This might be some fantasy that won’t last, two people that never should have been brought together. You don’t care, for that doesn’t mean it matters any less in the moment.