#i like your url...

When Delphine comes home, Cosima is lain out on the couch, head tilted over the arm rest with her legs kicked over the back; when Delphine settles down next to her, Cosima carefully lifts her legs over Delphine’s head and drops them on her lap.

"Pot?" Cosima offers, flicking the last of her joint into the ashtray, "I can make another."

"No thank you," Delphine says, pushing the tray farther back onto the table with her foot, "I don’t know that you should be smoking while you are sick."

Cosima nods, says nothing for a moment.

"Hmmph," Cosima says, catching Delphine’s attention before, “I’m wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it.” 

Delphine is good at speaking English. She knows she is. And yet, she has never met anyone as challenging as Cosima. If the constant slang and abbreviations weren’t bad enough, Delphine thinks, she has to get poetic.

"What?" she asks, not really even attempting to decipher the meaning behind Cosima’s words.

"Wuthering Heights," Cosima explains, “It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.”

"That one I understood," Delphine says, "I think."

She pokes Cosima lightly in the tummy, and the legs stretched out across her thighs jerk away, replaced by cold toes, Cosima now blocked from view by her knees.

Cosima laughs, a short sound that comes out oddly due to her supine position and the angle of her head.

"Maybe you should speak English and not Emily Brontë," Delphine requests, "before I start speaking French on you."