#sevika.

𑁍 your phone strums you awake with the soft, slow harmony of sax and piano. it's perched on the sill of the reading nook that feels a mountainous amount of steps away. it's purposeful because it forces you to move and shut it off instead of simply rolling over and slapping the snooze button. you let the song play twice, a third time until you feel the familiar stir of the woman lying against you.

𑁍 you tilt your head down, stroking a hand down her spine as she blinks her eyes open slowly and surely. sevika glances up at you, her grey eyes still glazed over with sleep. you don't say anything. the two of you never speak this early. it's a silent agreement.

𑁍 she likes to make the bed. you watch from your place in the nook as she putters around, her fingers lingering on the slight indents where your body had been resting. she presses down on your pillow, her nose twitching slightly as she tries to be covert about breathing in what you've left on it. you hide a smile. it probably smells like guava, something ozonic and sweet.

𑁍 you watch as she tucks in the sheets with a quiet strength that makes your stomach warm. you turn to look out the window, the room now silent except for the sounds of her slow shuffles and intermittent yawns. the light is refracting off of the window, and it makes you glow. she stops to look.

𑁍 you wanted to live by the ocean, so the two of you live by the ocean. you wanted her to be kinder to herself, so now she makes the bed.

𑁍 shower? you ask. you sign it, because you're taking a class in town to pass the time. her brow furrows as she tries to translate, and then her face cracks into a smile as she understands. yes, she signs back carefully, and you smile because she's always making the effort.

𑁍 showers are your favorite part of the routine. the shower you have in this place is large and echoes whenever you speak. but you usually don't. you step onto the cool tile, turning as sevika comes in behind you so that you can assist her in removing her prosthetic. the two of you crowd underneath the head, the water pressure perfect and the water itself crystal clear.

𑁍 she soaps you first, despite you wanting it to go the other way around. she drags her fingers across your wet belly, down your thighs. it's not sexual in nature, just devastatingly intimate. you know she does this because she didn't think she would have this sort of softness post-childhood. you lean back, hair flattening against her scarred shoulder, and close your eyes.

𑁍 you let her hands continue traveling, covering you in synthetic violet foam along the way. she cups the soft, wet, fatty tissue of your breasts, and the grip is almost curious. you reach up and make it firmer, tell her that she's allowed to have this. she thumbs over your nipples, then rises to your neck—stops before making it to your lips. she knows that you have a special face wash for that.

𑁍 you switch. her turn now. it's the same process of touching, of asserting love. you are making her hair thick with shampoo, some sustainable cucumber shampoo bar that she thought was ridiculously small for the price. so much complaining, but she loved using it. you bought her a pack of twenty-four for her birthday and laughed at the childish awe in her eyes. but honey, you said, you liked it. of course i was going to get you more. she cried.

𑁍 then comes the best part: the sitting. you sit on the little inner bench of the shower, the stone cold and jarring against the water-warmed skin of your thighs. the two of you let your legs dangle off, but your upper bodies are twisted to face one another. both of you look slightly drowned, the water having weighed your hair down and practically plastered hers to her cheeks. she reaches out, presses on your stomach, and watches it rise.

𑁍 good morning, you say. good morning, she rasps and she smiles so widely that you can see her gap and soft gums.

𑁍 you get out of the shower.

𑁍 from there, you kind of move around each other. she quietly asks you to help her put her arm back in, and you smile because she's making progress by asking for help. you remember the arguments before, over stupid little things like how she would get mad when you would wake up earlier than her because she hated the idea of you doing “work” (only chores, really) on your own.

𑁍 you look at the white board hanging by the fridge and see that today's designated breakfast is vegan breakfast bowls comprised of many things, including pickled plums and carrots. she doesn't get the vegan thing, except for the exemption of beef. cows are sacred in her culture, though their consumption varies by region and personal preference. her family abstained; her parents were practicing hindus, and some of it stayed with her.

𑁍 you're in a big sage green tee with the words “when was the last time you were yourself?” written in all caps. your underwear beneath it is baby pink and sheer. you like the way they make you feel. you're wearing perfume that sevika gifted you two birthdays ago.

𑁍 it was your mother's favorite, and it smells like baby powder with a hint of iris. it reminded you of makeup powder and spinning backstage with the dancers at the club because you were a child and didn't understand you were supposed to be ashamed of her yet. you never were ashamed as you grew older, it pissed people off.

𑁍 but sevi liked that about you. so she bought you the perfume off of some shit retailer online and you cried so hard she offered to return it. you kissed her because you couldn't speak, but she heard you anyway.

𑁍 you pull out the cast iron skillet. it's heavy, a gift from her father that sits like a ghost in your shared kitchen. he was an angry man, you think. she doesn’t talk about him, and you don’t push. but she kept it, told you to use it. 

𑁍 the vegan breakfast bowls are more of a suggestion than a strict plan. you know sevika will modify it, will add something that makes it feel better to her. probably something sweeter, like candied orange peel.

𑁍 she leans against the counter, phone in hand. her thumb moves quickly, scrolling. you're bent over a copy of this month’s zaunite. you get it shipped in, despite the price. the magazine is thick with personal essays, and you have always loved reading about someone else’s life. you fold down a page so you can remember to show it to sevika later. she'll like it. the morning light catches the page’s glossy bend.

𑁍 baby, look, sevika says, turning her phone towards you. it's a ridiculous meme about workplace dynamics. you can see her toothy smile before you even look up. it’s not even that funny, but she knows you'll humor her, knows you love these small moments of her selective happiness. so you smile, then laugh and preen inwardly at the way she studies your face as if to mentally take a photo of your face creased with joy.

𑁍 you’re so old sometimes, sevi, you murmur and she laughs. and you’re practically brand new, she shoots back. you shrug. i kind of like that about us. 

𑁍 the pickled plums sizzle slightly in the pan. you've learned her cooking, learned that she seasons by feeling, by memory, not by measurements. a pinch of this. a handful of that. her prosthetic moves with surprising grace, tapping the side of the skillet to redistribute the heat.

𑁍 breakfast is never just food. it's a conversation. it's an agreement to the continuation of your way of life. it's in the way she slides the plate in front of you before sitting down. it's the way she ensures you take the first bite. you catch her watching you. something sits differently in the air. a specific kind of energy. contained, but vibrating underneath.

𑁍 you put on a playlist. soft piano starts filtering through the speakers. it's the danielle ponder cover of creep. radiohead, but transformed. she holds out her hand. you take it. 

𑁍 the kitchen becomes a ballroom. her hands are careful, precise. your bodies move slow, not quite dancing, more like swaying. she’s gaining rhythm, because you constantly tease her about how she can’t dance for shit. you lean into her chest, hum the melody to yourself as the two of you circle around and around.

𑁍 after, she pulls a small wrapped package from a drawer she'd strategically avoided all morning. simple brown paper because you love it more than regular, waxy wrapping paper. it feels vintage. a red string is tied carefully around it, swept into a perfect bow along the front. the effort is clear, and you feel your throat tighten.

𑁍 today is your birthday. on the front of the gift, it says to: baby in blocky handwriting with an uneven heart drawn next to it, and you laugh wetly because it's cute but also makes you feel like you’re falling apart.

𑁍 you don't even look at the gift. you look at her. "i love it," you say. and you know she understands. 

© hcneymooners.