Ava coming home from the bar at the end of an afternoon shift, the village unusually quiet around her. Streets empty, the houses hunkered down, squatting almost, as rain-promising clouds roll in from the north, bellies low, scraping the bottom of the valley.
A first drop of rain hits her shoulder. Cold, it sends chills down her spine. Ava is dressed for earlier heat. Tank top. Shorts. Second hand shoes that feel one step away from coming apart.
Hunching her shoulders, body curling around her prize. The croissants inside the paper bag are leftovers from the bakery - Ava got them half-price. The ones Beatrice loves, that she rarely allows them to get. They’re on a budget. They need to save what they earn.
Ava thinks in part it’s just excuses. Suspects that a big part of Bea, who is so efficient in taking care of her, doesn’t know how to be nice to herself.
The stairs leading up to the apartment. Old and creaky, but after weeks of Beatrice teaching Ava how to move she doesn’t make a sound. Ava sneaking in, pausing as Beatrice’s voice drifts to her from their shared bedroom.
“I don’t know how to protect her.” Bea’s tone is forcibly flat, tension crystallised, carefully trapped behind each word. “What I’m feeling for her-” Bea pausing. Ava unable breathe. “Yes Mother. I understand.”
Heavy silence settling in. The conversation clearly ended. Then, another muted sound and Ava’s stomach dropping at the understanding of what it is.
Beatrice is crying.
Ava wanting to be angry at Mother Superion for making Bea cry, angrier that she can’t. It’s because of her Beatrice is crying, and lashing out would mean letting her know that she heard. Letting her know that she, too, feels-
Stomping into the kitchen, she makes enough noise that Beatrice emerges from the bedroom in a hurry, a knife held in her hand. Her eyes, red and a touch puffy the only sign of her emotional distress.
“I brought snacks!” Ava reveals the croissants with a flourish. Puts on a smile she does not really feel. Beatrice opens her mouth, eyebrows drawn, and Ava hurries to add that she got the croissants on sale. They could have them for breakfast in the morning, or heat them up now. In the small toaster oven the last tenant left, the way Bea taught her to do so that the pastry doesn’t go all floppy and wet.
Bea has taught her so many things.
The can do whatever she likes.
“I think we could have them now.” Bea’s smile, a little strained but there. Like glimpses of sunlight through quilted clouds after the rain. “I’ll brew us some tea.”
Things clicking in a different way. How they move around inside their tiny kitchen without jostling. Ava grabbing the plates stored in the cupboards over Bea’s head. Beatrice reaching behind her for their stash of tea. There’s little left, Ava notes, her mind stumbling over the smallest of details so that she doesn’t have to think of what she heard.
Bea has feelings for her.
Bea likes her. Likes her back, likes her back, likes her back.
And later that night the bed being too small to contain their tired bodies and their shared secret. Ava making sense of the nightmares that wake Beatrice up. Of the nights when Bea doesn’t come to bed at all, nights in which she sits by the window, keeps watch until dawn.
Afraid to fall asleep and wake up tangled, warm back against her front. The stretch of space between them a chasm. An intractable ocean. Their bodies obeying other laws - like hydrogen and oxygen the two of them a whole that can’t be decomposed.
Beatrice stammering apologies in the light of morning. Ava waving them away. I know. She says by looks and touch alone. I feel it too.
