From my writing on Aug. 20 (day 4):
Rachel grinned. “Come here, you goof. Wash your hands.”
Julia got up and washed her hands, her skin tingling in anticipation. This was one of her favourite things, and always reminded her of the very first time they cooked together. It had been a lesson in stuffing a turkey that day.
Rachel remembered as well, and gently tugged until Julia was standing in front of her. Her arms encircling her from behind, her warmth tangible, her scent bewitching as ever, Rachel carefully took Julia’s hands in her own, and then plunged them both into the ingredients. “You always mix by hand, you know,” Rachel said, the words beloved and familiar and so reminiscent of that long ago day.
Then she changed it up, saying, “You know how they all say the extra ingredient is love? Bollocks. It’s the hands.”
Her hands wrist-deep in the pan, turning the ingredients over and over, feeling the long smoothness of Rachel’s fingers entwined with her own, Julia turned to look at Rachel, ostensibly to tell her lover that the word “bollocks” could only be used by the British, and that she was in copyright violation since she was not British, but found that Rachel was kissing her instead.
It didn’t matter how many hundreds of time Rachel had ever kissed her before, imprinting herself on Julia’s skin, her scent, her soul, a tattoo over her very heart; every time was a beloved recitation of the first time. That first kiss had also been in a kitchen, surrounded with the fragrance of Rachel’s cooking, and their lips had been coated with hot cocoa and cream.
Nine years later and Julia was still entirely in love.
Rachel completely surrounded her, their fingers woven together so delightfully in the pot of yogurt and spices, Rachel’s arms about her in this embrace, Rachel’s lips kissing her in a slow and languorous fashion. With her tongue she traced the swell of Julia’s lower lip before pressing deeper with gentle insistence; Julia could feel all her nerves igniting, one by one, each racing downward, inward, spiralling top the core of her, a hotter, wetter place.
Julia let herself go, relaxing in the sensation, giving Rachel the opportunity to see what sort of sounds Julia could make by pressing here, by stroking there, exploring her as if it were the first journey and not one of thousands.
She could have wept for the glory of it.
To feel hot, to feel young, to feel desired and wanted and needed. Rachel’s fingers pressing into her palms, her lips and teeth fastening lightly on Julia’s lips before their tongues danced in greeting. Julia tilted her chin, recapturing Rachel’s lips now, kissing her fiercely, drawing Rachel deeper inside, feeling that heat, that wet, begin to blaze outwards from her core until it must spill from her fingertips. Every part of her felt connected to her lover; Rachel’s breasts hard against her back, Rachel’s legs pushing harder, pinning her to the counter.
Oh, they could kiss like this for hours, pressing deep, giving way, retreating and then hungry and then wickedly insistent for more. Stolen, heated breaths, the soft rustle of clothing, the far ticking of the clock and the rest of the world non-existent, in a world where twilight and impending death simply did not exist.
Turned thus in Rachel’s embrace, Julia became aware that Rachel’s eyes were open, and looking at her. Her own eyes fluttered open and were struck by the universe of warm brown earth in Rachel’s eyes, a chocolate deep and sensuous, where the most precious and miraculous heat was written; a wanting, an undeniable and volanic urge.
And more.
The connection, an unseen chain of immense strength, baptized in seawater and anchored in love. The gift of making love to each other over the years had only strengthened their bond, so that in these times of doubt and fear, when twilight was a menace and dawn the only hope, Julia could look at Rachel and know she was alive.
It was Rachel who was revenant.
