Delphine freckles like crazy in the summer, all along her arms and legs and the skin of her back, somehow; dusted across her shoulders Cosima thinks the freckles look like pollen, maybe, or dirt (not that that’s a bad thing – she can’t quite put it into words, not really, how dirt is soil and soil makes flowers grow). On Delphine’s back the freckles look like stars.
At night they lie intertwined together and Cosima traces lines between the freckles on Delphine’s back, makes up silly stories that are one part born from summers at camp and are one part born from long, lonely nights in the library with nothing to do but research astronomy and are one part born from her love of Delphine.
Delphine, Delphine, Delphine; Cosima can feel how much she loves this woman spilling from the back of her throat. She has to hurry to shape it with her tongue and teeth into coherency – into something besides Delphine’s name murmured over and over into the skin of her shoulders, the skin of her back. Delphine. At night the only sounds are the two of them breathing and Cosima’s voice telling half-formed stories, beautiful in their fragility, woven together from swan’s feathers and drops of dew. Once upon a time there was a hero. Once upon a time there were two people in love. Once upon a time there was someone who loved someone else so much they wove the stars together into the shape of them, can you believe it?
Yes, Delphine says, I can believe it. At some point she’s rolled over and turned to look at Cosima; Cosima can see entire galaxies blooming in her pupils, pinpoints of light in the dark.
Cosima leans forward and kisses her. Their mouths fit together perfectly.