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Her laugh is like a wind chime in a summer breeze. It’s high, and brings with it an impossible mirth. She’s twirling in the sand, her summer dress spiralling around her in a flow of diaphanous movement. The sun brings out the brilliant golden sheen of her hair, or maybe it’s the other way around. Idina’s not quite certain, and at this moment she doesn’t quite care. She’s so beautiful, so absolutely fucking beautiful that Idina can barely stop herself from shouting it to the world.
She can’t remember ever being this happy, this content, can’t imagine even the possibility. But she is. Kristin breathes life in her, and her entire body thrums in response.
They’d left the party, their party, some indeterminate time ago. It had been Kristin’s idea of course. And now they were running on the beach with the sun warmly embracing them. The salty breeze of the ocean surf blew their hair haphazardly all over their face, but they didn’t care.
Kristin stops running, letting Idina catch up to her and sweep her off her feet. She’s giggling as Idina carries her bridal style around the beach, spinning them round and round until finally they collapse in a tangle of limbs in the soft sand. Idina finds herself on top of Kristin, and her heart nearly stops at the look of pure love on Kristin’s face. Kristin’s smiling so beatifically, so happily, and it’s all for her. Idina has half a mind to thank God, for she must be the luckiest woman on the planet.
Kristin reaches a hand up to brush a lock of Idina’s hair back, and Idina can feel her heart melt in tender affection. Gently, Idina does the same for Kristin, so slowly brushing the hair from her visage before cradling Kristin’s face in her hands. Idina leans down, placing a soft kiss at Kristin’s lips. She tastes of sweetness, and love, and Idina would gladly spend the rest of her life continuing to kiss her. But alas, they separate for air, both of them slightly breathless. Kristin’s looking at her with absolute adoration, and Idina is only too glad to return it. Idina clasps Kristin’s left hand with her right, bringing their conjoined hands to the peaceful space between them. Idina places a kiss there and feels Kristin do the same. Idina placed another kiss, this time on the ring that lay on Kristin’s fourth finger. It glittered brilliantly still, despite it being her grandmother’s.
“I fucking love you, Miss Menzel Chenoweth.”
“I love you too, Miss Menzel Chenoweth.”
Idina woke from her reverie, desperately trying to hold on to the fleeting images. The subconscious is cruel, to taunt her with those beautiful images only to snatch them away. Idina gingerly got out of bed, feeling her very bones creak in protest. She felt old now. Every passing year seemed to weigh heavier upon her. Absently she wondered how much longer it would be before they would crush her beneath their weight.
Slowly, she made her way to her closet. It was a ritual she knew well by now. The door opened with a gentle creak, and the flicking of the light switch brought with it the whirring of the faithful, bare incandescent lightbulb. The closet hadn’t changed in years. Perhaps nothing had, since then, perhaps she was in an eternal limbo doomed to waste away. The closet still smelled the same. It smelled of her. Or maybe Idina had forgotten what she smelled like. Still, as was her ritual, she grabbed one of the smaller coats and brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. Ever so gently, she smoothed the fabric down and put the coat back in its place. After, she reached up and grabbed an old shoebox. She was barely tall enough to reach it, but she could. It had always brought her infinite joy that she was the only one who could reach it.
She reverently flicked off the lightbulb and ran her hand one last time over the coats and jackets. She closed the closet door and made her way back to bed. There weren’t any lights on, but she didn’t need any, not really. She pushed back the covers, clearing out a space on the overlarge bed. She placed the box in front of her, staring at the faded colour. Solemnly, she opened the lid. Inside, there were photographs. Hundreds upon hundreds of photographs. Photographs of her. Of them.
They’re black and white, all of them. She’d been really into photography then. She still had the camera somewhere, the piece of machinery likely gathering dust in its case. Most of them are candids, taken when she wasn’t looking.
Carefully, Idina takes the first one out, treating the photo like a fragile glass doll. This one is of her, a script in her hand. She’s wearing her reading glasses, and she’d been so focused that she hadn’t noticed the click of the camera. This was in their very first months knowing each other. She’d always been a hard worker, and Idina had always admired her dedication to her craft. She was so singular, so unbelievably flawless, that Idina had been jealous. How silly it looked now.
Idina gently placed that photo face down on the bed. She picked up the next one on the stack. She’s laughing in this one, her head thrown back exposing the gracious column of her throat. This was still in rehearsal. They hadn’t been together yet, but Idina remembered looking at her with such fondness, she remembered feeling her heart skip like the love-struck idiot she was. She even remembered that Kristin had been laughing at a filthy joke Norbert had told.
This photo joined the first on her bed. The next was of Kristin smiling at the camera when she realized. It was a smile that Idina liked to think was reserved just for her, this gentle, almost shy quirking of the lips. They had been two idiots in love then. Teasing quips had turned to flirting touches, which had culminated in warm kisses against a rough brick wall.
The kisses had opened a door, as evidenced by the next photo which had been taken two weeks later. Kristin was lying on her side facing away, completely naked save for a sheet draped over her bottom. Her hair was brushed to the side, exposing her slender neck. This had been their third night together. Idina had gotten out of bed to grab a glass of water, but had come back to find her fast asleep looking like a celestial being descended from the heavens. Idina traced her finger along the photo, trying to recall the feeling of Kristin’s satin smooth skin beneath her fingertips.
The next photo was taken several weeks after the previous. In this one, she was completely naked, her flawless golden skin on full display. She had her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. Her head rested sideways on her knees, hair cascading over the side. She was smiling at the camera, at Idina, conveying the incredible depth of her love with a single curve of her lips. This was the one that always broke Idina. She felt a tear roll down her cheek, then another.
There were countless other photos that Idina could never get through. Photos of them travelling, photos of their engagement party, photos of their wedding. They diminished, near the end. She’d gotten sick. The sickness had stolen her away from Idina, stolen their days together. Yet still, even when her voice had gotten papery thin, and her hair had lost her lustre, she’d smiled. Somehow she’d believed that it would end well. Idina wanted to believe that she was right, somehow.
With tears on her cheeks, Idina carefully placed the photos back into the old shoebox. She walked to the closet and flicked on the lightbulb once more, placing the shoebox in the top compartment. She placed a kiss on one of the smaller jackets, taking care not to stain it with her tears. She turned off the lights and closed the door, before walking back to her bedside table. On top of it, there lay an old fashioned whiskey glass, along with a fifty year old bottle half full of amber liquid. With steady hands, Idina filled the glass to half full and brought it to her lips.
Perhaps it would end well somehow, but not in this life.