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Then, when our dying bodies have been transformed into bodies that will never die, this Scripture will be fulfilled: "Death is swallowed up in victory."
— 1 Corinthians 15:54
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready to stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss
— Romeo and Juliet, ACT 1 SCENE 5
I should have worshiped her sooner
— Take Me To Church, Hozier
For as long as Barbara Howard can remember, she's always used the gift of her voice to praise the Lord.
It started when she was just shy of four years-old, a curious little thing who would climb on her father's knees in the church pews. This was the only way she could get a better view of her mother and grandmother singing in the choir.
Barbara desperately wanted to stand up there, between them, and sing the songs she would sing with them in the kitchen. Every Sunday, she tried to make her way down the aisle and every Sunday, without fail, her father would pick her up before she made it to the end of the row.
Despite not knowing all the words, she would sing along with great enthusiasm, exerting her small voice and waving her arms as wide and fast as she could to catch her mother's attention. It didn't matter then that her voice was drowned out by the congregation singing and clapping along in unison.
Barbara was confident that both her mother and God could hear her sing over everyone else.
As she became older, as the words grew in meaning and her voice grew stronger, she sang alongside her mother and grandmother in the choir.
Barbara took this opportunity seriously. She would keep her score sheets organized in a binder, her part dutifully highlighted. Barbara tended to her voice with the same care and reverence she tended to her choir robes.
(She always made sure her attire remained spotless, each crease carefully ironed out. She would comb through it with an eagle eye, running her hand over the fabric to feel if any threads was sticking out, bringing it to her grandmother to mend if she found a hole.)
Barbara never spoke a word louder than necessary. From a young age, she knew how to command a room, how to make herself heard with a simple tone shift — a gift she still uses to this day when she needs a classroom full of kindergartner to be quiet — and when singing, she always made sure to use her diaphragm so as not to strain her vocal cords.
Growing up meant finding her place in the world. Barbara had never been shy or afraid to try new experiences. For that reason, figuring herself out came easy to her. The realization that who she is would never be fully accepted by those she grew up looking up to the most was brutal.
Barbara understood the only place she belonged in church was where her voice was lost in a sea of others.
Heard but never distinguishable.
Part of a whole but never set apart.
This truth had never been clearer than in adulthood. She rejoined the church after years of quiet and private prayers between diaper changes, temper tantrums — some of which were her husband's as they went through the difficulties of adjusting to parenthood — and the overwhelm of working late hours while nursing fussy infants, one after the other.
In those days, her prayers mostly asked for strength and courage to weather the storm and find her footing amidst the rubble of a life she'd outgrown without realizing. She loved being a wife and a mother but she felt like she'd lost herself somewhere along the way. Or rather, it felt like she'd sacrificed a part of herself that she had never quite got the chance to let flourish.
It felt unfair.
Things never quite made sense. They never quite worked out the way she'd desperately wanted them to, not until she found solace in the gospel of Mary Mary.
She would had never imagined turning on the radio to drown out the whines and screams of her daughters — even the joyful ones; she felt enormous guilt about that but there is only so much children noises one can handle before it becomes too much to deal with — would bring her back into the pews of her childhood.
Barbara prayed going back to church would fix everything, make everything easier. If she could repair her relationship with Him then she could repair the one with herself. Make amends to the parts of herself she had to sacrifice just so she could be who she was expected to be.
She wanted to be for her daughters what her mother and grandmother had been for her. A shepherd, a guiding hand.
She joined the choir. There she drowned her doubts and hid the cracks in her faith. Bandaged them with psalms and carefully chosen lyrics.
But she'd outgrown this life too.
She'd become accustomed to the freedom of casual sins. Partaking in libations until she'd forgotten her own name; dancing to the lyrics of foul mouthed singers, who equate worship to sex and sex to the divine, until her feet hurt; making love to her husband as she fantasizes about the voluptuous curves of a woman she'd flirted with while he watched from afar. The anticipation fueling his curiosity for this animal Barbara became, hungry and untameable, until they were both spent in their marital bed.
Barbara had always known she was different from what the church demanded her to be but she was similar enough that she could hide in plain sight. She could easily offer the part of herself that answers to their expectations without ever rousing suspicion.
Only Gerald knew the parts of her that she kept hidden. He knew every sharp edge, every sinew, every soft spots and he never turned her away. His love seemed to grow the more she exposed these delicate parts to him, an offering to the altar of his love. A sacrifice Barbara was willing to make if it meant salvation would be granted whether at his hands or His.
She never kept those parts of herself hidden out of shame, Barbara's pride extends to who she knows herself to be, but rather out of guilt. The guilt of lying to the congregation she was sure would turn her away if they knew who she truly was weighed heavily on her mind. The guilt of not giving herself the time and chance to explore what she still hungers for, weighed heavier.
The women of the choir never let her forget that she doesn't belong.
They make pointed remarks, speak them as though they were offering advice when they're only offering damnation. They sneer at her confidence. They never pass up a chance to remind her that her view of the world does not mesh with theirs.
They reject her because she refuses to reject others. Because Barbara believes in the words of the Bible more than she does the bigotry of the church.
Barbara used to be more involved in the life of her church but years of pettiness and side glances have soured her enthusiasm. As long as Barbara keeps her place in the choir, as long as she can sing then she doesn't mind the jabs and the murmurs.
She belongs in the choir even if they make it difficult for her to be heard.
Ava, of all people, had shown her that. The principal had reminded her of the reason why singing in the choir had meant so much to her.
Heard but never distinguishable.
Part of a whole but never set apart.
This is what Barbara had striven for her entire life in the church. She'd made herself small, shaped herself into something innocuous, closed her mouth so they wouldn't see the sharpness of her teeth.
And still, they judge her for the way she chooses to exalt. They judge her acquaintances, her friends, deem them too colorful.
(Barbara knows exactly what they mean. She is familiar with the coded language of women who think themselves too godly to speak vile words of His creation. They claim to hate the sin rather than the sinner but Barbara knows better.
If they knew of the breadth of her sins they would hate her too.
Well, they would hate her even more.)
They judge her zest for life, her affinity for secular music, and the way she indulges in small acts of vanity.
(Barbara adorns her neck with pearls, paints her lips with bold colors, and dresses herself in silks and fine cotton because she takes pride in her looks. She believes in showing the best part of herself to the world and she maintains this image dutifully.
Reverently.)
They condemn her for who they perceive her to be instead of who she is — not that this would be the better alternative; Barbara just thinks it more polite to despise someone for who they are and not being given that courtesy smarts — and for being too much by standards she never wished to attain while not being enough by those she spent a lifetime trying to reach.
It bothers her that she so badly wants a piece of their approval.
Barbara wonders what it takes to build a church. If the bricks, the mortar, the cross and the holy texts are of importance, or if a church becomes a church when one kneels to pray, when one sings His praise.
Sunday after Sunday.
Week after week.
The pews become more and more uncomfortable to sit in. The hard wood has splintered with age and overuse, the bench creaks and sighs when she sits. She winces at the plaintive sound, empathizes with its exhaustion.
The thin and sharp wood splinters prick at her thighs, snagging on the delicate fabric of her Sunday best.
(Later, when she will disrobe in a hurry, peeling herself out of the constraint of her obligations, she will look over the fabric for anything amiss —a thread out of place, a hole, a stain from an errant drop of red wine—and she will fix it with care. Patching up the damage before it can be seen, before it can't be undone.)
When she curls her fingers around the edge of the bench, holding on to the pew with her head bowed down in prayer and her eyes closed, the wood feels rough and uneven under her fingertips. Decades of touch have stripped it of its varnish, dulled its color and shaped it into something new. Something that creaks and sighs when the prayers ascend and the congregation rises to their feet.
Barbara feels a certain kinship there, however misplaced.
When she walks down the aisle to stand on the dais with her fellow choir members, she remembers the freedom she'd felt while singing on the stage at Abbott. Her voice had been her own then, heard and appreciated.
Celebrated.
Accepted.
** ** **
Barbara Howard sets out to build a church of her own.
A house of worship where freedom of expression is paramount. Somewhere for the prideful and colorful to congregate. Somewhere she can sing without reserve.
Somewhere those who are too much and not enough can belong.
She builds it in the most unlikely of places.
She isn't sure one can find or truly appreciate the divine in the sticky, beer scented, neon lit room of a karaoke bar but she doesn't dare dismiss the possibility either.
Barbara knows plenty of prideful and colorful people. She has the chance to call them friends, the privilege to consider them family. She drags them along with her. It's fairly easy since Jacob would do anything to be in her good graces and Janine agrees to whatever Barbara proposes before even hearing the plan. Gregory follows suit because Janine is onboard while Ava pretends disinterest but joins in for pretty much the same reason.
Melissa takes no convincing at all. Barbara just has to tell her when and where to be.
While Barbara did make it clear this was important to her the first time they went, she also made it known she wasn't expecting them to show up week after week.
It is rare when all of them are present at the same time or at all, but she can always count on a few to show up even if for a short time.
None of them ever question why Barbara has this sudden devout interest in karaoke and for that she is grateful.
She wouldn't know how to explain to them the intricacies behind this simple truth: this is where she is closest to Him. Not in His church — where Barbara still goes; she can't bring herself to turn her back on the whole thing as she still finds value in the ritual — but here, in this pretend house of worship.
Closer to sin than to virtue.
Every Thursday, without fail, she finds herself in the karaoke room.
Those outings always end with Melissa by her side, bumping her shoulder against hers, telling her, "I told you it should be just the two of us."
Each time Barbara laughs as warmth spreads through her, the cheap Chardonnay warming her cheeks.
Melissa knows most of Barbara's secrets.
She knows the sharpness of her teeth and isn't deterred by the quiet hunger behind them. She has seen the parts Barbara hides away. She has witnessed the guilt roar to life after they've been exposed.
(Sea Barbara isn't bound by the same rules as her counterpart.
Sea Barbara flirts shamelessly and whines her waist enticingly. While she never crosses a line that Barbara wouldn't be able to uncross, she did once confess to Melissa how attractive she thought her to be.
Melissa didn't hold it against either of them. Even as their lips brushed briefly before Barbara came back to her senses and excused herself.
A door had been left ajar since. Never to be closed, yet to be fully open.
The possibility that this threshold would one day be crossed remains unacknowledged and unavoidable.
Barbara holds this truth sacred.)
But Melissa knows nothing of the church Barbara has built. She doesn't know that to only invite her in would go against the rules of this provisional parish to never turn away the colorful. Barbara refuses to go against the sanctity of her pretense but she will allow the ambiguity being deserted by their cohorts at the end of the night provides.
Contrary to the church choir, there is no place here for Barbara to hide. Melissa's presence as well as her eagle eye make it impossible for her to retreat. Melissa has never allowed Barbara to make herself smaller. If anything, Melissa has painstakingly tended and nurtured Barbara's ego, as one tends to a plant, until Barbara has grown accustomed to bloom rooted in such rich soil, the alternative feels suffocating.
Barbara shows her gratefulness in the songs she chooses to sing when Melissa is the only person around to hear them. These are the psalms she preaches on her dais; lyrics of love and devotion, missed chances and do-overs. Each of them holy in their honesty. Sanctified by their intent.
Barbara flirts with temptation with impunity.
(The temptation is there because Barbara cajoled it out of its depth, convinced it to stop lurking in the shadows. She and Melissa both know not to succumb to this test of faith. Even if Gerald has long ago given his blessing to Barbara.
Melissa does not know of Gerald's blessing.)
This church holds neither Devil nor capital sins. Here, Barbara doesn't need to wonder at the kind of atonement that would be required of her. This makeshift church grants no absolution because there is none to be had.
The blessing has been given. Forgiveness is guaranteed.
Barbara understands why Eve bit into the flesh of the apple. She knows to give her grace for her sacrilegious act. Eve was a woman with sharp teeth and Barbara knows all too well what it's like to have to bite your tongue and go hungry.
Barbara would have bit the apple too. She knows this with certainty because she is running out of reasons not to.
Thursday after Thursday, week after week, the snake offers her a bite and Barbara pretends she's too full to indulge. But still, she lets it coil and slither, both angel and demon on her shoulder, and she enjoys its company until the last song is sang and the screens go dark, and the mics are put away.
Barbara doesn't pay attention to the hypocrisy she willingly — eagerly — allows to fraction her life. She knows in His eyes she will have to repent.
Sunday after Sunday.
Week after week.
But as sure as there are neither Devil nor capital sins, there are neither God or saints in Barbara's church.
Only Melissa remains, the effigy of Temptation, and Barbara is willing to bow and pray to her.
** ** **
One Thursday night, a few weeks after the end of the school year, Melissa's recurring prayer is answered.
Everyone else is out of town enjoying their summer vacation in more or less exotic places. Since it's just the two of them, they are shown to a smaller booth. It's a complete contrast to their usual booth with its large window panes covering one wall and its large stage where the lot of them can stand together.
There are no windows here. Just a solid door that closes with a thunk, leaving the outside world behind. The stage is a small platform crowded by the monitors where they have to stand close together if they want to both fit on it. The walls are painted black with LED light strips running along their perimeter, their bulbs changing color depending on the music being played.
A bench stretches along the back wall — it can "comfortably" sit four people according to the young man who lead them to the booth. Barbara refuses to believe that to be true. She can't even fathom four people fitting in this room without stepping on toes or elbowing each other — the vinyl of the seat has hardened with time. The edges peel and curl outward snagging on the soft fabric of Barbara's pants and feeling rough under her outstretched palm. She doesn't hear the creaking sound of the vinyl splitting a little more under her weight when she sits — Melissa's raspy voice as well as the bass of the song she picked drown it out — but she feels it give under her all the same.
Barbara gives it a comforting pat then absentmindedly runs her fingers over the wounds, pushing down on the rough edges with a blunt nail whenever it snags on the pad of her fingers. She is trying to distract herself from Melissa's performance.
Melissa picked something that could pass for a worship song if one were to rely on the title alone.
(Barbara knows this because one of the church choir members had made the mistake of taking the title at face value. After far too many long winded and clumsy explanations from the other members, Barbara lost her patience and finally told her the meaning was sexual rather than pious.
This, of course, did not help better her image in their eyes.)
Barbara had been enticed by the dichotomy of worshiping in sin. Unholy yet divine. She understands devotion in such context, even though she has not experienced it for herself.
That's not to say she doesn't have a fulfilling sex life with her husband. Gerald has always been good to her in that regard. She's luckier than most if she goes by the stories she's heard. But despite this, it has never felt groundbreaking. Decades of passion have faded into routine. The exciting as dulled into enjoyable.
He knows exactly how to please her and Barbara doesn't feel the need to rock the boat.
But on those nights she fantasizes about a woman touching her in his place — always a random woman, her fantasies of Melissa are strictly for herself — the things she pictures are never what he does.
Gerald has given her permission to explore that.
They'd had many conversations about it over the years. The idea of a threesome with a complete stranger had been on the table until Barbara realized having a stranger in her marital bed made her uncomfortable. Gerald suggested someone they know, someone trust worthy. Barbara could only think of Melissa and the idea of sharing her with anyone made her angry.
Gerald had been hurt over this particular confession.
Feelings had never been part of the conversation until that moment. Mostly because Barbara had been denying them for so long it felt impossible to parse and Gerald's insistence she should still pursue it felt like a betrayal of their vows.
The years passed and the feelings never abated. If anything, they grew stronger. Less volatile. Sturdier. Barbara had a clearer picture of what she felt and why.
It doesn't help that she can catch glimpses of her feelings reflected back at her whenever she looks at Melissa.
Tonight is no exception.
Melissa sings with less showmanship than usual. Even her previous song choices were subdued compared to the exuberance she typically injects into each performance. Barbara was certain it had to do with the lack of alcohol — Melissa only had one beer. She didn't feel the need for liquid courage this time. As long as it's just the two of them, she has nothing to be embarrassed about — but now she wonders if it's because this particular song is meant to be taken as a confession.
Barbara hangs on to every word that falls out of Melissa's mouth — on key which she takes great pride in because it means Melissa is following her advice — but it is the look on Melissa's face that has her mesmerized.
Her eyes never leave Barbara's.
All at once, years of tiptoeing around the inevitable have compounded in this brazen hunger openly displayed on Melissa's face.
Years of giving each other the benefit of the doubt when a touch lingers, when a hug lasts a little longer than it should have. Years of laughter designed to break the thickening tension that always seem to wedge itself between them.
"Amen," Melissa belts before the drums resonate through the small space.
The speakers project the sound against every part of the room. Barbara's feet are firmly planted on the floor, her body leaning against the wall, she can feel the beat pulse through the room. Through her.
The intensity of it puts her in a deeper trance.
Melissa looks away, her eyes now focusing on the lyrics on the screen in front of her. Barbara wants to protest, rise to her feet and scream. Anything to get Melissa's attention back. Instead, she leans forward in her seat, her fingers wrapping around the edge of the bench, the vinyl sticking to her moist palms.
The last notes fade into quiet. Melissa exhales into the mic and promptly moves it away from her face displeased with the sound. Barbara laughs despite herself, Melissa's amused smile reassuring her that she is not offended.
The screens light up with a reminder that the hour they've booked has come to an end. Melissa shrugs at it and return the mic she's still holding to it's charging station while Barbara gathers their belongings.
Barbara wonders if in this church of theirs — the one she built to abscond her guilt, to welcome the colorful ones — this secular song that had her in a trance could pass as a worship song.
It certainly sounded like gospel when Melissa sung it.
Barbara hands Melissa her bag. Their fingers brush when Melissa reaches for it. The contact is brief and far from being out of the ordinary but it might as well be the first time Melissa has ever touched Barbara.
There is a newness there, something Barbara can't describe. Something that makes the look in Melissa's eyes and her touch feel more exciting. Thrilling.
Not quite illicit but dangerous nonetheless.
Barbara tries to ignore the goosebumps on her arms, the fine hair raising at the back of her neck. She focuses on Melissa's mouth instead, commits the pout of her lips to memory. She wonders what Melissa would say if she were to kiss her.
She supposes Melissa wouldn't be against it. If anything, the half-step she takes towards her makes Barbara believe Melissa will make the first move. Barbara braces herself. She feels her body tense despite herself, the anticipation seizing every part of her in a vice grip.
She wants to say something but she worries speaking will break the magic, force them to consider where and who they are.
Melissa tilts her head, one eyebrow slightly raised in question. Barbara nods slowly, the weak smile on her lips almost giving her away. She swallows thickly when Melissa squeezes her hand.
They've long ago developed a wordless language between them wherein a look, a touch, a hum has become a valid form of communication. They understand each other implicitly.
Barbara squeezes Melissa's hand back. A new swell of anticipation rushes through Barbara, swift and intense, a tidal wave threatening to drown her. Her skin tingles, warmth spreading from her fingertips and branching out to the rest of her body, where Melissa is still holding her hand.
Whatever Barbara was anticipating never comes. Instead, Melissa tilts her head toward the exit. Barbara does her best to school her face, to not let her disappointment show when Melissa marches forward, out of their sacred space and into the crowd of newcomers ordering drinks and appetizers.
Melissa tightens her grip on Barbara's hand, pulling her along until they spill onto the sidewalk. The air is charged with something Barbara can almost taste. The ripeness of summer mingling with the sweetness of the moment. Anticipation ebbs once more, Barbara's heart beating faster against her rib cage.
This time, when Melissa takes a step forward, Barbara uses the momentum to pull her closer until their bodies are almost flush together. Their height difference forces Melissa to tilt her head up to look Barbara in the eyes.
"Is—"
"You don't have to say anything," Melissa assures her. "It's okay."
Barbara nods, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She doesn't remember ever being this nervous at the thought of kissing anyone — she certainly was not this nervous the first time she kissed Gerald. She'd kissed him in the middle of their date, too giddy to wait until the end for him to make the first move.
But this isn't just anyone. This is Melissa.
Barbara has a lot more to lose here than the attention and flattery of someone she finds attractive, and a lot more to risk than rejection. There are years of friendship delicately weaved together and an entire professional ecosystem at stake.
(On the rare occasion she and Melissa are truly at odds, arguing for days on end, Abbott becomes their personal battlefield. They battle it out until one of them is crowned the victor, forcing the others to pick sides, making everyone miserable in the process.)
Any sudden worry falls to the wayside when Melissa closes the remaining sliver of distance between them, rising to the tip of her toes to capture Barbara's lips.
Barbara immediately relaxes into the kiss, her tongue seeking out Melissa's. The faint taste of cheap beer feels just as inebriating as if she'd downed the pint herself.
When they part, her mouth hungers for more of Melissa.
** ** **
Barbara Howard was about eight years-old when her grandmother explained the importance of kneeling during prayer.
For as long as she's been able to, Barbara has always knelt to pray in church. She'd never known why, she'd simply followed the example set by her parents and elders, dutifully sinking to her knees every mass.
Sunday after Sunday.
Week after week.
Barbara would fidget on the kneeler of the pew before her, the hard wood digging into her soft knees. She would bring her hands together in prayer, her grandmother's first Rosary — passed down to her mother, then on to Barbara, now in the safe hands of Taylor and soon to be passed down to her first born — looped around her neck, the cross dangling low against her belly.
(Barbara had not known what to do with the beads other than wear them. Her father had explained how to pray the Rosary — starting from the cross, up to the circle then around it until she found her way back to the cross — and which prayers to use and when but she could never remember the right words and would stumble over them until she cried out of frustration.)
As she grew up, she saw less and less people around her kneel down to pray in church. They remained in the pews, head bowed instead. Their prayers had grown quiet too, murmured to the floor rather than exalted to the skies. Only the choir seemed to remain boisterous and proud. Barbara was glad her voice was a part of it.
Heard but never distinguishable.
Part of a whole but never set apart.
Her time away from church — an involuntary self-imposed exile during which she'd bloomed into someone new; a mother but also a different woman. One who embraced the parts of herself she'd kept hidden out of borrowed guilt — had also been spent on her knees.
The hard floor digging and bruising, scraping her tender skin while she crawled after rambunctious kids.
Kneeling over a basket of laundry, sorting through colors and whites, setting aside the delicates. Kneeling down to search for fallen plushies, rogue toys, and wandering pacifiers under the furniture, mumbling half-baked prayers of frustration while one or both of her daughters cried for her undivided attention.
(Occasionally, Barbara would kneel to pray, her elbows sinking into the mattress of her bed. Her fingers holding onto her grandmother's Rosary, the beads digging into her palms, the weight of her guilt pushing her hands to clasp a little too hard together. The discomfort became part of the process.
Prayer and absolution in the same breath.)
Once Barbara found her way back to the pews of her childhood, the practice of kneeling to pray had been more or less retired.
Instead she stared at the kneelers during prayer, studying the warp of the wooden plank. A visible scar inflicted by years of carrying the weight of people and their prayers.
Sometimes, Barbara slowly extends her leg, taking care not to scuff her shoes, and slides her foot under the plank until she finds the curve in the bend, slowly pushing upward with her toes until the wood creaks and sighs with the effort. Exhale or a grateful cry — for being put back together even if just for a brief moment — whatever the sound symbolizes, Barbara finds herself empathizing with the relief.
In the church she built for herself, Barbara has no need for kneeling. She stands in praise instead. Her voice carrying the gospel. The pearls around her neck reminiscent of the Rosary of her childhood, each bead pressing against her skin become an affirmation of her faith and the neon lights a poor substitute for the stained glass windows; as bright in color but devoid of any meaning.
When Barbara sings in the church choir, up on the dais — standing at the end of the third row flanked by women who sneer at her presence — her gaze locks on the statue of the Virgin Mary cradling an infant Jesus in her bosom. The statue sits on a pedestal of granite, the chips in its base disguised by the distance but visible up close. Mary never looks back, her eyes never straying from her son no matter how much Barbara wishes for her to spare her a glance.
When Barbara sings at karaoke, alone in the middle of the stage, her gaze locks on Melissa cradling a pint of beer against the saints dangling on her chest. The pitcher sits on a table nearby, the condensation sliding along the glass to form a puddle as it gets warmer, it's content seemingly forgotten. Melissa's attention is entirely on Barbara. Her eyes track her every movement on stage, shushing anyone who dares talk to her while Barbara is singing.
Barbara has always liked the attention Melissa pays her. It has always felt different to anyone else's. She never had to earn it, beg or pray for it. Melissa grants it to her by virtue of existing.
In her most intimate moments — the ones she refuses to share with her husband because allowing him in feels too voyeuristic. Giving him a peek into this specific hunger, this peculiar desire betrays the unspoken, threatens to fray the invisible threads tying her to Melissa — Barbara lets herself revel in the fantasy of being with the woman whose attention has become an anchor.
In those moments, she wonders if such attention would extend to the way Melissa would make love to her.
Would Melissa make love to her? Maybe not at first.
If given the chance to indulge, Barbara isn't sure she would have the will to tame her hunger long enough to be careful and tender with her. She would dig those sharp teeth of hers in the flesh of Melissa's shoulder, in the meat of her thighs. She would leave marks along Melissa's spent body, a constellation of bruises and lovebites.
Proof of her hunger.
Proof that Barbara would bite the apple again if given the chance.
So how could she expect Melissa not to do the same?
The possibility things could be messy — passion burning too bright for them to fully disrobe, their circumstances requiring them to hurry — has fueled many of Barbara's fantasies.
When they cross Melissa's threshold, Barbara is almost eager to find out which of her fantasy will come true first.
The house is quiet, almost eerily so, as though anticipation had snuffed the air out of it the same way it had stolen the air from Barbara's lungs. Melissa doesn't bother turning on the light in the foyer but she does hit the switch to the staircase. The distant yellow glow spills onto the foyer in dim rays.
Melissa's silhouette — a shadow cut out from the dark, highlighted by the overspill of light; almost like an halo though there is no mistaking Melissa for an angel —moves assuredly around the space.
Barbara registers the thud of Melissa's dropped handbag onto the floor, then off come her shoes — Barbara knows this with certainty because Melissa's height drops a few inches effectively widening the space between their mouths — followed by Barbara's own bag which Melissa delicately plucks from her shoulder. She carefully slides it along Barbara's arm until she feels the full brunt of its heft in her own hands.
Barbara does not protest, instead she toes off her own shoes. She leaves them by the door, in the same spot she always does when she visits, because even in her hurry Barbara can't bring herself to leave things in disarray.
Melissa reaches for her hand once more lacing their fingers together this time. "Come on."
They climb up the stairs, the steps creak and groan as they ascend but Barbara barely registers the sound of it over the hammering of her heart. It seems the whole of it resonates within her, each beat drumming an unfamiliar rhythm.
Melissa's bedroom is has it's always been. But knowing that she isn't here to steal a sweater to keep warm while they watch a movie, or borrow a shirt to change into because she spilled wine on her blouse laughing too hard at Melissa's stories, gives her a different perspective of the room.
Until now, Barbara had never really considered Melissa's bed. She knew it was there of course, but it's only been a piece of furniture, part of the decor.
Practical.
But now it's the only thing Barbara can see. It's staring her down, daring her to claim what she's been desiring for so long. She runs her hand over the throw blanket haphazardly draped across the foot of the bed. The fabric is like butter under her fingers, smooth and soft. She gifted it to Melissa a few years ago during one of their Christmas at Abbott dinner, a first gift to mark the season.
Her heart swells to know there is a specter of her presence always here with Melissa.
"Barb," Melissa steps closer to her. All of the confidence she previously displayed seems to have vanished into thin air replaced by uncertainty. Barbara's heart skitters in the face of such vulnerability. "We can leave it here. No harm, no foul, you know? Because there is pretty much no going back if we do this."
Barbara closes the distance between them. She cups Melissa's face into her hands and brings their lips together. Unhurried and certain. Melissa kisses her back with a tenderness that breaks something open in Barbara.
The resolve in the gesture clears any latent doubt Barbara may have had about the outcome of this decision. She'd hope giving into this particular temptation would yield more than a single night of bliss. She would have prayed on it if given the chance.
"I don't want to go back," she assures Melissa when they part.
** ** **
Barbara had barely had time to live a life before she was married to Gerald.
She does not regret that choice in the slightest. She's always figured this is what happens when you meet your person early on. Any desire she'd had to experience life for herself became a need to experience it all with him.
Every first time was the last first time she would experience. She found this to be thrilling.
And while there had been no regrets for the life she chose, it didn't stop her from mourning the path not taken.
Surely, in another time and place, another universe perhaps, there is a version of her who left Philly to sing in jazz clubs all over New York City.
Maybe this Barbara found fame and fortune and travels the world to bestow the gift of her voice unto adoring crowds. Maybe she's a fixture of one of the boroughs, a local legend who has never sought anything more than what she has, content with the life she's been given. Or maybe she's struggling to live off of her art, too proud and too stubborn to admit defeat.
All these versions of herself have a Gerald of their own, she is certain of that. A Gerald who chose to follow her, to believe in her dreams, to throw away practicality for the whimsy of adventure. A Gerald who did exactly what hers was willing to do, who maybe pushed a little harder than hers to get her to believe in herself more.
The other thing Barbara is certain of is that those versions of herself do not have a Melissa of their own. They might have a fling here or there with other women but there isn't a single universe in which Melissa Schemmenti would live in New York to allow for any versions of herself to find her. To Barbara, that is reason enough to never regret any of the choices she has made up until this point.
Because who gets the chance to meet their person twice?
Who gets the privilege to have and to hold one, while laying with the other?
Barbara thinks this might be an answered prayer from a different life. What luck to be anointed with such grace from the Heavens that she would reap the rewards tenfold in this lifetime.
As Barbara predicted, they'd barely held on to the modicum of restraint they both attempted to exercise. Rare are the times when Barbara gives herself to abandon but Melissa has always made it easy for her to follow her impulses.
She just wish she'd given into this particular impulse sooner.
Years of flirting, barely there touches that could be easily excused or explained away as platonic, years of wondering, hoping, years of restraint based on fear all un-spooled in fine threads of longing and desire the moment Melissa dragged her down onto the bed.
That first round of fucking had been messy. Rushed. Almost rough in its in hurry to satiate. Hands and mouths gripping and scraping, too eager to feel, to taste, to care where they'd landed.
Melissa's blazer and Barbara's blouse were carelessly tossed in a heap on the floor. Melissa's pants had been bunched to her knees leaving Barbara just enough room to move between her legs. It's not until Melissa has come apart, unraveled by Barbara's touch, that they consider ridding themselves of their clothes fully.
They'd both laughed at their lack of patience.
But now that the initial wave of desire has tempered to something less overwhelming, Barbara intends to take her time with her. To explore every curve, every plane. She lets her eyes roam over Melissa's naked form. She notes how the saints around her neck glow in the low light; the gold of her necklaces compliment the light golden dusting of freckles on her chest, how they contrast over the light flush of her skin, how they extend to her shoulders and arms. Barbara feels a flush rise to her cheeks when she considers what those saints have borne witness to. She remembers a particular string of expletives spoken against the hollow of Melissa's throat when the redhead finally found the position that would allow her to reach the apex of Barbara's thighs too impatient she'd been to wait for Barbara to be done with her to indulge.
Bright green eyes, hooded from the earlier exertion find her, hungry but bashful. Barbara wonders if Melissa knows what she's thinking about, which memory is imprinting itself onto her mind with vivid imagery. Something in Barbara stirs. A pinch of guilt or shame that she wills to go away, even as her instinct is to plead for absolution for partaking in the sin of gluttony.
She swallows the urge and places a feather light kiss on Melissa's shoulder instead, closing her eyes at the feel of her bare skin under her lips.
Melissa sighs in contentment. She turns on her side to properly face her capturing Barbara's lips in a languid kiss, her tongue caressing into Barbara's mouth in a rhythm that has her pulling Melissa closer. Barbara's fingers dig into the flesh of Melissa's thigh, lifting her leg to drape it over her hip as her hand wanders along its length. Melissa pulls away from the kiss only to pepper more of them on any part of Barbara she can reach without shifting from her embrace.
Barbara's hand continues its journey along Melissa's leg, her thumb caressing the curve of her calf when it settles there. By this point, Barbara is usually hankering for some space; room to breathe on her own, a chance for her body to cool down. She tries to remember if this had always been the case or if it came after years of sharing a bed with the same person; if the familiarity of it had dulled the excitement of holding on to her husband after making love. She remembers wanting to always be close to him, to savor every moment they had together while they could.
She's happy to note that this has not changed even after decades of marriage.
Even after Melissa.
But no, she can't say that she's ever wanted to spend her post-coital time tangled in his embrace for longer than it takes to regain her breath. She might find it in her to feel guilty about it later when she is home. For now she is too distracted by Melissa's fingers tracing a path from her elbow to her shoulder, along her clavicle until she loops her pointer in Barbara's pearls absently wrapping and unwrapping the necklace around her finger.
Barbara's hand resumes its journey tracing a path back up Melissa's leg. She makes note of the stuttering breath when she accidently scratches her nails on the thin skin behind her knee. And then again when she intentionally does it on her lower back, finding the groove where her spine tapers. Melissa shivers in her arms, her green eyes darkening the more Barbara finds places to caress altering between the softness of her finger pads and the bluntness of her nails.
Barbara moves until she is lightly hovering over Melissa too worried about crushing her with the full weight of her body to lay atop her. Melissa's legs part to accommodate her between them, her knees bracketing Barbara's hips in a light grip, just enough to keep her in place. Just enough to feel grounding.
She bridges the gap between them by sealing her lips to Melissa's. Her pearls dangle between them and she feels Melissa's fingers feeling around the necklace, steadying its sway with her touch as she murmurs against her lips between kisses, anointing her with words of affirmation and sweet confessions.
Once more, Barbara is overcome with a need so tangible, so potent, she is sure Melissa can taste it on her lips with every lingering kiss. It could be why Melissa trades her words for the caress of her tongue and Barbara swallows the remnants of her proclamations with greed.
Barbara loses herself in Melissa's touch, in the privilege of her mouth gliding against her fevered skin, fanning the embers of her desire into flames with every new nip of her teeth, every new soothing swipe of her tongue. Melissa cants her hips, seeking a point of contact in vain. A disappointed hum falls from her lips onto Barbara's collarbone, echoing all through her body with a shiver.
Barbara repositions herself, putting her weight on her right arm while her left snakes between them, her fingers swiping between Melissa's fold finding slickness there. A sigh parts Melissa's lips, honey sweet to Barbara's ears. She wishes she could bottle it and drink from it when she will inevitably miss it.
Miss her.
Melissa cants her hips again satisfied to find the pressure of Barbara's fingers against her core, circling her clit with dexterity. She would clamor for more if her mouth wasn't busy exploring as much of the swath of skin available to her. The curve of Barbara's cheek, the line of her jaw, the column of her neck. Any part she can press her lips to, any soft flesh she can sink her teeth into with just enough pressure to elicit a sound but not enough to leave a mark. Just enough to satisfy her craving.
Barbara sinks into her with a slow stroke of two of her fingers. Melissa's cunt pulses around her, the surprise of the penetration making her desperate for more. She rolls her hips into Barbara's hands setting a pace that she matches almost immediately. The wave of her desire crests with each new stroke, with each curl of Barbara's fingers against her walls, pushing against her g spot with expertise.
"Barb," Melissa frowns when Barbara withdraws her hand from between her thighs.
"I got you," Barbara reassures her. "I got you." She reiterates kissing her way down Melissa's body.
"Barb," Melissa almost pleads when Barbara plants a kiss on each of her hip. Her mouth is close enough to where Melissa wants her, close enough to where Barbara wants to be but she moves past, sucking on the flesh of her inner thigh instead.
She still gets a taste of Melissa, the slick of her clings to her inner thigh mingling with the sheen of sweat from the heat of their bodies and their previous impatient fucking. She hums in delight, sucking harder at her skin eager to taste more of her.
Barbara has thought of this many times. She has imagined how it would be to have a taste of Melissa. How easily she would sink to her knees for her in devotion.
"I got you. I promise," Barbara speaks against her skin. Then she rises to her feet and hooks her hands under Melissa's knees, gently guiding her to the edge of the bed.
Barbara sinks down to her knees between Melissa's parted legs. She hooks her arms under Melissa's legs, her hands settling on her hips, her elbows planted on the mattress. She presses her lips to the thigh she'd previously neglected, swiping her tongue to soothe what will surely become a small bruise after she sucks on the skin a little too enthusiastically. She would feel bad about it if Melissa wasn't moaning and scooting closer to the edge in a silent plea for Barbara's mouth to move on from her thigh to her cunt.
Again, Barbara marvels at her luck. If this is an answered prayer from a past life, she is tempted to ask the High Heavens to favor her again in the next life. To grant her another chance to find herself between Melissa's thighs.
It can only be luck, Barbara reasons, that would bring her to her knees without a prayer to her lips. But as Melissa keens her hips and presses more of her core into Barbara's hungry mouth, supplications fall from her lips all the same.
** ** **
Barbara remains transfixed by the rise and fall of Melissa's chest, the pale skin of her breasts marred with small bruises and bite marks all evidence of Barbara's overt enthusiasm. She'd clumsily apologized about it but Melissa waved her off saying she'd wear those badges of honor proudly.
Melissa looks perfectly blissed out. Her face is relaxed, her eyes are closed, and a small smile pulls at the corner of her lips every times Barbara rakes her fingers through her splayed hair — from roots to end, her nails lightly brushing against her scalp in the process — separating the curls so they don't tangle into knots.
Barbara idly wonders if the sun envies the color of Melissa's hair or if angels would seethe to witness her now, her hair a bright halo against the light comforter.
She presses a kiss to Melissa's temple, the impulse to shower her with affection pulling at her like magnets, tethering her to Melissa's side like an anchor. She moves from her hair to her skin tracing patterns with her fingers. Concentric circles on Melissa's sternum, a line along her clavicles, connecting freckles into nonsensical shapes.
There is a long stretch of silence during which Barbara thinks Melissa might have given into slumber so she withdraws her hand and moves to give her a bit of space. But bright green eyes blink open and a languid smile appears on Melissa's face. Before Barbara can say anything, Melissa is on top of her covering her in warm kisses.
"You thought I wouldn't get mine?" Melissa teases at Barbara's mild surprise.
"I thought you were too tired," Barbara smiles. "You looked like you had fallen asleep."
"Second wind," Melissa murmurs against her lips. "Well, third."
Barbara draws in a sharp breath when Melissa's mouth closes around her breast, her teeth lightly grazing at her sensitive nipple. Barbara tangle her fingers through Melissa's hair, gently moving it out of her face so she can have an unobstructed view of her. She lightly pulls at the roots as pleasure washes over her inadvertently prompting Melissa to suck harder.
Melissa takes her time, moving from one breast to the other, back and forth, until Barbara's patience frays at the edges. Pleasure builds from her core but Melissa's ministrations aren't stimulating enough for her to find release so Barbara closes her eyes to focus on the sensation. She doesn't want to rush Melissa who seems to relish being able to take her time with her.
With her eyes close, Barbara fills the gap with her imagination. Witch every minute shift from Melissa, every moan drawn from her mouth, Barbara imagines what could have prompted it. She pictures Melissa touching herself, too determined to take care of Barbara to allow her to do it.
She almost wants to open her eyes to see if she is right.
She feels Melissa's hair on her skin as she trails a downward path with her tongue, stopping here and there to lay kisses, or trace the skin with the pads of her fingers. Barbara's stomach tightens under such tenderness, butterflies running amok in her belly the more care Melissa bestows.
Devotion.
This is what she is experiencing. Unadulterated, pure, devotion.
Barbara has been loved. Passionately, tenderly, without reservation. But she has seldom been adored. Revered. Her heart swells with it and she swallows down the guilt rising in her throat.
It feels wrong to be on the receiving end of it. Barbara believes she deserves the love and affection Melissa is showering her with but such display of devotion should be deserving of a holy place.
Somewhere sacred.
The saints around Melissa's neck drag across Barbara's skin as Melissa rises, the gold pendants giving a light jiggle when Melissa hovers over her. Barbara opens her eyes to observe her. Melissa's attention is on something off to the side. She stretches herself a little more, a grunt of effort falls from her lips and Barbara can't help but laugh.
Melissa looks back at her, eyes dancing with mirth and an amused grin illuminates her face. Barbara finds it too enticing to keep her hands to herself. Melissa sighs when Barbara's nails lightly skim the back of her thigh. She accuses Barbara of distracting her, an accusation that is denied despite the offending hand still caressing its way over Melissa's body.
A final grunt of effort and Melissa settles on her haunches, her knee pressing into Barbara's hip, a victorious smile on her face.
"I don't want to hurt you with my nails." Melissa supplies when Barbara raises an eyebrow at the bright pink object in her hand. "You can have your pick if you prefer. That one was there so…"
"That's fine. They all have the same function anyway."
"Depends on what you pick," Melissa shrugs. "But I guess yes, for the most part, they do."
It doesn't take long for Barbara's pleasure to build back up. The anticipation as well as Melissa's mouth do most of the leg work. By the time Melissa finally puts the toy to good use, Barbara is already desperate enough to plead with her to hurry.
But Melissa denies her the mercy of a quick release. She wants to take her time, build her up to the edge of climax and bring her down almost immediately. Barbara would be frustrated if it weren't for the gentle words spoken against her inner thighs holding her together as she slowly unravels.
Melissa pushes her legs apart a little wider and exhales a strangled breath at the sight of her, open and wanting. The flat of her tongue finds Barbara's clit and the sensation is almost to much to bear. Barbara gives a half-hearted attempt at pushing Melissa away all the while canting her hips forward demanding more from her.
It doesn't make sense, Barbara is vaguely aware of that, but Melissa eases on the pressure with her tongue offering her a reprieve Barbara regrets asking for. She cants her hips again, demanding, desperate, but she is only met with the ghost of Melissa's breath on her thighs. She tries to focus on what Melissa is saying but the words sound fizz out in her brain.
Melissa slowly withdraws the toy. Barbara whimpers at the loss but before she can express her disappointment, Melissa's tongue drags between her folds. She chuckles at Barbara's sharp intake of breath.
The pressure of her pleasure builds back up, crests higher and faster with each swipe of Melissa's tongue against her clit. She breathes through it, tries to calm the rush but Melissa doesn't make it easy on her. And when Barbara desperately moves her hips to chase after her release, Melissa firmly pins them to the mattress.
"I got you," she smiles. "I promise."
Barbara forgoes her impatience and Melissa reaches for the toy again. She hooks one of Barbara's leg over her shoulder, resettling herself between her parted leg, the toy poised at Barbara's entrance.
Melissa's voice rises over Barbara's desperate moans. Words of encouragement spoken to the rhythm of her thumb caressing her hip. So much is happening, Barbara can hardly pick what to focus on, where to focus on.
Melissa gives a slow stroke with the toy and Barbara swallows down the curse that has been threatening to tumble from her lips. Melissa picks up the pace then, pumping in and out of her alternating between deep and shallow strokes, tasting her when Barbara cries out for more.
Through it all, Melissa makes sure to tell her how beautiful she is, how well she is doing, how wonderful she sounds, tastes, looks.
And Barbara has been told this before. Gerald lets her know how beautiful he finds her, and he has expressed those other sentiments too, grunted them in her ear has he lost himself in her. She doesn't mind his saying so, even finds a measure of empowerment in knowing she has this effect on him.
But she can admit that after years it's become more of a habit rather than a heartfelt sentiment. Something he says because he is used to saying it. While it doesn't take away from the veracity of his statement, it does dull the enjoyment of hearing it.
So when Melissa says the words, Barbara sort of tenses in the moment. But when she lets the compliment wash over her, let's Melissa's voice soothe the tension away, she realizes it sounds nothing like Gerald.
In Melissa's mouth, the words are gospel.
Devotion.
This is what she is experiencing.
Unadulterated, pure, devotion.
Barbara has been loved — and still is being loved — passionately, tenderly, without reservation. But she has seldom been adored.
Revered.
Her heart swells with it and she swallows down the guilt rising in her throat.
It feels wrong to be on the receiving end of it. Barbara believes she deserves the love and affection Melissa is showering her with but such display of devotion should be deserving of a holy place.
Somewhere sacred.
As she comes apart under Melissa's tongue, Barbara wonders if maybe Melissa set out to build a church of her own. If maybe all the love and devotion she showered her with were the scripture her church is built on.
Barbara chastises herself for such narcissism.
Melissa's mouth does not relent even as she tosses the toy aside. There is a thud when it falls off the bed which neither of them acknowledge. Barbara's fingers tangle in Melissa's mane, pulling slightly at the roots when Melissa gives a sharp suck to her clit. Barbara arches her back away from the mattress, her hips canting involuntarily but this time Melissa doesn't pin them in place. Instead she pulls Barbara closer, angles her face differently to dip her tongue in Barbara's slick cunt.
The sensation sends Barbara over the edge once more. This climax is stronger than the previous one and it leaves her panting.
Melissa makes her way back up slowly, kissing and caressing as she goes, murmuring words Barbara can barely register against her fevered skin.
At once, Barbara knows she was wrong. Melissa is an angel. She is the angel of small death. Blowing air into her lungs for the sole purpose of stealing it. Barbara would let her do it again and again.
Thursday after Thursday.
Week after week.