All Over Again

| Chapter One |

New York, 2021 (Present Day)

Four solo cups of Crown Royal Apple Whiskey tainted the breath of Ruth Marjorie Semple alongside her counterpart, Emily Bautista, whose tongue tangled with hers in a familiar dance.

Tongue coaxing tongue, sloppy mouths pressing and opening together, lips soft and kisses hard. Emily's pale, nimble fingers tugged and twirled Ruth's curls into coarse bunches that wove together, producing one nasty knot that would make any curly-head woman scream with frustration. Ruth detested it especially. Emily was known to do it often whenever they spent a long night together; no matter how many times she told her she didn't need an extra hour of untangling coils and slathering water-based product into the strands. But Em didn't always listen.

And if Ruth had any sense, she would have stopped kissing her girlfriend right there to warn her for the third time that evening.

But Ruth didn't have any sense that night. Iksho—in her language! None. Nada. Zip!

No. That evening, she needed an escape. And an escape came as a beautiful woman with a sweet ouch.

So, on that Autumn Sunday night, when the leaves crisped to a hazelnut brown and a crimson brown, Ruth let Emily run her fingers through her hair. She didn't care that Emily wanted to press passionate kisses to the most sensitive parts of her and she'd, in turn, open for her like a butterfly taking flight. She might even try that new position Em was telling her about just a week before when Ruth nearly ended their strange dynamic. Whatever Emily wanted to do that night, Ruth would gladly take part in it.

And Emily, in turn, took anything she could from Ruth, whose mind was always so far away and unreachable, when offered. Ruth knew Emily felt like a stray dog sometimes, begging for whatever scraps Ruth gave her that day when her mind was present, and then cast her off when Ruth was in one of her moods. Though that cruelness destroyed Ruth, she still found herself slipping into the cold, ice water that was her life. And warm Emily was never enough to pull her out of it.

There were times, however, when Ruth made up for her mood change. Emily was always right there to forgive her; like clockwork. It was second nature for the tender woman to forget the cold shoulder happened, and she'd crush it like an unwanted memory.

And that evening would be no different.

Ruth's mind was scary on that particular night. She wanted to run from it, run from the inevitable darkness that swirled in its depressed stupor. She thought she could get lost between the snowy sight of Emily's thighs or find solace in the soft, lotus pink-color of Em's plush lips. But most of all, she thought, if she forced the burning alcohol down her scorching throat cup after cup, she'd be able to escape.

But not that night.

That night, her mind was stuck on silk strands of well-roasted chestnuts rather than faux waves of charcoal, and imagined almond-shaped brown eyes instead of those wide, doe-like shimmers of opal.

She needed air.

Where had it all gone? Was her throat closing? Her heart pounding? Why was the room spinning?

Ruth pushed Emily off of her with a suffocating gasp. In a haste, she jumped out of bed and raced to the balcony at the back of her bedroom, shoving her half-bare body against the railing. Jagged breaths ripped through her swollen mouth, sucking in as much cool air as her lungs allowed. Her shaking fingers clutched at her spilling bosom, feebly tugging at the silk tank top wrapped miserably around her fuller body. Though the air was cold, it did nothing to soothe her pain, as she slid down the balcony bars with tearful eyes and quivering lips.

Ruth couldn't escape that time. The night had claimed her once again, and all she could do was close her eyes and relive the part of her life she tried desperately to forget.

Images filtered behind her eyelids like a vintage movie. Her memory was as good as Rose Calvert's from Titanic. But instead of remembering the smell of fresh paint, she remembered rolled tobacco and spicy cut wood with a hint of spearmint toothpaste. She remembered the Marlboro resting casually between his middle and forefinger, looking like an Indigenous Adonis with beautiful strands of silk spilling like waterfalls over broad shoulders and onto the defined muscles of his chest. She remembered the dazzling smile stretched across his lips and that gleam of love in his bewitched eyes . . .

The ache in her chest was unbearable at that point.

Because once more, she remembered him all over again. And when she remembered him, she remembered her grief. Her pain, her love. Everything.

And Ruth's tears whisked away into the bustling noises of New York City. 

*****