The Woman My Grandmother Loved.

Chapter Seven

"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which lay the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew I had begun."

Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice.

You don't find love; it finds you. Seated underneath the large tree at a farm a little away from the city, both the girls felt it must be true. In Little Women, Louisa May Alcott has said that Love is a great beautifier, and the wind felt it really must be so. For as the two girls sat there; they had never looked lovelier. The little picnic basket sat untouched and filled with some bread and homemade raspberry jam, some cream, and two lemon tarts from the baker who lived across Anita's street. It was a rather remarkable day and had been the perfect afternoon for a picnic.

Becky lay on her side, curled up with a copy of Virginia Woolf whereas Anita scribbled away in her little notebook. There is something about the permanence of temporariness that makes you live in each moment. You don't worry about what will come and all that might come. You don't ask if it might ever come you simply exist, at the moment and that is all that matters. You are so enamored by what your life is at that instant; you simply allow yourself to be engulfed in the time that you are. You don't seek to go back on the timeline, you don't seek to go further. You walk at the same pace as Time, unperturbed by the rhythm of the sands flowing in the hourglass. It feels at that instant as if you are the sand, the glass, and daughter of Time herself- as infinite as her mother. It was one of those sacred moments for these girls.

"Say, Becky." Anita breaks the silence, her hand removing the book from Becky's face.

"Yes, my love?" Becky turns to look at her with her smile sparkling in the clear green of her eyes.

It thrills Anita to hear Becky call her that. The warm shade of her brown skin turns deeper and she smiles back sincerely.

"If you could travel into one of your favorite classics, who would you be?" She asks, pushing the little red curl away from Becky's face.

"Does classics cover fairy tales or does it not?" Becky asks, propping herself on her elbow to look at Anita.

"Ah, certainly, certainly." Anita indulges.

"What are the odds that I could rewrite it?" Becky asks, raising an eyebrow at her girlfriend.

"Don't overcomplicate it, just give me an answer!" The girl in question says, laughing.

"Alright, alright. I'd have to go with Ariel I suppose." Becky says and Anita claps her hands excitedly. "Oh, I can see it! It's almost fitting, isn't it? The Little Mermaid with her flaming red hair; Hans Christian Andersons work! You with your red hair and pining after the land even though you are believed to be a creature of the sea."

Becky laughs at Anita's sudden sentimental outburst. "I suppose you fancy yourself to be the Being of Land that I fall for?"

Anita smiles cheekily, "Would I be wrong to?" Becky lifts herself up to ever so slightly brush her lips against Anita's.

"No." She whispers. "You couldn't be more right."

Anita and Becky both don't recall the first time they professed their love for each other. It had all seemed so natural, the ease with which the relationship had happened. It had been one little conversation, the brush of a hand, the lingering touches, the upward curve of lips aching to form a smile, the little shake of her head. Love talks in strange languages and metaphors and your own fluency in it surprises you. Little conversations that turned into kisses when nobody was watching, holding hands as the sky blushed purple, unspoken words and peaceful silences that lasted till dawn.