Loveflush

Warning: contains sexual references and strong language

On a gray inhospitably cold day in February, 1977, Claire stood helplessly in the florist’s, trying to pick a bouquet out for her girlfriend. Her girlfriend. Her very own girlfriend. A girlfriend who she was getting flowers for on Valentine’s Day. 

Which was the right call. Probably. Maria liked flowers, right? How the hell did Claire not know if Maria liked flowers, say nothing of what kind of flowers she liked? Claire should have asked. How hard would it have been to say, “Hey, what do you want for Valentine’s Day? The usual straight people shit? Flowers, chocolates, a rose petal bath that might clog our drain forever? The drain already doesn’t really work, so let’s just forget the bath and have sex instead.”

God, they used to have sex all the time. She never thought they would be one of those couples who let sex fall by the wayside, but the need, the gravitational pull that forced them together, hadn’t been as strong. Their emotional connection had changed into a deeper form, no longer relying on physical intimacy as a crutch. Knowing Maria was next to her in bed was enough now; they didn’t need to cuddle or finger each other in the shower before slipping under the covers and fingering each other again. Maria was her breath, the life that laughed until she hiccuped, the life that left thin hair strands stuck to the shower walls, the life that left every morning before the sun came up for a job that worked her to the quick of her nails and then some, but when Maria was home, a weight heaved off Claire’s chest. Other things had taken precedence over sex like sleep. It didn’t matter whether or not they made love as long as they were happy, and Claire was happy. She and Maria were building a life together, not a sex cult.

Still, a greedy part of her wanted to reignite that old desperate need for the taste of the other’s skin. She thought about sex constantly: when she was folding laundry, watching TV, even when she was smiling at Maria who had just slipped in the door from work. Well, to be truthful in the matter, sex had jumped in the backseat and then pole-vaulted into the trunk. She didn’t think about it much anymore. She thought more about shared chores and whether their neighbors knew they were homosexual or not. They had been together for a year now (which makes the flower situation even sadder) and had moved into their new place a month ago after their previous neighbor had found out.

It had been a quick move. They had been able to gather the money to break the lease but not before the news that lesbians lived among the good hard-working Christians of the Greene Square Apartments spread far into the bowels of that dilapidated cesspool. Dirty looks and unabashed wide eyes of horror had followed them as they had piled boxes of kitchenware and towels and knickknacks into Maria’s sister’s boyfriend’s car. But after listening to Jesse complain about lending them his car, Claire had suggested they put money away to buy a used car. 

Claire didn’t like to think about that day nor the bitch that decided to fucking snitch to the whole apartment complex like the whore she was. How that lady had found out was a mystery to Claire but one day, she had stopped inviting them to her almost daily Avon parties. The next thing they knew, people were confronting them about being “sodomites.” 

If Claire was being perfectly honest with herself, her and Maria had not been as careful as they could have been: sneaking kisses at the open door when Claire got up early enough to see Maria off to work, holding hands so so tightly and bumping hips in the hall as they drunkenly giggled home from the bar, and sleeping over at the other’s apartment for weeks on end, slipping out in the early morning in a hazy loveflush. 

They had just wanted to be a regular couple. Was that a fucking crime?

Fucking apparently.

All of this to say, Claire and Maria had been through a helluva lot in the past year, so why didn’t Claire know if Maria liked flowers? It seemed like such a simple thing. She knew Claire liked to sleep on the side away from the window because one of her cousins had been killed in a drive-by shooting, peppered with holes in his sleep. She knew Claire loved Dots, and they would always shell out when they went to the movies. She knew Claire loved music, specifically her favorite singer Ella Fitzgerald, and that she had a record player she let her sister, Raquel, borrow and that Raquel had left it in Jesse’s car. They had found it when they had moved right in the trunk where Claire guessed it would be, and now, Claire always sang parts of Ella Fitzgerald songs around the house in little fits of musicality. She wasn’t a particularly good singer. She had a scratchy low voice that didn’t fit the airy refinement of Fitzgerald’s recordings, but her pitch was decent. Claire used to sing in the church choir before she quit going to church entirely in her sophomore year of high school, so she felt like she had a point of reference for good singers. And her girlfriend was not one but Claire loved hearing her sing. One of those quirks that hit Claire hard and made her want to kiss Maria until she sang louder than before.

Claire stuck her hand in her pocket, thumbed through the bills she’d saved for the past three months. A bouquet of red roses was five dollars, which was kind of expensive, but Claire had seven. She was in the clear. But should she get chocolates instead? Or would Maria rather just have a bubble bath or a nice home-cooked dinner? Shit, Claire really should have asked.

She should just get them. She’d been standing here for so long that someone was bound to say something. Probably something along the lines of her stealing. Black people couldn’t get much of a break in Chicago despite the Black politicians slowly securing some power in the local government. The small amount of progress they’d made, however, seemed paltry in the face of the police that still wanted them dead and the lack of well-paying jobs for “colored” folk. Anger at the world she lived in was palpable in the heat of her cheeks every time she thought about it. She took a deep deep breath and traced Maria’s face with her mind’s eye. A sloping heart-shaped face, pouty two-toned lips, round baby-fat cheeks, and round doe-brown eyes. 

Anger under control, Claire returned to mentally chewing her nails. She really should have asked what Maria wanted. There was no doubt about it; she was a horrible girlfriend. Didn’t even know if Maria liked flowers after a year of being together.

Just as she was about to abandon the flowers altogether, an all-too-familiar voice murmured at her shoulder, “Great minds think alike.”

Claire smiled, not yet turning around. “Flattery doesn’t work on me, baby,” she said. She flashed a smile over her shoulder at Maria, who was still in her work uniform. “You were going to buy me flowers too?”

A colorless blush transformed Maria’s face into a sheepish half-grimace. She folded her hands behind her back and said, “Close your eyes and you’ll see.”

Claire had to laugh. “No, I ain’t doing that. You close your eyes, why don’t you? I was here first.”

“I had the idea first.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Says you, my ass. It took you months to figure out you were doing my laundry so I had an excuse to see you.” A pause. “Did you walk here from work?”

Maria raised an eyebrow. “Did you walk here from the apartment?”

“I asked you first.”

Okay, Claire had to laugh again. Maria had this impish little smile on her face that Claire wasn’t even sure she was aware was on her face. “Bitch,” she said with a matching grin, “shut up.”

“So you were going to buy me flowers,” said Maria, rocking forward on her tiptoes, that impish smile growing larger. She was definitely doing it on purpose, looking all purposefully unpurposefully cute.

“Maybe,” echoed Claire. Another pause. “Do you like flowers?”

“Do you?”

It hit Claire then that Maria didn’t know if she liked flowers or not. Maria hadn’t asked what Claire wanted for Valentine’s Day, and Claire would have been happy with anything. She had been too preoccupied with what to get Maria that she hadn’t noticed Maria’s same fault. “I have seven bucks. What do you wanna do?” she asked, leaning forward too. She wished she could kiss Maria but not here. Not yet. 

Maybe one day.

“I have ten bucks. What do you wanna do?” Maria countered. They were standing almost brow-to-brow, smiling at each other, knowing exactly what the other wanted to do. 

“Walk me home?” said Claire, offering her arm to Maria. This was safe enough to do. No one batted an eye at some affection between young women. Claire wished she didn’t have to care, and she almost didn’t; the bubble that surrounded them when they were together, looking into each other’s eyes, teasing each other, had encapsulated them. 

Maria took Claire’s arm. She smelled like bleach and home. She felt like fireworks, heat sparking through Claire’s overloaded veins. Claire shivered, just a bit.

“I’ve had a long day at work. Walk me home,” Maria said. 

The front door opened, and a wind came through, carrying Claire’s laugh with it. The flowers danced in the breeze, waving goodbye.