One Kiss Less

Francis couldn’t remember the last time she’d lived. It didn’t feel real, her days

more empirical than whole experiences themselves. Another morning simmered beneath the scorch of her hatred. One more night of deserving nothing short of the next dawn. Her good eye, hazel unlike the dulled pearl of her left, tracked the alcohol’s curl within the small glass in her gloved hand. She never liked drinking; didn’t do much except hurt her head all that much but the burn of it was grounding. The straw-haired girl pressed the rim to her lips chewed with cuts and the past’s branding, the sour liquid prickling its claws down her throat.

Delia’s laughter tore her from the dulled soil of intoxication that she’d hoped to

bury herself in, lidded eyes finding her in the saloon without difficulty. Shorter than Francis yet tall enough to graze the height of a few in the cluster, her ebony hair played along the length of her back as the chattering group of women traded conversation. Delia had discarded her usual powder blue garb, clad in a more loosely draped aspen fabric for both of her skirt and blouse. The navy ribbon she loved to tie so carefully beneath the collar of the latter was also displaced. Instead, to hold her hair up lazily and curtaining the back of her neck was a rose bow. 

It was the ribbon Francis had bought for her and as if feeling her gaze and

thoughts ridden by her presence, Delia’s eyes greeted the distant mismatched ones shadowing the socializing of the bar from afar, uninviting but interested. The calloused and cautiously clothed fingers pried more tightly around her emptied cup, devoid of a distraction, save for the circlet of rum against glass’ walls. Delia was already nimbly walking over with that typical footing so unbearably known to the other.  

Francis left her gaze to the marbled droplet of alcohol swimming in rounds as she rhythmically teetered the cup in one hand. “I didn’t realize you had an affinity for rum,” the ballerina confessed beside her, “I never even took you as one to drink.”

She smelled invasively of cigars, most certainly not of her volition, and consumingly of bergamot.

With less bite than most people received when speaking to her, Francis retorted in her low croak as she shifted in her seat, “I ain’t much for either, but I don’t see no harm in indulgin’ a vice.” Her thumb pressed against the glass’ scratched gleam, suddenly feeling a bit awkward oddly enough. If anything however, Delia wasn’t deterred in the slightest as a smile threatened to embrace her lips before she placed her forearms over the top of the well worn counter. “Are you a lightweight? Is that why?” 

Francis was taken aback by the sound of her own unwarranted laughter, tumbling past her lips as she furrowed her brows at Delia, managing the involuntary grin that snuck across what scars she had for a mouth. “You really reckon that, doll?” 

Ruinous was the first word that kissed the back of her teeth, unspoken but ever so existent on her tongue as Delia’s grin widened alongside her dimples. 

Wrong was the second word. This felt wrong in so many ways to Francis; being content. How many people had she wrung dry of blood like rags, innards pressed into nothing more than tools for her hunt. What right had she to laugh without a care in the world, axe and rifle hung up as if they were a coat or hat and she, any other person. There was gunpowder and ichor caked beneath her nails and sewn between the material of her clothes no matter how hard she scrubbed and scrubbed, even pretending at times that it was a chore in an orderly home with an orderly life; forget selfish, stupid was more fitting.

“Francis?” Her eyes, unfocused and distant, didn’t even have time to think as they flickered to meet Delia’s. She called, and Francis would always answer. Her fingers had stilled around the cup now lifeless on the counter and Delia’s own hand, featherweight and a bit frigid as they always were, was lightly brushing over her glove. The blonde pulled her hand away after a moment, shrugging as she mumbled an apology. “Just thinkin’ is all, m’sorry.” 

This is always how it went; a step forward, and for how many back, Delia had learned to not bother keeping count. 

She didn’t want to be open, to show the softness of her belly beneath the blood-matted and coarse bristles she called a simple coat. It didn’t keep her warm or comfortable. It kept her safe. Delia opened her mouth to say something but the borderline inebriate spoke up before she could, standing and stucking her barstool in with a creak. “Used to know how to play this tune.” Francis unbuttoned her weathered vest with one hand as the other busied itself in dishing a handful of coins to the bartender for her drink. “Had a real fondness for it when I was younger, too.” The phonograph’s crackling and melody were more well heard now that the saloon was rather vacant compared to earlier and Francis’ humming, surprisingly in key and well timed, tailed the song. Delia wasn’t as familiar with the tune as a fiddle rang out in the hollowed room, a man’s voice alongside several others began singing and she found her brows furrowing as the other girl noticed and answered her unspoken question. “Home On The Range.. learned to pick it out on the guitar, I did.” Francis wasn’t even looking at her, gaze focused on the cuffs of her stupidly worn out shirt that Delia had begged her to replace or at least properly repair. The cowgirl always brushed the comments off until the latter ended up having to mend and embroider the tears of each seam from both time and one too many bullets. The brunette was beginning to wonder if she did it on purpose as an excuse to see her needlework.   

“Care for a spin, doll?”

Delia’s eyes widened and met the other girl’s with puzzlement; accent, muffled beneath years of leaving her hometown behind surfaced from sputtered shock in a way that made the blonde’s disfigured lips upturn. “Pardon?” Few remained in the bar, save for its keeper and a number of patrons but the rest had left as daylight receded, night now crested in spring’s dew and stars unbridled from the cold. Taking a step forward with extended hands, Francis’ fingers ghosted beneath the ballerina’s and delicately toyed with her sleeves. Delia didn’t even need to look to know that Francis’ misshapen grin was growing and she tried not to notice that her voice was noticeably warmer and mellow than the usual rasp her damaged throat sounded out as best as it could. The straw-haired girl mimicked Delia’s words with a bit of a mocking lilt. 

“I thought you yourself an ‘affinity’ for dancin’, doll.” Francis’ hands were lightly holding her wrists now, prompting her with a wordless invitation as her gloved thumb and its dulled leather purposefully smoothed the skin of her inner wrist.  

She hated how little her voice sounded behind her slight scowl, tinny and more petulant than she intended it to. Francis somehow always managed to disarm her from being well to ill mannered in the rare occurrences she adopted even the slightest tease in her words. It drove Delia mad. “Stop making fun of my vocabulary.”

The corners of Francis’ eyes crinkled more. “This tune ain’t gonna last forever, y’know.” 

The ballerina didn’t even have more of a chance to protest as Francis was already stepping forward, coaxing her or more appropriately, leaving her no choice but to move backwards and farther into the emptied space between tables. The low lights blended with the evening’s hazy glow bathed the bar in orange. It made Delia resemble a shooting star with her warmly illuminated pearl dress. Francis thought so at least. It was clear that the cowgirl wasn’t going to let up any time soon but neither was Delia, determined to amend some sense into her with a more hushed but just as serious voice. 

How often at night when the heavens are bright,

“People will see. They’ll talk, Francis.” 

Delia wanted to scold the cowgirl for laughing hoarsely at her as she moved one of the brunette’s hands to her shoulder, entwining her own fingers with the other. She didn’t resist or pull away nor provide any sort of reaction outside of her reasoning that despite its rationale, the other girl saw as more petulant a bit endearing if anything. She rested her hand against her lower back but left enough room that Delia could easily brush her off if she wanted to. 

She didn’t. Francis moved forward more. Delia didn’t move back, swallowing quietly as her lips twitched, itching to say something, anything as Francis’ murmur swallowed her own silence’s doubts. 

“Let ‘em see I’m the lucky bastard gettin’ to twirl the prettiest gal in the whole damn county.”

With the light of the glittering stars,

Her mouth was dry, devoid of the lecturing words or ability to produce any that could drown this moment and plunge it away to where she wouldn’t have to think about it. Warmth shared between their two figures drawn close, Francis guided her into a delicate sway, softly humming along to the song as the reverberations of her voice brushed against the side of Delia’s head. Francis’ eyes, half closed as she moves them together, hands entangled, legs woven against one another in time with the melody. She almost seemed content with her finally agreeing to dance, a smile tangible.

Have I stood there amazed and ask as I gaze

Voice hardly even a whisper, the brunette’s question made the other girl open her eyes. “Why do you always deflect?” Francis pulled her head back slightly to align her gaze with Delia’s, expression unreadable. “I ain’t deflecting. I just don’t answer much.” 

Delia gave her a deadpan look, clearly unamused but the irritation in her tone gave way to genuine concern as always. “That’s deflecting, Francis. You-”

“Y’look beautiful in that dress.. ribbon too, y’know?” Her slight Adam’s apple constricted in a slow movement up the column of her throat, words all too raw. “I mean it when I say you’re pretty, doll. I won’t ‘deflect’ that. You’re always breathtaking. ‘ Especially, when you’re makin’ my head spin with them fancy n’ stupid words of yours”

In their own ways, they both wondered, just for a moment, if this could be more than a passing moment, but something they could keep despite everything and everyone that said they couldn’t.

If their glory exceeds that of ours?

Unable to find her voice, Delia remained quiet, her own head spinning. She couldn’t focus. Not with the aroma of ash and alcohol permeating her every thought alongside the all too comforting thrum of breath wisping heat against her hair and Francis’ eyes on hers. 

Home, home on the range

“Firstly, you’re most evidently intoxicated to some degree and secondly,” with an almost undeniable breath of hurt in Delia’s intonation, “what are you doing? What is this?”

The cowgirl doesn’t respond, only looking at her with the same infuriatingly cryptic gaze. The only indication of any sort of reaction is her slight pause in their swaying duet of hands and feet. Then the words are slipping past the brunette’s lips and she doesn’t know how to tamper her frustration.

“You say all these sweet nothings one day and then the very same night, you’re cold, distant. You call me ‘doll’ and ‘pretty girl’ and I don’t know what to think anymore but I don’t like being toyed with, Francis.” 

She murmurs, brows drawn together, “They aren't just words to me.”

Delia feels the hand on her back tighten ever so slightly. 

Where the deer and the antelope play

“First, I said I ain’t a lightweight. Second, those are two different questions.” The cowgirl’s voice is more defensive, a perceptible change. 

“Francis.” 

Francis can tell she’s unwilling to let her run semantics and circles around the topic tonight, the other girl’s voice uncharacteristically firm. She hated it, her innate capacity to bring out her ridiculous dimples and will them away just as quickly. She wanted to press the ruin of her lips to the salt of Delia’s brow and promise a century of apologies; to sink to her knees as a repenter would, their saviour. She didn’t believe in anything or anyone but she loved enough to know salvation and sin alike, wore ribbons in her hair and took the name Delia. She wanted to swallow her every swollen tear and hiccuped breath and know the marrow of her bones, broken and bruised, pearlescent and dull and nurse her fingers with her own, sinned and bloodied but hungry for only Delia’s crookedly toothed smile. That was her God sent scripture, her devastating testament and unyielding commandment. 

She wanted to. She almost did.

Francis’ hand coiled around Delia’s fingers more as a python would to the yolk of its cravings and her voice was quieter, candid this time.

Where seldom is heard, a discouraging word

“Ask a better question. You’re smarter than that, Delia.”

There’s a deafening tension that infects the once warm ambience, suddenly too little air and space between them. She doesn’t know how to ask or say what she wants to say, wordlessly stepping closer and disrupting the familiar rhythm of their dance. Her palm, a bit shaky, slips from Francis’ shoulder, tracing the side of her jaw before cupping the scarred tissue of her confused face. The blonde’s fingers become limp in their joint hands, eyes following hers with erratic blinks. 

Francis couldn’t move, swallowing as she reconciled with the fact that this was real. Delia’s nose was brushing against hers, hands cradling her face as their eyes seared into one another with the unspoken question. 

And the skies are not cloudy all day.

She doesn’t recognize the timidness of her own whisper, straw hair snaking down from her ponytail as the phonograph’s crackling comes to an end. 

“I thought you were worried ‘bout folks gettin' the wrong idea ‘bout us?”

Francis noticed that she had a mole speckled on her right eyelid, veiled slightly by the sable of her eyelashes. She wondered for a moment how many other beauty marks cascaded Delia’s skin. 

“I thought you told me not to care?” 

Francis has walked through hell quite literally, felt fire’s lick curl around her bones and strip it of its fat and muscle lining. Yet, when Delia’s cupid’s bow, featherlight, ghosted her upper lip, it was as if a match had been brazenly lit beneath the gasoline lattice of her nerve ends for the very first time. She thought for a moment that Prometheus’ torture was entirely worth enduring if it reaped this flame. Delia could taste the rum of Francis’ uneven breath where the seams of their mouths threatened to meet, plumes of heat feathering and twining between them.

Her hands pressed more firmly against the low of Delia’s back to disguise their tremor, the other moving to tenderly cradle her hair as her mouth stumbled to meet the brunette’s forehead; a safety net before her lips slipped and mistakes were made. Francis’ voice is more honest than the other girl thought possible, catching slightly in her throat as the words scrape over her tongue painstakingly. 

“I.. can't. ”

She feels the hands against her face slacken, and slowly lower to hold the collar of her shirt. Delia’s shaky exhale ricochets along the length of her neck.

“I’m sorry, Delia.”

There’s a vastness of unshared words tailing Francis’ murmur, half muffled against her ebony hair as she leans down more for their foreheads to meet. Neither are sure how long they stay like that. Francis disturbs the silence first with a whisper, taking a step back and ignoring the way Delia’s fingers don’t unfurl from her shirt. “It’s late. You oughta get some rest.”

Francis doesn’t glance back as she ascends the saloon’s staircase, hoping sleep will come quickly so she can pretend tonight never happened; pretend she didn’t make Delia cry again by being hopeful and stupid and selfish.

That she didn’t almost let herself love her.