Nine months is a long time, but three months feels longer, in the scheme of things

Georgia’s done this so many times it comes with ease: her toothbrush with its bristles poking out, a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste which is curled at the like a tail, and her dollar store deodorant half-dry—these things go in a ziplock back, of which she runs her fingers back and forth, sealing the lips of it until they crackle no more. 

Next goes underwear, socks, then pants. After pants go shirts, rolled with careful hands and stuffed into the sides of her bag. Finally, a pair of shoes in the bag and one on her feet. With her suitcase properly packed and zipped, she lugs it out of her house, staring at the table too small to eat at but big enough to hold one potted plant. She hears the door pull shut behind her as she waves to the cab driver.

When she had called, they didn’t ask twice for her destination. Most people with luggage and smiles in this town head to the small airport on the North Side of the Island, tired of slapping away silent mosquitoes as they sway on handmade rocking chairs, speaking to friends and family just to hear the words fill the air and not really to say anything. But she can’t quite say the same; leaving the smell of freshly mowed grass, littered with the hanging of dew in the air, has never been harder. 

“You’ll be back next summer,” June says, leaning against the front door as if without it she’ll melt in the fading August heat. Georgia can’t help but feel the same. 

“I’ll be back next summer,” She confirms, turning to face her. They study each other in the rising sun, the beams cascading down over the waking town like yellow stage lights set on the two of them. June’s hair glows like honey, strands of it spilling over white in the harsh lighting that the sun casts as it’s cut on the horizon, losing its shape to the clouds like butter melting into toast. Her eyes are narrowed, and her lashes look like paint strokes on a tan canvas. Freckles spot over her pink cheeks like bubbles on a creme-brulee and her abused lips are pulled into a sad smile. Georgia’s sure she’s never seen something more beautiful than June in her sweatshirt and nothing else, gleaming in the morning sun, hickies and bites trailing down her neck and adorning her collarbones. “And I’ll come here first, to kiss you good morning.” 

“Not gonna say hi to your Nana?”

“Not even Nana could stop me from greeting you.” She agrees, feeling a sad smile pull at her own lips like the salty waves pushing against her legs, another thing she will miss. 

But she’s grown accustomed to leaving the sandy shores behind. She can’t say the same thing about the pretty girl before her. 

She steps forward, pulling June against her one last time, kissing behind her ear as she whispers, “And maybe, we’ll do more than kissing.” 

“Oh? Like cooking?” June teases, clasping Georgia’s shirt in her thin fingers. 

“More like eating,” Georgia laughs against her skin, giving it a playful bite. She leans back and smiles down at June, feeling as if the sun’s honeysuckle bars are floating through her chest and reflecting off June’s golden heart, bathing her in the bounce light. “Don’t have too much fun without me, darling.” 

“No promises, baby.” Those fingers latch around the back of her neck, pulling at the baby hairs hiding beneath her combed hair. Her smile widening, Georgia presses her lips against June’s.

And everything begins, just like it always does when they touch. 

June’s lips are soft and pliable; they rub against hers, locking into place like they couldn't possibly fit anywhere else. Together, they move in synchrony, pushing and pulling, and Georgia can't find any air to breathe, but it doesn't matter because she never wants this to stop, never wants to have to face that stupid taxi and go to that stupid airport. She wants to take more and more, and she wants June to take more, take as much as she wants because they are both bare and open and here, and with the firm press of the other's mouth against her's. Georgia can’t imagine not feeling this for nine months; not when she kisses June and June kisses her like their lips connecting are the only thing that will ever matter, like if either of them stops to pull away the world will crumble at their feet.

June secures a hand at the back of her neck, entangling her fingers in the hair there, and pulls, tugging her down for better reach, and Georgia can't help but gasp at the tingles that run down her spine at the sensation. She's falling, she's free-falling, her heart clenching in her chest delightfully and body moving fluidly, and June’s right there, so she pins her against the door, collapsing against her until June is pressed against the door from her toes to her shoulders, and she is pressed against June in the same manner.

Using that little gasp to her advantage, Georgia slips her tongue past her parted lips, and with delicate but confident presses, turns June into nothing but putty in her hands as she explores. June presses back, just as confident. Georgia takes it in stride, and she thanks any God that might be around to listen, thanks them for this opportunity to discover the parts of this beautiful girl beneath her, the girl she never would have known if not for her regular visits down to the island.

Second, minutes, or centuries later, a horn honks behind them. June pulls back. Georgia follows her without conscious control of her body, but June uses that hand at her nape to secure her in place. Georgia pouts but can't help but be thankful for the intervention as she gasps for breath.

June looks as wrecked as she feels; lips parted, red and full and shimmering, like ripe fruit on a warm summer morning. A blush spreads across her cheeks, adorning her ears and neck, and her eyes are bright and shimmering. Georgia marvels at it, at her. June's golden eyelashes are fluttering; she's positively ethereal. She tries to come up with an adequate word to describe the way June looks right now.

How do you describe someone who makes your heart thunder and your limbs shake like you just ran a marathon, and rejuvenates your soul so you could run three more?

The horn honks once more, and June smiles again, sadness discoloring it like blue standing behind the horizon. Georgia wishes she had the time to chase it away, leaving only happiness bursting like the ripe juice on a peach that dribbles down your lips, but she doesn’t. All she’s got is a taxi cab behind her and nine long months of loneliness in front of her. 

“Until next time,” June says, eyes burning into her own like she’s trying to memorize the colors. Georgia tries to do the same. 

“Until next time,” She echos. 

Then, she pulls away, leaving the little girl on the little island behind.