Trust. Episode 225 – The missing scene.

It wasn’t the first time they kissed.

It wasn’t the hundredth

And yet…

 

Emma was running through fields of grass, green and silken.

Tall.  So tall she had to pull herself up, up, fully extending her demure height,

Bouncing up, up, from the soft cushion of the earth.

 

She was running.

The field was endless,

Stretched to the far corners of forever.

And she was beaming.

 

Smiling, running, and suddenly laughing—giggling and laughing and falling as her legs became useless.  And she floated free and she flew through the bright spring sky.

The supple grass welcomed her, there to catch her without effort.

An embrace.  A falling, laughing giggling, earthen embrace.

 

And she landed

And a heartbeat later, Jenny landed on top of her

And the two of them wrapped themselves,

One round the other

Rolling and squealing and free.

 

Trust.

Unflinching. Immovable.  Fixed.

Whatever their missteps, their anxieties, their uncertainties,

These last few days had brought them victory over not only an injustice,

But had delivered the most precious and most thorny commodity.

Trust.

 

Emma felt

Jenny, unmistakeably.

Felt Jenny throughout the whole of her as Jenny’s pulse beat on her lips,

Lips that touched her own with such exquisite care.

Emma felt Jenny saying without speaking, 

‘Thank you.’

 

“No.”  She said, gently.

 

“No?”  Jenny looked up, looked… dazed.

 

“Yes. No.”   Emma smiled gently.

 

“Okay.”  Jenny smiled back, not knowing what, but knowing something else.  Something new. 

 

“I know….”  Emma began, looking into the eyes that spoke of pain and doubt and hurt and misunderstandings that had finally, miraculously been vanquished, championed. “I know what you’re… saying.”  She looked at Jenny’s lips—the great communicators.  “But I’m not done.”  Emma scooted from under Jenny, feeling surreptitiously for the pillows, the blankets around them.  “I’m not done.”

 

Jenny sat back on her haunches. Waited.  The entirety of Jenny was utterly devoted to the woman before her.

 

She.

Would.

Do.

Anything.

 

Emma moved, tossing a pillow behind Jenny.

She touched Jenny’s shoulder again, or rather, she hovered above the skin.  She drew her fingertips down, down her love’s arm, flesh whispering at flesh to respond, which it did.  Jenny shuddered.  Reaching Jenny’s hand, Emma laced their fingers together.  Her lips touched, the clavicle, followed the line, the dip of Jenny’s neck, out the other side.

 

Reaching the hollow of Jenny’s opposite shoulder, Emma began to push her love back, gently, with her lips, her nose, nudging, and guiding and holding her at her back, and Jenny’s eyes fluttered shut and she sighed a great, complete sigh.

 

Laying Jenny atop the pillow, Emma stopped to look.  Her own eyes shut briefly, her head falling forward in an overwhelming gratitude to whomever, whatever made life possible in this single moment.

 

And Emma finished. 

She led.

Using the back of her hand, she ran her knuckles softly over the rise of Jenny’s clothed breast.  A carefully shorn fingernail dragged down, slowly, slowly, over the tip.  Hands lifted and caressed and worshiped and pressed and lowered until Emma drew her own pants off, pushed Jenny’s skirt up, and she followed the race and hammer of the pulse beneath her lips, followed it with her fingertips, her legs, her head, her arms,  her toes, her torso, her breasts, her tongue, tasting salt and sweat and an essence created for her and her alone.

 

And then Jenny slept.

 

And Emma smiled.