Her formal dress, a confection made of navy blue and white striped taffeta and ruffles, lies crumpled on the floor. My long yellow vintage granny gown, with the square neckline and lace and seed pearls that made me think I was Juliet Capulet the first time I tried it on, lies on top of it in coital abandon, a single filmy cotton sleeve nudged into a wrinkly crevasse of navy satin. The dresses seem surer of themselves than we are.
I swallow past the lump in my throat to kiss her lips. When her mouth opens and her tongue darts out to meet mine, I taste the blackberry wine we’ve each had a glass of.
One of us is trembling. I don’t even know which one of us it is.
I want every inch of her. Her ears. Her dark walnut hair, which smells like flowery shampoo. Her eyes. Her cheeks. Her throat
