Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cosima likes to sit on the closed toilet in the bathroom, a damp towel beneath her, and watch Delphine get ready for work. Today, since she's wearing a button-up blouse, Delphine hasn't bothered to dress before putting on her makeup and stands nude at the mirror, dabbing on moisturizer. Cosima has seen Delphine naked a thousand times and isn't surprised by her body anymore. Proximity has sanded down the edge of her excitability and she’s no longer instantly spun-up by Delphine's breasts or her bare throat. She watches Delphine in serenity and loves in her not what she once perceived as sublimity but the truth of what bends into the mirror. She doesn’t miss the haze of infatuation; she’d rather have her lover without the filter, having supplanted her inclination to plain arousal with a more complex response to all of Delphine and not just her comeliness.

Delphine draws Cosima to a place deep inside herself, a place that exists and vibrates because of Delphine instead of in response to her. From there she watches gently as her self-possessed lover reveals herself, subtly disclosing, for example, how things like perceived physical flaws chafe her. She’s learned that even Delphine the Beautiful has insecurities, and that for Delphine, the self-absorption and ingratitude hinted at by acknowledging concern about something like appearance is worse than the flaws themselves. This is why she doesn’t fuss when Delphine divulges something that she is hesitant to reveal. Such disclosures are a consequence of trust and not a request for reassurance. Cosima understands and respects this.

Cosima thinks that being allowed to witness Delphine's insecurities is the most intimate thing in their relationship. She is herself much more forthcoming – she withholds nothing -- and it was difficult for her at first to understand that for Delphine, sharing certain things about herself was a conscious and sometimes uncomfortable act. Cosima is quite certain that in all her lifetime Delphine has never made herself so open and vulnerable as she has with her, and Cosima feels a different and more complex kind of love for her as a result. It’s as though, through this vulnerability, Delphine has engaged another set of wheels in the apparatus of Cosima’s emotional clock, so that now the delicate teeth of protectiveness and gratitude apply torque alongside passion and admiration and all the other feelings that spin inside her. Delphine has set this ticking in her, and this mechanism, this machine, this chronometer that is love, is how she measures her life now. Within it she is never alone, she is never late, and she is never, never sorry.

Delphine always wears a wristwatch. In fact, she owns several. One is a vintage 14k white gold and diamond Longines that she wears on special occasions and one is a good dive watch that Cosima gave her for her thirty-fourth birthday. For daily use she prefers simple, sturdy sports watches. She’s rather hard on her everyday timepieces and she replaces them frequently, choosing dependable, inexpensive models that she discards when the faces get scratched or the bands begin to split.

Sometimes Cosima sits on their bed as Delphine finishes dressing to observe as she opens her slim walnut jewelry box and makes her selections, first the jewelry and then the watch. There is something so precise and “Delphine” in the little turn of the head to insert the earrings and in the way she repositions her sleeve once the watch has been buckled on. This moment with the watch always evokes something nostalgic in Cosima, who can imagine so clearly a younger Delphine dressed for rounds, checking for her watch and back-up pen. She is surprised by how much she loves this earnest, naive Delphine of her imagination and by how certain she is that she had been too callow as a young woman to have appreciated Delphine had they met when they were younger.

Delphine keeps her watches in the lower drawer of the walnut box, work, athletic, and dress watches pressed flat and laid out neatly side by side in a sort of sartorial égalité. She’s not a fussy or parsimonious person, but exists in the practical, forthright attitude of her upbringing, where belongings are cared for and simple economies are practiced in accordance with a self-reliant worldview. When she cooks with eggs, for example, she scoops the last bit of white out of the shells with her thumb as she was taught, and she keeps the heels of bread for breadcrumbs. But she does not deny herself good wine and cheese or lovemaking that leaves her exhausted the next day. So it is in her jewelry box, practical and extravagant timepieces neatly laid side by side and selected as the moment demands.

Cosima recognizes how fundamental this balance of sensibility and appetite is in Delphine and has come to appreciate, after long relationship, how Delphine relies upon her in both areas. She is not just Delphine’s joy, as any lover would expect to be, but also her comfort and her structure. Delphine chooses her, just her, every day, no matter the circumstance or her needs. Cosima is her sturdy, practical companion in work and life, and her diamond cuff, cherished by her most tender and private self.

Every day Delphine places Cosima at her pulse point and every day Cosima embraces her, turning her face up so that Delphine can read her plainly should she glance down to get her bearings.

Cosima loves Delphine en toto and from a place of honesty, and wouldn’t change anything about her, even those things Delphine dislikes. At least not for her own sake. She knows how others view Delphine: most finding her striking. She appears all length and femininity, her slender limbs giving the impression that the muscles beneath have no function but to support her lovely skin. But she also knows that Delphine, who is strangely modest for such a beautiful woman, thinks that her breasts are too small and of an unfortunate shape and Cosima suspects that she compares herself to Cosima’s past lovers, whose breasts Cosima has complimented from time to time. Her shoulders and hips are proportionate and slightly boyish, which she embraces by sometimes wearing boy shorts, but her behind is full in contradiction to this, and she often stands sideways in the mirror after dressing to reassure herself that the cut of her clothing downplays this characteristic. Cosima loves this surprise, how Delphine looks sleek in her clothing but voluptuous and sensual when unclothed; it is her most sexually-provocative feature. She also loves Delphine’s hands, which in contrast to her unblemished, perfectly-manicured feet, are strong, workmanlike, and covered in bold veins, a characteristic that Delphine despises but Cosima likes best of all.

This morning Delphine is looking carefully at her eyes, whose full bottom lids she tries to disguise. Cosima views her in profile as she starts on her eye make-up, and says, “Do you know anything about art?”

Delphine replies, “A little. Why?” as she applies concealer.

“Do you know Botticelli?”

“Fifteenth or sixteenth century? Portraits?”

“Yeah. Exactly. He was famous for a painting technique that made the skin tones in his portraits seem especially real and dimensional. He painted multiple layers of thin wash in slightly different colors on the faces, giving them a sort of luminous depth. They were said to, kind of … glow. Over time, though, the pigments have decomposed and the paintings have lost that quality. We can’t see it anymore.”

Delphine turns her head and regards her curiously, which Cosima interprets as a question about how she knows this information.

“I had a chem prof who used this as an example of chemical decomposition,” she offers, smiling.

“What on earth made you think of this?” Delphine asks, turning back to the mirror.

“Well, it just occurred to me that the change in your coloring is the opposite of that process.”

Delphine’s eyebrows pull together in confusion. “My coloring?”

“Yeah. Your coloring. Your skin color.”

Delphine’s eyebrows relax and she nods slightly, a brief smile of recognition ghosting over her features. “Ah.”

“Oh, you thought I meant your hair color.” Cosima’s hands pop up into a little palm-wagging gesture of erasure. “No, no. Sorry. I’m talking about your skin.

“So, what I mean is, like, when you get out of the shower, your skin is pink. Or when we have sex, your capillaries dilate and your coloring changes. It seems like that is when your skin should be the prettiest, when it’s flushed like that, you know? You look so alive and healthy and … vivid.” Delphine’s hands slow as she listens. “But as you cool and your skin goes back to its normal color, I think it gets more beautiful. It gets, I don’t know … deeper looking, riper, glowier. It seems like your pigments are enhanced by the air instead of being depleted by it. It makes me happy … hopeful, I guess … realizing that. Knowing that this beautiful thing about you isn’t fleeting, that we aren’t losing something wonderful after a few moments. ”

Delphine turns to her. “That is a lovely thing to say.”

“It’s just the truth, babe. You’re a beautiful woman. I’m only reporting the facts.”

Delphine smiles and looks down briefly, fighting a flush of self-consciousness, before looking up and into Cosima’s bright face.

“Thank you, Cosima. You always make me feel beautiful, even when I’m not.”

Cosima emits a quick snort in disbelief that Delphine is ever not beautiful, to which Delphine responds with a cock of her head, a rueful smile, and an index finger pointed to the wrinkles beginning to form at the edges of her eyes.

“Oh, please,” huffs Cosima. “You’d need a jeweler’s loupe to find a wrinkle on that gorgeous face.”

“Now you’re just teasing me,” Delphine chuckles. “But I appreciate the sentiment. You’re quite the charmer when you apply yourself.” She turns back to the mirror and starts again on her make-up. “Shall we go out tonight since you are feeling so romantic? We could try to get into Scaramouche.”

“Good luck with that.”

“I will find something nice if you want to go.”

“Yes, please,” Cosima grins. “You can woo me with tiny plates of spider lips and hummingbird tears en croute and a bottle of something exorbitant and delicious and red.”

Delphine laughs. “Your wish is my command.”

They share a companionable silence for a while, the sounds of Delphine opening and closing her cosmetics sharp in the tiled room. “Cosima?” Delphine finally says.

“Hmmm?”

“Do you mind much that the things we find attractive in each other … the physical things … are going to fade? Do you think that will change things between us eventually?”

Cosima looks up at Delphine, surprised. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“I just don’t want things to wind down, you know?” Delphine replies. “I’m so happy as we are now.”

“I’m happy too. Nothing’s going to change.”

Delphine expression closes and she continues with her make-up.

Cosima knows that her answer sounded pat and empty when she didn’t mean it to be. She thinks about how she can explain.

“I look at you all the time, you know? I see you in every possible type of light and physical situation and it kind of feels like you transform all the time, based on, you know, what’s going on around you, like what I said before about your skin pinking-up in the shower. And, I think …” she says, “… the best version is just plain you, without makeup or sex or hot water to make anything about you different. Just the out-of-the-box, unadulterated you. I don’t think that preference is ever going to change.”

Delphine softens and smiles. “We’ll see what you say when my boobs sag a couple of inches,” she offers, only just teasing.

“Hey, as long as I can reach them, we’re good,” laughs Cosima.

The moisture from their showers having dissipated, Delphine begins to work on her hair. Cosima wonders if she is truly reassured or if she has dropped the subject for another reason. She finally decides to touch on it again and rises to embrace Delphine from behind, kissing her shoulder and then looking over her into the mirror. Delphine lowers her arms and gazes back.

“Of course I enjoy how beautiful you are. It’s a turn-on,” Cosima offers. “But I don’t need it. I might have, at first, at the very beginning, before I … grew up. But I think that, after all the time we’ve spent together and everything we’ve been through … I’m not sure I even completely see what you look like anymore. So how could I miss it if it changes?”

Delphine tenses.

“I mean I do. I do see you,” Cosima fumbles. She pulls Delphine’s arms up and crosses them over her belly, interlacing their fingers. “But it’s not all I see, you know? Like, when I think of you I don’t just picture your face or your body. Other things are also part of that picture, like how smart and sincere and loving you are. I can’t separate them out anymore. To me, they’re part of how you look. And it’s all that stuff together that makes me love you now, not just how pretty you are. For me, the things that make you you will never decay. Does that make sense?”

Delphine turns her head to the side to press her cheek to Cosima’s. They’re quiet for a second.

“Besides, if you get too hideous, there’s always Neolution, right?”

Delphine begins to chuckle and turns in Cosima’s arms, pulling Cosima’s head to her shoulder and holding her there. They rest in their embrace, surrendered to the morning and to the smell of clean skin and to what they feel, and they wish, each of them, that the moment could go on and on.

One of the aspects of having a complex, energetic mind is that Cosima sometimes has trouble unwinding at bedtime. She is often unable to still her thoughts and to disengage from what interests or worries her. Delphine doesn’t want her to smoke all the time as a remedy so she tries various ways to help her relax. Sometimes something as simple as rubbing her back is enough, but when it isn’t, the tactile stimulation exacerbates the racing in her head. They have tried reading and white noise, meditation and television. Eventually, Delphine devises the game and they become so fond of it, they sometimes play just because it makes them feel close and not because it helps with insomnia.

It’s so simple. As they lie in the dark, Delphine offers a series of choices: art or music? italic or bold? sunlight or moonlight? and Cosima chooses which she likes best. The pairings are engaging but simple, the answers unimportant. Cosima usually fidgets at first and punctuates her answers with gestures or explanations, but over time she stills against Delphine’s shoulder or under her arm and answers simply, her brain nudged away from its complicated whirling. Smell or taste? onion or tomato? here or there? Slowly Delphine uncouples Cosima, stretching the distance between her brain’s complicated gears until finally they disengage and she calms, unwound. They play this many times, stopping occasionally to discuss all the different things each answer could mean, but mostly they just float together in a sea of simple words, murmuring in a soft back and forth that edges them into stillness and sleep.

They are still catching their breath and talking softly when Cosima pulls back and says, “I’m starving. Let’s make pancakes.”

“But it’s … “ Delphine cranes her neck toward the clock, “two in the morning. Why don’t you just get an apple?” and plops back down on the pillow.

“You’ve got me totally wired. And hungry.”

“You’re supposed to be sleepy and snuggly,” says Delphine, pulling her closer and kissing her again. Cosima kisses back for a few moments, considering, and then says against Delphine’s lips, “but … pancakes.”

“I’ll make crepes in the morning, if you like. We’ll be up all night if you make pancakes,” Delphine groans.

“Come on, Delphine. It’ll be fun,” says Cosima, who, to begrudged laughing and shoving, kisses Delphine sloppily and noisily on the ticklish part of her neck and then slides off the bed to make for the kitchen.

“Nutella crepes,” says Delphine loudly. “With orange zest!”

There is no response but the sound of cupboards opening and closing.

“Crap,” says Delphine, who stares at the ceiling for a moment and then struggles to her feet and throws on a t-shirt.

Delphine plops down onto a kitchen chair, not entirely convinced that she wants to be there. She pulls one heel up to the chair seat and yanks her t-shirt down over her bent leg. It’s too short to cover anything else and when Cosima, who is herself mostly naked, looks over, she’s greeted by a casually-exposed eyeful. She exaggerates her look of surprise and mouths “Wowza!” before turning back to the counter to retrieve a whisk. “Your butt’s gonna stick to that chair,” she comments.

“Pfft,” is the response.

“Banana and pecan?” asks Cosima, who’s now rooting around in the fridge, “or … I could do something savory, like cheddar and jalapeño.”

“Banana, please,” says Delphine, who is now watching with her chin on her knee. Cosima unbends from the fridge with butter, milk, and eggs that she places on the counter.

“You realize, of course, that we will have to run tomorrow to work this off?”

“A jogging?” says Cosima. “Will you sweat in French? It’s so much sexier when you sweat in French.”

“I do everything in French,” Delphine says, grinning. “Except … pee.” Cosima raises her eyebrows.

“That I do in ASCII.”

Delphine has another watch, also given to her by Cosima, which she wears exclusively in her private life. It’s her favorite. It’s a mechanical watch from the 1950s, with a large cream-colored face, gold hands, and a brown leather wristband that has been modified to fit her slender wrist. It is engraved on the back Ab initio, dilexi te – Cinette.

This is the only one of Delphine’s watches that ticks with any authority and she occasionally holds it to her ear before putting it on, enjoying its crisp metallic heartbeat. It is an irony of their times, Delphine thinks, that she finds the tiny gears and springs of this mechanical mechanism far more marvelous than the microchips and advanced plastics of her other watches, devices that would have amazed the watch’s original owner. The gentleman who first wore her watch, she supposes, would likely have been nonplussed that a woman would even wear such a masculine thing, more so that she would love it so much because it had been given to her en témoignage d'amour from her female lover. But she may wear the watch without worrying about these things, she thinks. Times have changed and she is glad of it.

Cosima loves the look of this simple man’s watch on Delphine’s arm and she winds it every night in a gesture of faithfulness, knowing that Delphine will see its second hand advancing in little hops when she reaches into her jewelry box each morning to pull out what she will wear that day. She and Delphine talk sometimes about Cinette and her husband. Where had they lived? How had they met? Had he loved her as much as she loved him? Why had she chosen Latin for the inscription?

Cosima bought the watch because of the inscription, not only because its sentiment was true but because she liked the idea of keeping Cinette’s love alive through her own love. When she winds Cinette’s love gift and when Delphine wears it, she feels, whispering in her own emotions, the presence of all the lovers before her who have cherished it. She’s not sure why she wants to remember them. Perhaps it’s because she doesn’t feel that her gift to Delphine has supplanted their passions, but that they all stand together in the watch’s little heartbeat, separated by time but linked by the measure of its passing.

One night before bed Cosima is winding the watch while Delphine rubs lotion on her arms and hands. Delphine adores Cosima, so much more confident and at peace in their relationship now than she had been in the beginning. Even after all this time, her thankfulness for Cosima wells up unexpectedly, sudden and replete. It’s usually little things that make this happen, things no bigger than a hand brushing back a lock of hair, but when it does it strikes in her like a chime. Just now Cosima is preparing the watch so that its I love you will greet Delphine when she dresses in the morning. Her slender body is in profile at the dresser, her face bent to her task, and as Delphine watches this ordinary moment her heart snaps open like a savonnette.

“Cosima?”

“Yeah?” Cosima says, looking up.

Delphine reaches to her. “Come to bed.”

As Cosima closes the jewelry box and crosses to her, Delphine pulls off her nightgown and lays down. Cosima doesn’t go to her own side of the bed but to Delphine’s, and she stands for a moment looking down at her sleek length before pulling off her clothing and turning off the light. When she enters the bed, she stretches out on top of Delphine, balanced so that they are pressed breast to breast. She puts her hands in Delphine’s hair, and lifting her weight onto her forearms, begins to kiss her face, caressing her eyelids and cheeks, her temples and jaw.

“I love you, Delphine,” she whispers. “Ab initio, dilexi te.”

“Je t’aime aussi. Du début jusqu’à la fin, je t’aimerai.”

They kiss and kiss, slowly and gently, with no imperative but touch itself. Delphine rests her hands at Cosima’s ribs and gently strokes the places where muscle gives way to breast. She focuses on Cosima’s familiar weight and the slow movement of her lips and hands, but she also listens to the sound of their breathing and the soft wetness of their kissing. She feels swaddled by the quiet of their room, every sensation heightened by its depth, every sound from their touching pressing out only a few inches before falling back.

Cosima makes gentle fists in Delphine’s hair, tugging lightly before unclenching her hands and moving her fingertips to Delphine’s scalp, which she caresses as she continues to kiss her. They touch their tongues together and brush their lips across the soft skin of ears and throats. They suck at each other’s lips, giving each lip attention as its own erotic portal instead of as a gateway to somewhere else. Moments pass where they lie cheek to cheek and tell lover’s secrets. They unfurl into each other, murmuring and sighing. Eventually they still, and Cosima rests for a moment at Delphine’s throat.

“Shall I demonstrate the magic of your watch?” she whispers.

Delphine’s kiss is her assent.

Cosima shifts so that she is lying on the bed, pressed front to side along Delphine’s length. She rises onto her elbow and places her hand low on Delphine’s belly. “A mechanical watch has five main parts,” she begins. “The energy mechanism is first.”

She runs her hand across Delphine, touching everything she can reach: throat, shoulders, arms, breasts, ribs, belly, hips, and groin. Her touch is firm and possessive. She is claiming Delphine’s body, intimating that Delphine is to allow her to lead.

“Unlike in a quartz movement, energy must be introduced to the mechanical watch by hand.”

She places the heel of her hand at the place where Delphine’s thighs touch, and fingers pointed upward, pushes lightly up her torso, stopping beneath her throat and then drawing her fingertips back down her body. She repeats this, demonstrating her description. Up moves her palm, caressing belly and chest. Down move her fingertips, grazing the hair at Delphine’s groin. She ascends, descends, ascends, descends, watching her hand traverse Delphine’s pale skin and pressing just firmly enough not to tickle. With the next pass Cosima stops at Delphine’s breastbone and pauses to look for her eyes. Delphine can read everything in her face. Je t’aime, je t’aime she thinks, her emotions rising to catalyze her arousal. She watches as Cosima turns back to cup her breast and to kiss it. She kisses the breast as she had kissed Delphine’s face, attending to each part. She takes her time, pressing her lips to the soft edges, to the fullness cupped in her palm, across its face and around the nipple. When the nipple begins to contract she pulls back to watch and then bends to take it into her mouth, sucking lightly to pull it up. Delphine’s mouth pops open and she presses her head into the pillow, tightening and arching her torso slightly. Cosima squeezes and pulls more of the breast into her mouth.

Eventually Cosima releases and moves her hand once again down Delphine’s body. She begins to rub up and down her torso, this time increasing the pressure as her hand descends, as though she were pushing Delphine’s feelings into her groin. She presses firmly when she reaches the bottom of each stroke, focused on the place where Delphine’s arousal has begun to pool. Delphine closes her eyes and begins to tip her pelvis, pressing against Cosima’s hand each time it reaches its nadir.

“Energy is transferred to the mainspring by turning the winding crown, the knob on the side of the case,” Cosima says softly.

She bites lightly at Delphine’s nipple and on the bottom of the next stroke pushes against Delphine’s thigh until she opens her legs. She shifts very slightly down the bed and when she can reach low enough to touch the bed between Delphine’s legs, runs her fingers along Delphine’s moistened lips a few times in imitation of her previous caressing, parting her just enough to tease. Finally she presses all the way in and runs the length of her, gathering fluid until her fingers are slick and Delphine releases a long, low moan.

“Fuck,” groans Cosima, dropping her head forward, and Delphine pushes her leg outward, encouraging her to press against her. After a moment of shifting and rubbing, she goes back to Delphine, pulling her fingers up and circling.

“As the crown is wound, energy is stored for eventual release.”

Delphine begins to move more earnestly, rocking against Cosima’s fingers to maximize the sensation. Cosima kisses her as she works, sucking and nipping at her breast, her chest, and beneath her collarbone. They continue, circling and pushing, making little sounds, until Cosima feels her engorge and, using her thumb and forefinger, pushes down into Delphine’s soft tissue and grasps her gently, rolling her swollen flesh. Delphine gasps. She stills, afraid to dislodge Cosima’s fingers, which are perfectly placed, and flutters in tiny, quivering jerks as Cosima winds her up.

“When the mainspring is tight,” she murmurs, “energy is transferred to the barrel, and then to the wheels, which move it throughout the watch.”

Cosima releases her and moving her fingers down until her palm is over Delphine's most sensitized flesh, presses down firmly and grasps the whole of her, squeezing. “Pull your heel up,” she requests.

Delphine complies, raising her leg and shifting her heel out until she is fully open. Cosima moves her hand lower, placing her fingertip against Delphine’s puckered flesh and circling it lightly. She draws her fingers up, relubricating them, and then moves back down, pushing gently into her with the tip of her ring finger, moving in and out and twisting her hand. Delphine rises slightly off the bed with each thrust, making an “uh” sound each time she is entered. Cosima knows she is approaching the point of no return and stops.

“The mainspring’s energy can’t be released all at once. It must be slowed and regulated so that the watch will function over time, so there is a third part to the mechanism. The escapement.”

She pulls out and waits for Delphine to relax into the mattress.

“The escapement has levers and wheels, and they rock back and forth to pace the release of energy,” she says, slipping two fingers into the place she has been working toward all along. She moves slowly in and out, curling and uncurling her fingers to rub the wet ridges and slowly-contracting walls.

“This is why the watch ticks. The teeth of the escape wheel strike against the opposite sides of the lever, allowing only a little of the watch’s stored energy to escape.”

Cosima falls into a familiar rhythm, stroking with increasing speed and force and then backing off, building and then delaying Delphine’s orgasm to provide her the most intense conclusion. Years of practice make Delphine easy to read and Cosima moves with confidence, her own arousal building as she caresses her lover. Eventually she straddles Delphine’s thigh and uses her leg to put more power behind her hand.

When it is time, she uses all her skills to please Delphine. She describes the final few pieces of the watch, knowing that Delphine’s quick mind will channel her words into erotic pictures. She loves her for this and for the beautiful body undulating beneath her hand. You are my life she thinks as she finally pushes her to the edge, and when Delphine falls, when the mechanism of her pleasure sweeps the hour and stops, Cosima sees before her in Delphine’s glistening and familiar body her forever.

Cosima goes to her and gathers her up. They are mated. They are matched. They will sleep entwined, setting down their passion as they do their utilitarian concerns, so that they can rest. Tomorrow when they open the box of their morning they will find it, tended faithfully, its hands moving forward in little hops, ready for the moment they choose to pick it up.

The winter seems to go on and on and they stay in bed later than they do in the summer, unwilling to get up unless hunger or other necessity compels them. Delphine likes to read in the mornings, cardigan added to her pajamas and duvet pulled up over her lap. If it’s not too early when she wakes she turns on her bedside lamp, and propped against the headboard, pulls out whatever she is reading for pleasure, knowing that Cosima will wake only enough to turn to her and throw an arm over her thighs before going back to sleep.

She loves these mornings: the smell of the warm bed, the lamplight yellow against the cool blues of the bedroom, Cosima’s unconscious seeking of her and the weight of her lithe body tucked up close. And she enjoys the experience of her books, not just the language, but also how their heft and the texture and subtle smell of the paper are part now of this lovely piece of her life.

Occasionally she pauses in her reading and watches Cosima sleep, noticing how her shoulder muscles are defined by the cast light when the rest of her is in shadow, still part of the night. Soon Cosima will wake and smile and offer to make coffee. She will join Delphine in their morning, night shed, and propped in bed with her laptop, will comment on what they are reading and what they should do with their day. But for now she belongs to their other life, their dreaming life, and Delphine pauses alone in the brief overlap, vaguely aware that although the time signature will change when Cosima awakens, the dance will remain the same.

So it is. They whirl in their progression day by day, advancing only because they circle side by side, the wheels and notches and springs of their relationship interlocked and sized to fit only their mechanism. Through seasons, through years, they are shielded by the case and crystal of each other, and thus protected they move to the measure of their life together. They don’t count out the rhythm beneath the ticks. They don’t think about their dance or how it moves them from beginning to end.

They just dance.