The kiss was so far from any of the night terror that Flo experienced with Isa getting in between from the previous evening. Taken by surprise, the 400 year old selkie is familiar at this point with the art of a human kiss. She’s kissed so many males and females at this point that it’s almost instinctual. Isabella long distanced herself from the romantic feelings up until this point in which she felt the danger. A week she swore she would only stay but now it was impossible. She heard tiny voices in the back of her head from her long dead brothers and sisters beware the curse that falls upon young lovers, Isabella. And though she might fight the tides of the ocean later, in this moment, this very moment of the feeling of the warmth of sleep dulling away and the time that is awake, she gives into the kiss. Her thoughts are of this will heal Florence, this will make her better. And she’s sworn to protect her now at the cost of perhaps her own being. Isa is the last of the Selkies as far as she’s known. With this kiss it inspires a fire of devotion and she wonders if it would last twenty years. But it certainly goes longer than a moment.
Moments like these have no time with her being. They pass through each other’s lungs and breath between and Florence deepens the kiss with Isabella. It’s been a very long time since the redhead felt anything other than an empty pill bottle and a bottle she drank of whiskey and vodka at some point. For the first time in months, Florence knows that the change between them moves quicker like faster than she’s ever known. The sheer rush in which she felt beyond the stage at one point feels like that heady gauze in which she propels herself over in the kiss. There are sounds yet, sounds between lips and tongue and the vulnerability. There are the familiar hands that Isa reaches and slides through ginger hair, only with the bright light of sunshine through the hotel room in which this kiss feels like the songs that she once sang - that exciting double time in heartbeat in which crowds dived with her and she felt so alive.
And for Isa, the kiss feels so dangerous because now she knows she must spend more than a week. For every day and minute that passes, the danger of staying is there. And so she kisses and without ever knowing or actually stating in words, Florence now feels incredibly protective of Isa. And Isa doesn’t know of Florence’s devotion either. Florence isn’t ready to tell her in words not yet. But the feelings are stirred. They make love for the first time that morning, hungrily and instinctually. There is no reason to ask if either are ready, it felt too incredible to stop.
Time moves like the tides of the ocean, in, out and months are spent still in the hazy Southern California gaze. But instead of Florence looking out at the ocean every day, she sings for Isa. She sings the songs that she once sang about Ceremonials and Lungs and explains to Isa in so many words - death, sex, religion and so forth. For Isa’s part she understands but wonders how a human who appears to be so young has so much wisdom. She’s heard mermaids sing, dreadful siren songs that lure sailors to their deaths. She knows Flo is far beyond any mermaid - she does not sing and lure people to their deaths. Instead it’s finally understood that all the efforts towards her once failed relationship to James was her own death and now Isa worked on making magic happen.
It is one evening late and it is nearing Spring. The time and shift of the seasons are there and Isa has now spent nearly 8 months with Florence, 8 months since a late Summer day. She takes Florence by the hand and Flo gently holds her coat up. Of course she’s careful now not to simply take the coat.
“Let’s go walk to the ocean, Florence,” Isa has missed the sea. She also needs to show Florence something far greater. And she knows it is a risk, everything is a risk. She has never done this with another human.
“It’s cold though, Isa!” Florence laughs and at this point the hotel room is far cleaner now. Less alcohol, there are even pots of flowers. Isa has given Florence confidence in ways that were lacking, the youthful ways of an older woman now returned. And in the light of the moon, Florence writes songs again. She hasn’t shown anyone yet these beginnings of songs yet, but she knows the muse has returned.
“But it’s only cold if you don’t have a warm coat and lucky for you,” she says as she goes barefoot out the door and leads Florence also in bare feet towards the water. “You happen to have my coat to protect you.”
Florence sighs softly, “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dead.”
This statement from Florence makes Isa slightly sad. “My dear, in 400 years of swimming in the ocean, the death to which you speak of is not an option for you anymore. Do you hear me, Florence?”
Florence nods, “I understand.”
The Pacific Ocean rolls in with the blue depths of water of the sea in and out. Tide is high and so the waves look strong. For Isa, she feels the stirring in her heart of the ocean calling for her. Florence tightens her grip on Isa’s fingertips but speaks, “You want to go home don’t you?’
Isa looks up at those green eyes which are rimmed with sadness. "When I first landed upon the rock, I told myself I would only spend a week with you. A week because…” she closed her blue eyes. “My brothers and sisters died staying any longer upon the land. I am the last of my kind, Florence. If I stay, I risk…”
Florence finishes her sentence, “Everything. I understand. I may not be 400 years old but you risk your heart. You think I’m going to kill you.” She pulls away and shakes her head, “Damn it. I love you!”
This declaration startles Isa. “You love me?”
Florence is like a child in this moment. She worries about losing her most prized possession. She realizes though of course she cannot keep Isabella. “I love you, Isabella. I’ve loved you since the morning you protected me. And now you want to leave because of some myth! I’m all for myths but not now!”
Isa opens her eyes, the wind blows her blonde hair over her shoulder. She folds her arms. She knows the passion is there. She stares back and then she makes another decision. “Do you trust me, Florence? I’ve never done this with another human before. But this is the only way for me to show you…” and in that moment she grabs Florence by the hand. She pulls her towards the water and Florence at first is deathly scared.
Isa sweeps up Florence into her coat and then in that moment she dives into the water before Florence has a chance to answer.
In the arms of the ocean, deliver me. Florence briefly reminds herself and she can’t breathe but she doesn’t need to. Isa’s seal like coat has become her form. And she’s swimming with Isa now in the water, deep below. She has no idea how her lungs haven’t given out. And it’s possible that the magic of the selkie nature has come to root. Isa takes her in the sea and shows her everything she has never shown another human in her life. She shows her the emptiness of the water, the way that the sea creatures are there and the fishes swim. She is lightning fast and yet she opens her eyes and she leans in and kisses Florence giving her every breath possible, and Florence is not sure if she is dreaming again.
Isa in this moment is swimming still and giving Florence every essence of herself that she once swore never to give. She’s given her love now to Florence and has given her the ultimate risk that is there. The ocean is big, the ocean is blue and in that moment it is beautiful to Florence. Isa stays under with Florence for longer than time allows it to happen and then swims to the surface, pulling Florence up with her.
There is a gasp for air and for oxygen. Florence now understands why Isa never wished to give up the sea. The sea was her only protection from the emptiness of her heart, the spirit to which moved her. And now she has given Florence her heart and there is no question about where Isa belongs. She pulls Florence upon the rock and Isa leans in and her back and kisses Florence to give her oxygen. The wet clothes perhaps will have to go off but there is Isa’s coat and she protects Florence.
“I love you too,” she breathes against her lips. “I will not go back to the sea without you.”
Florence pops her green eyes open and is breathless but conscious now that it wasn’t a dream. “I will give you a home here worthy of the ocean.”
When they dream, more often than not, they dream together. Tonight is no exception; limbs tangled and sheets kicked off so they can tuck in close despite the heat, cocooned in their little home by the sea.
It feels almost official, now she’s bought a tiny villa not far from their coast, the hotel room getting too small to contain them plus all of Florence’s (and increasingly, Isa’s) alarmingly large collections of miscellany and paraphernalia. They’d ended up creeping like ghosts through their ever-broadening citadel of art and books and bags and bottles of perfume kicked over and rolled under the bed amongst scarves and dresses and vintage coats they’d found and rescued whilst gasping and laughing their way through countless tiny thrift shops. And scrunched up paper, relics of midnight scrivenings when Isa was splayed out alone because Florence’s heart felt too full to sleep – reams of musings on love and loss and half-finished sketches hewn in biro on creamy hotel-watermarked leaves, but mostly the grid-lined stuff she keeps a stash of always, because the squares feel so much less intimidating than lines.
It had become like an ocean in its own right, of them both, but it had become as stifling as it was comforting. Florence began to wonder what she was afraid of – that somehow this strange happiness was tied up like a frail and threadbare magic to the four walls they had shared since they’d met?
But it wasn’t. Florence was thankful to whatever god or goddess hung up there in the vast blue sky above that the strange working allowing her this peaceful ebb in her life, allowing her Isa, was somehow remaining stubbornly intact. The new place was modest but big enough, with a bedroom and room for a studio of sorts off to the side, with space for a keyboard set-up and a view of the water to holler at and sing. Isa had shocked Florence by knowing her way around the chords and keys oddly well, short fingers hesitant at first but soon reclaiming some previous knack. She’d simply raised one wise eyebrow at Florence’s shrieking laugh of wonder at her talent, marvelling at Florence’s unfiltered mirth that Isa could still find ways to surprise her. Moments like these happened almost disquietingly often; little hints that Isabella isn’t quite human, of the many lives she’d lived, always when Florence was in danger of forgetting just how different they are really, despite the fact they share kisses and memories and dreams. ‘I haven’t played in years.’ she’d said with a distant smile, and Florence still wonders whether she’d meant two or twenty or two hundred.
It feels the same when Florence wakes up alone, just as Isa arrives back, dripping wet, always a wild look her eyes. (Sometimes – especially when the moon is round and full, tuning the sea into silvered glass, bringing the tide closer and closer until she can see the hairs raise into gooseflesh on Isa’s arms and the agitated beat of her fingers, drumming, drumming, drumming, to some frantic tempo only she can hear – Isa needs to swim, further and faster than Florence could ever hope to keep up with. She never brings her sealskin with her – they don’t talk about why, but Florence knows somewhere deep and raw that despite how much Isa loves her, there are some things she can’t risk, can’t control – so she just swims her girl-form out beyond the milk-white horizon, as deep and far as her human lungs can take, until the crawling need passes and she can return to shore, sated, but for a time, perhaps a little more feral than before). They always make love on nights like those, Isa still smelling of salt and tasting of the ocean, her red mouth and her tanned skin and everywhere, and it’s like drowning, like the sea is pouring right through their open window and claiming them both. In the hazy time after as they drift off to sleep, Isa’s there again, not quite girl, not quite seal, floating through her mind, curling up in Florence’s arms or tucked against her back as she lays to rest between her temples. Isa’s always there, so it’s almost easy to not worry that one day, after one of these midnight trips, she won’t be. That her sealskin won’t be folded carefully, tucked safely away in the overstuffed ottoman at the foot of their bed.
Especially not now, since Isa had shown her, had taken Florence with her – wrapped them both in her fur and shot them together through the water, tiring herself out breathing for two so Florence would know, could have for moments what she had felt only second-hand with every traipse through Isa’s memories of everything being so cold and so sweetly, brilliantly blue. Even though Isa’s face was grey with it when they surfaced, from sustaining two lives deep beneath the waves for the short time they’d been under, she was so alive in that moment, in her element truly and completely. Especially not now, after that, now Florence feels it too. It’s becoming harder and harder to believe Isa will want this, here, forever, when Florence isn’t even sure she can resist the arms of the ocean, so wide and so strong.
The sky is open and endless even though by rights autumn should be nipping right at summer’s heels by now, sending needles of cold with every landing bite. Isa threads her fingers through and idly plays with Florence’s hair – it’s getting so long, trailing like seaweed, just brushing the dark wood of the floor from where she’s lying, nose pressed into Isa’s belly on the sofa as she sleeps off the worst of her fever.
Isa tries to busy herself, gently tracing every one of Florence’s tattoos she can reach, cataloguing them silently for the hundredth time. The Third Eye. Water and Air. A birdcage: empty. The Heart, on the curve of her elbow. Florence was quick to assure Isa that it was just a summer cold, short and sharp, but it’s another reminder of how fragile this all is, how fragile Florence is. When Isa’s in a mood like this, quiet and sombre and so, so grateful Florence is not awake to witness it, everything pulls at the pit of her stomach, filling it with something that feels all too much like dread, of the gaping, gnawing variety that had been giving Florence such awful, awful night terrors when they first met. Because she can’t always ignore the truth. She can’t ignore the obvious fact that, as a selkie, Florence will age and decay and die practically in a blink of one of Isa’s dark, unfathomable sealish eyes.
Isa tightens her other hand, still entwined with Florence’s, slightly clammy but so real and alive she could scream. Florence smiles in her sleep, burying her face deeper. If Isa closes her eyes too, she can just about make out the fuzzy outline of Florence’s fever-thoughts, colourful and strange.
Isa feels the grin spread involuntarily across her face. Not that different to usual, then.
She will just have to take what she has. And that will have to be enough.
Mairead is just happy she’s writing and singing again, apparently, but there’s an edge to her voice too. It’s been a long time. Florence has told her she was ready to come back to it all before. Florence knows she’s never successfully convinced anyone she was fixed, though, really, Mairead included. How could I, when I couldn’t even convince myself?
“Wait.” Florence cuts through Mairead’s stock assurances that it really is fine, and she doesn’t have to do anything until she’s ready. It all sounds reedy and strange through the transatlantic call, like she can hear the thousands of miles of ocean distorting her voice while quietly listening in on their conversation. Isa subconsciously perks up from where she’s leant against the window, watching as the sun slowly lifts itself above the horizon and pretending not to listen in. It’s very early – it had to be because of the time zones, and it’s making everything feel a bit surreal. Florence’s interjection wasn’t unusual as such, but it feels odd in her soft voice.
“I really have been working on something new. I think – no, I know, it’s different this time. I know the last year and a half I haven’t been the best person ever to manage, I can’t apologise enough for that, but I think this is it. I’m going to send you some demos we’ve been working on and –“
“We? Is Rob out there with you? Or… are you…?”
There’s a moment of silence and Florence can sense the trepidation in Mairead’s voice. She’s figured something must have changed and she’s not wrong.
Shit. It sounds just like I’m abandoning the band!
“Yes, it’s not Rob – you know how we were always saying, how we could do with someone permanent on keys who could actually play? Rather than endless session musicians or my awful jangling…”
At this Isa shakes her head in mock outrage – any notion of trying not to be nosy thoroughly abandoned – and sighs; there’s little point in telling Florence she’s actually a half-decent pianist again if the girl never believes it. Florence grins before quickly putting a finger to her lips: Shush.
“So anyway, I’ve found a new… collaborator… she’s called Isabella and she’s been recording with me for a few months now…” Florence laughs silently at herself for being so hesitant, so obvious. But Mairead has known her for nearly ten years, ever since that fateful night she found Florence half-cut off cheap vodka and singing her soul out in that filthy nightclub toilet, so–
“Collaborator…? Oh. Oh.” Florence can hear the smile in Mairead’s voice, and it’s oddly comforting. “Congratulations. Well, I can’t wait to hear what you two have been up to!” Florence knows there’s two meanings to that and can’t help but grin.
“Thanks,” she manages, feeling herself blush.
Mai’s tone is suddenly serious. “Does Grace know yet?”
“Not quite… she knows I’m okay, but I haven’t–“ A breath. She wasn’t expecting this, the prickly heat of emotion suddenly overwhelming. “I’ve been neglecting them all, and I feel so guilty but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t do it to them all over again,” and then it’s pouring out, words Florence didn’t even know she needed to say, breathlessly tumbling out and flinging themselves across the Atlantic for Mairead to hear. “Every time I break down or fall apart I always blow back in through their door and Mum and Grace pick me up and sort me out and then it just happens the next time and the next and I couldn’t do that to them again. Grace always just got everything I didn’t, it came easy to her, she always just knew how to live and love like a normal, healthy– like a real adult and I just don’t–“ A pause. Florence can feel tears she didn’t know she was still holding in now falling freely, making wet rivulets down her face and then Isa’s arms are folding around her, wrapping securely around her waist. She can feel a steadying presence in her mind, and that’s Isa too, instinctively lending her strength, as natural as breathing. (Isa had explained it once, some quiet whispered early morning conversation, how a mated selkie could share things – knowledge, emotion, strength – or even pull their mate from the brink of Death herself with a link such as theirs, and at the time Florence had kissed her in awe and prayed that that day would never come, where their mind’s connection would be tested in such a permanent way.)
Mairead is silent, either stunned at her outburst – or, more likely, considering how well accustomed she is by now to Florence’s ways, just letting her take her time before she speaks. “It’s part of the reason I stayed here – I couldn’t run back to them again. I stayed here to grow the fuck up. Grace is having a baby soon, for Christ’s sake. I wanted to be sure this time.”
Mairead finally speaks, softly: it’s the voice of an old friend, not a manager. “And this time, you are?”
There’s no hesitation now, except to look briefly down at Isa, still holding her close, before answering.
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