stellaroses:
Art hung in the wispy, hazy backgrounds of Stella’s memories since she had come to exist. Be it stodgy portraits in the halls of the country club after tennis lessons, or leaned against the walls of Rosenthal Fine Art Restoration in various states of repair, it was never far from Stella’s mind. An Ivy League education and betrothal in the heat of the Hamptons had almost tempted to trade coasts for good. She could be making a bigger impact in far larger institutions, but Stella had been content enough. Some people seemed to hold contempt for their surroundings, or placated by the usual. There was so much beyond her hometown, but that’s what it was – home. You could drop her anywhere and she would try to find a silver lining, but she had an affinity for the white sand and emerald waters.
She could spend a lifetime trying to recreate the myriad of colors and shades, analyzing each hue and tone, but a static image could never properly echo the way the sunlight sparkled across and cut through the water. Calderwood boasted that, and a cast of characters that kept her tethered despite far-flung flings and explorations. There were some that she would like to leave in the past, and others she strayed away from, but there were new faces that beckoned an acknowledgment. A beguiling beauty had crashed into her life a few months ago, and been ripped out of it all too suddenly. Was the same thought of her? She was often a whirlwind herself, zipping between the museum and her studio and never quite where she should be. Stella handled her ephemerality as part of her charm, but others decidedly disagreed. She was always there when needed; a fact that she believed made all the difference.
“You owe yourself more than that.” She owed herself more than that. She had longed to leave in the aftermath, and at the beginning of the way the evening had changed. Stella wanted to trace the sharp jawline and let tenderness bloom from where her lips parted. Clenched jaws had always been seen as a challenge to this pair. Held so steadfastly that bones and teeth threatened to shatter, and how easily Stella could evaporate that poised tension into gossamer nothingness so readily. She was sure her own features were threatening to betray her; clamped into a grimace. A thin facade saving her from ruination. She respected the boundary put in place, idly stooping to run a hand through Ophelia’s coat. She rose after a few passes, surfacing a half step backwards. She had aimed to smoothly choreograph the retreat and resist the urge to withdraw back into herself. Stella curated herself to fit the different facets of her life, yet Sid had fit so easily within them all. The artist had been privy to Stella’s widest smiles and worst (best) jokes. Sid had come the closest to seeing Stella’s big picture, yet it was something she was still creating.
She wanted to lean into Sid’s warmth, she wanted to snake an arm around a lanky body and close the distance between them. Between their lips, between their hips, between the voids caged behind ribs. Laughter had never been far off for these two. Gaiety had been easy to pluck out of thin air, or delicately placed between languidly recited poems of love or daring little sirens. Stella had only aimed to lure Sid to the depths of her bed sheets, and neither had expected to get caught in the undertow of the weight of Stella’s soul. Her free hand wiped the threatening tears and glassy eyes blinked back to lucidity. Stella softened, trying to release the rigidity as she unrolled her shoulders.“Ophelia had her fair share in the carnage.” A dog shaped imprint had given way when the other blonde slid to a rest beside the humans’ feet. “I could help you rebuild it, if you’d like? I bet that I’d have the best crenelations on any sand castle on this whole damn beach.” She let out a laugh, hollower than usual, but tried to eek out something more genuine. Was crafting in sand absurd in the dimming light? Absolutely. Was Stella ready to depart? Absolutely not.
Did she? Was it true that she owed herself more than trying every avenue she could of disappearing out of Stella’s life? Sid wasn’t so sure. There hadn’t been a debt between them, only depth. A plunge pool that Sid had underestimated. Off the deep end and floundering back to shore. Closing her apartment door while trying to keep Ophelia in and content had been a version of a nightmare that she hadn’t had before that night, but it was certainly one that had replayed on other nights where sleep had evaded her. Better people would have stayed, even decent people would have probably hummed and hawed in the hallway of her apartment building. Sid had all but vanished, the only evidence of her departure was the soft click of the door’s lock.
“Yeah but I know what’s what now.” That was a half-truth at best. The artist had found herself very out of the loop and even when pulled onto the inside track she still didn’t quite know where to move next. Flapping at answers at best. She hadn’t hurt Stella, a positive, but she’d done nothing for her either, a negative. A tie; pathetically allowing for mootness to be her savior. No harm, no foul. But actually standing with her was prime opportunity to make good and to do good. Though she never prided herself on her morality, Sid wanted to hear her laugh again. She was unsure if months could offer the idea of nostalgia but Stella’s laugh had a terribly positive Pavlov effect on her. When the blonde’s teeth were bared and her giggle bubbled forth between them Sid’s mouth instinctually grinned. No great feat of psychological experimentation, but the comfort that came with Stella’s happiness that was surely Nobel worthy.
“I mean I can try to do it alone, but I really want to know what crenelations are.” Sid couldn’t even hope to contain the smile that spread across her lips, toothy and joyous, trying to reclaim the preferred banter that seemed to come easily between them. She wished it was just that their rhythm had been off, but in reality, the needle hadn’t been touching the spinning record. They’d both been thinking of each other but this was the first contact. The slow crackle at the beginning of the track before the band played that seemingly incited patience in the tattoo artist. Sid James was known for upping and leaving. Her DMs full of disappointed clients, unable to believe that they’d missed her in their city by a day or two. She didn’t stick around, but whatever tune played between them was enough to at least make her consider it.
Perhaps they’d faintly crackle and no melody would follow but with the idea that they might dance again, Sid got to her knees and began patting and molding the disrupted sand.