Irene lazily traced her thumb against Wendy’s soft lower lip, the latter’s breath blowing softly against her finger. The late afternoon sun threw bright bars of yellow and gold through the slanted blinds, landing on Wendy’s face. She looked like a statue, perfect and unmoving as her skin glowed a pure transparent white where the sun touched it with its warm rays. Her lashes were a light brown, lightened by the auric light that danced on her eyelids. Every feature, every curve on her face seemed to be carved by the sculptors that sculpted perfection with their own hands.

Even though there were times Wendy and Irene fought with the ferocity of thunderclouds in the sky, it was moments like these where Irene was reminded of how much she truly loved Wendy. When they were apart from each other, it was like every fibre, every cell of Irene’s being screamed to be next to Wendy. It was only when Irene looked into the eyes that told a thousand stories, smiled a thousand smiles, felt a thousand emotions and held a love worth a thousand hearts, that she was calm again.

Irene bent down a bit and placed her own lips over Wendy’s. She tasted sweet, sweeter than the empty, honeyed words of people that fancied her. Wendy was addicting, more addicting than cigarettes and the cheap whiskey she could buy from the rundown store around the corner. Wendy was beautiful, more beautiful than the morning glories that graced the dawn with their presence. Even when Wendy cried, Irene thought she was beautiful. When the tears left streaks down the sides of her face and her eyes turned red, Irene would think Wendy was beautiful.

Wendy resembled glass when she cried. She cried with desperation, but never a lack of control. Whenever she cried, Irene would feel the same desperation; desperate to collect the shattering pieces in her hands and put Wendy back together.

Irene curled a piece of Wendy’s hair behind her ear, her hand ever so gentle. If only a moment could last forever.