Elizabeth Rossi (11) | STAFF REPORTER
Francis couldn’t remember the last time she’d lived; truly and most unapologetically lived. It didn’t feel real, her days more empirical than whole experiences themselves. One more day simmered beneath the scorch of her own hatred. One more night of deserving nothing short of the next day. Her good eye, hazel unlike the dulled grey of her left, tracked the alcohol’s curl within the small glass in her gloved hand. She never liked drinking; didn’t do much except hurt her head but the burn of it was grounding. The straw-haired girl pressed the rim to her lips chewed with cuts and the past’s brandings, downing the sharp liquid at a paced rate.
Delia’s laughter tore her from the dulled soil of intoxication that she’d hoped to bury her roots in, lidded eyes finding her in the saloon without difficulty. Shorter than Francis yet tall enough to graze the height of a few in the cluster, her ebony hair played along the length of her back as the chattering group of women traded conversation. They all looked content, nestled comfortably into a buzz of livelihood. Delia had discarded her usual powder blue garb, clad in a more loosely draped rose for both of her skirt and blouse. The navy ribbon she loved to tie so carefully beneath the collar of the latter was also displaced. Instead, to hold her hair up lazily and curtaining the back of her neck was a rose bow.
It was the ribbon Francis had bought for her and as if feeling her gaze and thoughts ridden by her presence, Delia’s eyes greeted the distant mismatched ones shadowing the socializing of the bar from afar, uninviting but interested. The calloused and cautiously clothed fingers pried more tightly around her emptied cup, devoid of a distraction, saved for the circlet of rum against glass’ walls. Delia was already nimbly walking over with that typical footing so unbearably known to the other.
Francis left her gaze to the marbled droplet of alcohol swimming in rounds as she rhythmically teetered the cup in one hand. “I didn’t realize you had an affinity for rum,” the once ballerina confessed beside her, “I never even took you as one to drink.”
With less bite than most people received when speaking to her, Francis retorted in her low croak as she shifted in her seat, “I ain’t much for either, but I don’t see no harm in indulgin’ a vice.” Her thumb pressed against the glass’ scratched gleam, suddenly feeling a bit awkward oddly enough. If anything however, Delia wasn’t deterred in the slightest as a smile threatened to embrace her lips before she placed her forearms over the top of the well worn counter. “Are you a lightweight? Is that why?”
Francis was taken aback by the sound of her own unwarranted laughter, tumbling past her lips as she furrowed her brows at Delia, managing the involuntary grin that snuck across what scars she had for a mouth. “You really reckon that?”
Ruinous was the first word that kissed the back of her teeth, unspoken but ever so existent on her tongue as Delia’s grin widened alongside her dimples.
Wrong was the second word. This felt wrong in so many ways to Francis; being content. How many people had she wrung dry of blood like rags, innards pressed into nothing more than tools for her hunt. What right had she to laugh without a care in the world, axe and rifle hung up as if they were a coat or hat and she, any other person. There was gunpowder and ichor caked beneath her nails and sewn between the material of her clothes no matter how hard she scrubbed and scrubbed, even pretending at times that it was a chore in an orderly home with an orderly life; forget selfish, stupid was more fitting.
“Francis?” Her eyes, unfocused and distant, didn’t even have time to think as they flickered to meet Delia’s. Her fingers had stilled around the cup now lifeless on the counter and Delia’s own hand, featherweight and a bit frigid as they always were, was lightly brushing over her glove. The blonde pulled her hand away after a moment, shrugging as she mumbled an apology. “Just thinkin’ is all, m’sorry.”
This is always how it went; a step forward, and for how many back, Delia had learned to not bother keeping count.
She didn’t want to be open, to show the softness of her belly beneath the blood-matted and coarse bristles she called a simple coat. It didn’t keep her warm or comfortable. It kept her safe. Delia opened her mouth to say something but the borderline inebriate spoke up before she could, standing and stucking her barstool in with a creak. “Used to know how to play this tune.” Francis unbuttoned her weathered vest with one hand as the other busied itself in dishing a handful of coins to the bartender for her drink. “Had a real fondness for it when I was younger, too.” The phonograph’s crackling and melody were more well heard now that the saloon was rather vacant compared to earlier and Francis’ humming, surprisingly in key and well timed, tailed the song. Delia wasn’t as familiar with the tune as a fiddle rang out in the hollowed room, a man’s voice alongside several others began singing and she found her brows furrowing as the other girl noticed and answered her unspoken question. “Home On The Range… I learned to pick it out on the guitar.” Francis wasn’t even looking at her, gaze focused on the cuffs of her stupidly worn out shirt that Delia had begged her to replace or at least properly repair. The cowgirl always brushed the comments off until the latter ended up having to mend and embroider the tears of each seam from both time and one too many bullets. The brunette was beginning to wonder if she did it on purpose as an excuse to see her needlework.
“Care for a spin?”
Delia’s eyes widened and met the other girl’s with puzzlement; accent, muffled beneath years of leaving her hometown behind surfaced from with sputtered shock in a way that made the blonde’s disfigured lips upturn. “Pardon?” Few remained in the bar, save for its keeper and a number of patrons but the rest had left as daylight receded, night now crested in spring’s dew and stars unbridled from the cold. Taking a step forward with extended hands, Francis’ fingers ghosted beneath the ballerina’s and delicately toyed with her sleeves. Delia didn’t even need to look to know that Francis’ misshapen grin was growing and she tried not to notice that her voice was noticeably warmer and mellow than the usual rasp her damaged throat sounded out as best as it could. The straw-haired girl mimicked Delia’s words with a bit of a mocking lilt.
“I thought you yourself had an ‘affinity’ for dancin’, Delia?” Francis’ hands were lightly holding her wrists now, prompting her with a wordless invitation as her gloved thumb and its dulled leather gently smoothed the skin of her inner wrist.
She hated how small her voice sounded behind her slight scowl, tinny and more childish than she intended it to. Francis somehow always managed to disarm her from being well to ill mannered in the rare occurrences she adopted even the slightest tease in her words. It drove Delia mad. “Stop ridiculing my vocabulary.”
The corners of Francis’ eyes crinkled more. “This song ain’t gonna last forever, y’know.”
The dancer didn’t even have more of a chance to protest as Francis was already stepping forward, coaxing her or more appropriately, leaving her no choice but to move backwards and farther into the emptied space between tables. The low lights blended with the evening’s hazy glow bathed the bar in orange. It was clear that the cowgirl wasn’t going to let up any time soon but neither was Delia, determined to mend some shred sense into her with a more hushed but just as serious voice.
How often at night when the heavens are bright,
“People will see. They’ll talk, Francis.”
Delia wanted to scold the cowgirl for laughing hoarsely at her as she moved one of the brunette’s hands to her shoulder, entwining her own fingers with the other. She didn’t resist or pull away nor provide any sort of reaction outside of her reasoning that despite its rationale, the other girl saw as more petulant a bit endearing if anything. She rested her hand against her lower back but left enough room that Delia could easily brush her off if she wanted to.
She didn’t. Francis moved forward more. Delia didn’t move back, swallowing quietly as her lips twitched, itching to say something, anything as Francis’ murmur swallowed her own silence’s doubts.
“Let ‘em see I’m the lucky bastard gettin’ to twirl the prettiest gal in the whole damn county.”
With the light of the glittering star.
Her mouth was dry, devoid of the lecturing words or ability to produce any that could drown this moment and plunge it away to where she wouldn’t have to think about it. Warmth shared between their two figures drawn close, Francis guided her into a delicate sway, softly humming along to the song as the reverberations of her voice brushed against the side of Delia’s head. Francis’ eyes, half closed as she moved them together, hands entangled and legs woven against one another in time with the melody. She almost seemed content with her finally agreeing to dance, a smile tangible.
Familiarity settled over them like the old song playing except much quieter and unspoken. And in their own ways, they wondered, just for a moment, if this could be more than a passing moment, but something they could keep despite everything and everyone that said they couldn’t.
Have I stood there amazed and ask as I gaze, If their glory exceeds that of ours?
