The brave

I open my eyes and the first thing I see is her face against the
pillow sleeping next to me. My mind clears as
I listen to the sound of her breathing. The morning sunshine, the alarm
clock and Jessy's breathing have been an essential part of my life for
the past five years, and yet every morning is like our first.
I can't remember my life before her, nor can I remember the solitude I'd met every morning before she came.
I lean over gently and softly kiss her eyelids, my lips as light as a feather. She smiles in her sleep and snuggles closer under the covers.
My heart shivers as my fingers trace her palm.
Our hands are so alike, only hers more delicate and paler compared to my own broad and coarse ones (my nails are
indescribable).
I get out of bed, the covers making a rushing noise, just like a river, and I stumble into the bathroom.
In the shower I hear her switching on the radio and I know she's making a jug of filter coffee, with still two more cups to go.
The hot water jolts me awake, and I rub my body, forcing the blood to circulate.
I walk into the kitchen, towel around my waist. She's wearing her oversized t-shirt that barely covers her thighs. She reaches down for a
magazine as the eggs fry in the pan, and I wonder how she can look so sexy at 8 am.
I fold my arms around her waist and kiss the hollow of her neck; she leans back against my chest and threads her fingers through my short,
wet hair.
"We'll be late for work", she complains but her smile spreads, replacing the frown. She lets me embrace her for a minute before she pulls away, pushing my plate of food in front of me.
I soak my piece of toast in the sea of buttery egg yolk and ignore the Financial Times that lies threateningly next to my glass of orange
juice. I'll have enough time to read it on the subway.
I can hear her singing off-key in the shower, I smile and then curse
as egg yolk falls onto my lap.
Sure, we've fought a lot, and there have been times when I've wanted to walk out, but after the five years we've spent together, we've both grown into a mold that fits better than anything we've had before. And we're grateful for that.
We're one of those one in a billion couples who were lucky enough to find their soul mates.
A friend once told me " Love dies out after a couple of years. Then all that's left is understanding."
His pessimism and lack of faith in love irritated me. My immature strife for perfection and true love drove him mad.
After many failed attempts and several cuts to my soul, I almost
decided to believe my friend and give up my childish dream.
And when I met her all I could think was "That's it. I'm gone. I'm hers."

I check my wristwatch: 8:29. We're both running late.
I call out to her and pull on my shirt, trying to simultaneously button it and reach for my jacket.
She's slipping into a pair of beige high heels and tying her blond hair into a neat, low ponytail.I desperately search for my keys in my pockets, on the tv, on the kitchen table, as she switches off the lights and pulls my keys out from under a cushion.
"I'm late," she says, "And so are you. Let's go!" She grabs her brown
leather briefcase, the small tattoo on her ankle barely showing, but it
still catches my eye. A rose with my name at its center.
We walk briskly down the stairs (the elevator's busted again), hand in
hand and cheerfully greet our first floor neighbor, Mrs. Mueller.
As always, she's vacuuming the carpet outside her apartment, her grey
hair is plastered against her moist forehead, her eyes grim with concentration, her lips pursed.
She grunts at our Good Mornings and stares at us with naked disapproval, unused to our open display of affection (not like her time
at all).
Jessy notices, and out of pure spite leans forward and kisses me firmly on the lips.
"It's a beautiful morning, isn't it, Mrs. Mueller?" she teases her with a big smile.
Mrs. M's murderous look is enough to make us run down the rest of the stairs laughing.
I check my watch. 8:55 am.
We're stepping out of the building just as our next door neighbor
Gabrielle walks in.
"Hey Jessy!" she kisses her on the cheek and blows me one, "hey Diane,how are you guys?"
"No time to talk", Jessy insists," Diane's already 15 minutes late for her subway!"
"Listen, could I use your laptop for a while? Mine's busted and I've got a paper deadline this afternoon."
" Sure", I answer, "go right ahead. You know where the spare key
is."
"Thanks, you guys!"
We walk on, still hand in hand, her fingers curled into mine, gently clasping me, reminding me that she's mine to hold but not to crush.
Just as every day, we walk past people who smile and people who
frown.
New York, 42nd street in the 21st century and people still frown.
I guess it's ignorance. I guess they don't understand.
Her heels are clicking against the pavement as we break into a jog and stumble down the subway entrance, pushing past the sea of bodies.
A tunnel full of strangers pressing, urging, touching, swimming, eachin his own world shutting the others out.
We reach my platform; she kisses me quickly and still manages to make it as sweet and sunny as any other day.
A woman frowns at us, I recognise her as a fellow employee.
How long will take for the whole firm to know?
How will they treat me once they know?
Fear. They fear us because we are different and openly so.
We are proud and we are strong, and they fear us because we done what they dare not: we have pulled back, stood our ground
and shown our true colours.

Jessy smoothes down my shirt and wipes the mark of her lips off mine.
She turns and runs down another tunnel to her platform, her blond hair loosely tickling the nape of her neck.

I may lose my job. She may lose her friends. Sometimes we get catcalls and thugs following us at night, but our hands don't let go of each other.

Back in her apartment, Mrs., Mueller smiles for the first time today.
She says to her husband (who's too busy with the papers):
"Well, at least they don't need to worry about birth control."