Today, Aurore turns 18.
The first minutes of this significant day, the blackness of the night, the fireworks in their souls close after midnight.
Evoked by Aurore appearing in front of her house, Ms. Mendeleiev opens the door and stands in her splendid nightgown, elegantly, almost shyly to the knowing eye, with her purple hair being lit by the moon.
The wait is completed. No more delaying the assurance of their hearts and the necessity in their breath.
During the period of anticipation, everything was calm, nothing was rushed.
Both women knew they could take their time, savoir each detail they learned from the other. At distance, at surface.
They have interacted almost every day for years. She was the top student in her class and Mendeleiev always called on her. Behind their sight, they exchanged knowing glances. Through discussion, their lips were holding back. In disguise, numerous compliments over love declarations.
During those enjoyable years of waiting, Aurore has already managed to absorb Mendeleiev to the best of her knowledge. The student has captured each detail she could get a hold on, such as her personal preferences for coffee, flowers, literature. How the sun reflects on her skin. How protective, generous and powerful she is.
Out of all the events and measures to test her skills and verify her understanding, it is the waiting for this precise moment Aurore is the proudest of.
Since the future lovers knows their better half almost by heart, no nervousness transpires between their bodies, not an ounce of awkwardness in their mind.
Only the sound of their celebratory.
Mendeleiev never fidgets, but she does, at this moment. Her normally assured allure is replaced by a moved and salved woman.
“We’ve waited, my dear…” she murmurs, tears in her eyes, bringing a hand over her chest.
The pounding of her hearts creates uneven – slightly visible – breathing patterns.
“Yes, we did, my love…” Aurore, too, does not hold back the tears from glistening. Her cheeks are hurting from smiling so much, a smile so profound, she almost sobs.
How beautiful Aurore is! Mendeleiev feels old and instantly senses these past years as substantial weight on her being. The younger woman sees none of this, is only profoundly delighted and relieved. How stunning Mendeleiev is!
“We did…” Aurore repeats proudly, because the significance of these particular words means the world to them.
Enthused by anticipation, Aurore gently, oh so warmly, places the palm of her hands over Mendeleiev’s cheeks, pleased by the heat. Aurore is persuaded she can see constellations into Mendeleiev’s damp, reassured eyes.
Mendeleiev’s hand float over Aurore’s shoulder blades, afraid of breaking any imaginary wings.
They lovingly stare into each other’s eyes, not breaking contact. They have the strength of all the patience in the world, they have to remind their selves that perseverance is not necessary anymore.
Neither Mendeleiev nor Aurore are aware of their surrounding, as they affectionately float in time and space, contemplating each other’s souls.
Propelled by the affection found in their eyes, both women simultaneously eliminate the gap between them and merge as one being. At the instant their lips are pressed together, Mendeleiev holds Aurore as protectively, as devotedly as she can, while Aurore moans her adoration.
The incommensurable strength of love, orchestrating the events and determining the destiny of each individual, is spreading its magic.
Today, Aurore turns 18.