Epilogue
It had been three months since she had sat across from Morgan Finch—the world in her fingertips, more delicate then, than it was now. In the three months that had passed, she had thought, and occasionally dwelled, until she had dwelled enough to realize that she no longer wished to do so anymore.
She had pondered the essence of morality, and all of its connotations, and it was only then that she decided that morality was a commodity that wasn’t expensive, but it was a commodity that some could still not afford, nonetheless.
She had spent hers, but there was always room to buy it back, and she would continue to try if only so that her world became just that slightly less fragile.
As their tea grew cold that day at the apartment, Morgan had presented her with an ultimatum; an ultimatum that felt as physical as the teapot she had brushed her fingers against, if only to give her body something to do.
In exchange, she had presented Morgan with one singular word.
She knew that she could have given more, could have given her a thousand words and still had room left over.
Because perhaps morality was a commodity she had spent, but her love for Morgan was a well in which she would constantly find another quarter to throw inside of it.
And her answer then remained the answer she still adopted now.
Three months later, and not a single regret.
Lee Holmes decided at present time that she was currently at peace, no longer trapped by the walls that had become her makeshift prison.
She understood, now, that the mask she had worn these past few months was not an artefact she could simply discard like a body in an apartment building.
She couldn’t discard it, she could never discard it, but she could put it down occasionally in pleasant intervals—intervals such as this one.
Her body rested now in a less than comfortable fold-out chair on the hard dirt floor, and she smiled effortlessly, because her brain had been trying to rest in a less than comfortable arrangement for quite some time now, and she was finally managing to sink into the feeling of being fulfilled with each and every moment she had in which she was no longer terrified of her world crumbling beneath her.
She had been content before, cooking dinner on her five-year anniversary, and now, she simply felt untethered, free to commit to her desires at her own leisure.
She could sit, now, in this less-than-comfortable chair and simply just… be.
“What are you thinking about?” a voice beside her asked, sitting in their own uncomfortable fold-out chair as she turned her attention to it, to them, maintaining her smile in the process.
It wasn’t forced, never forced these days, and through the power she now wielded inside her entire being, and the things she had learned, she told herself that she would never smile just because she felt like she had to again.
She would never do anything, now, unless the inclination to commit to it was truly palpable.
The voice was calm, composed, and she allowed the silence to linger for just a few moments, savoring how comfortable it felt.
How it all felt. “Nothing, that’s just the beauty of it,” Lee said, calmly, taking a sip of her cheap beer as she set it down onto the floor.
“The feeling of nothing feels…pretty good,” she laughed.
Whilst perhaps Lee wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, she was feeling a number of things—a collection of commodities like the gentle breeze that was blowing her hair over her shoulder, her boots firmly on the ground, in touch with the soil upon where she was seated, the distant sound of an owl making its presence and territory known.
She felt the aftertaste of beer, settling on her tongue and lighting up her insides like a fire inside her bloodstream.
She felt, and she felt, and she felt, and after a few moments, she realized that she was in fact, thinking.
She could think, and she could feel, and so, she was human.
She could do the things she had done, and she would still always be human.
A concoction of flesh, and bone, and mind, and soul, and everything in between.
Just as it felt good to finally not be able to think at all, it also felt good to be present; to be this mortal, carnal, creation.
If she could paint over the parts of her that kept her awake at night, or wash them away like chalk upon the sidewalk, Lee Holmes decided at that very moment that she would discard the brush, put down the bucket of water.
Perhaps her life was nothing more than a linear progression in which she was fated to be the person she always was, or perhaps she had made each and every decision based on a fleeting moment, but she no longer craved such clarity.
It didn’t matter how she had arrived at this very point, sitting around this very fire, but what mattered was that she no longer had the desire to change a single thing leading up to it.
The air around them crackled like the glowing embers of December, and yet no snow, nor storm, could extinguish the universe that they had built, resting on stolen nights and rhythmic heartbeats.
The amber eyes of Lee Holmes sat firmly upon the fire, staring into it, through it, just as she had stared through the eyes of Morgan Finch.
Just as she could see the trees through the smoke, she was finally beginning to see through the woman she loved.
Alas, the difference now was that she realized she no longer needed Morgan Finch as much as she wanted Morgan Finch. She could reside in the margins of Morgan’s own story whilst simultaneously writing her own. Her own independence was not mutually exclusive—at least—not anymore.
She had pictured an ending for the both of them three months prior—an ending that consisted of driving off into the distance in an orange convertible as they fled towards an equally orange sunset.
Two mismatched miscreants darting away if only until they would have to undertake the same task again.
And again. And again. There was no convertible, no orange sunset, only fire. She could live with fire.
She sensed two green eyes staring at her just as she stared into the fire.
With a contented sigh, she smiled, averting her gaze to Morgan once again.
Wrapped between her fingers lay a cigarette, unlit, as she placed it into her mouth, positioning a hand around it to block the wind as she lit it with the other.
It reminded Lee, then, of the night they spent in the cemetery, Morgan’s eyes transfixed on her vice, distancing herself mentally from where they were standing.
It also reminded her that she had once told herself she would take a step back from all of Morgan’s vices.
She would take a step back, metaphorically speaking, and, as opposed to taking part, she would simply watch her inhale.
She had told herself then that she would no longer take part.
Blowing a puff of smoke into the fire, she looked exactly as Lee Holmes had remembered the first night they had met—gentle, and yet intriguing.
Something silent inside that couldn’t quite be interpreted.
Lee Holmes had heard it all, now, every ticking part that made Morgan Finch who she was.
She had heard it, and now, she was here, sitting below the same moon, across from a different fire.
Morgan Finch inhaled once again, her eyes diverting to the warmth of the fire for just a moment, before diverting her attention, once again, back towards Lee.
Her gaze lingered, that silence that had once enveloped them peeking its head for a fraction of a second, like the fire that kept them warm, until Morgan exhaled smoke, and held out the hand that housed the cigarette. “Do you want one?”
The fire lit up Lee’s features as she smiled into the winter night, discarding her proverbial mask as it were merely ash against the dirt. She looked away for just a moment before returning her own gaze back towards Morgan.
“Only if it’s yours.”