Perhaps it’s not the most amazing lovestory of all times….but it has essence. Perhaps the words are not rich devourings of an old passion…but they are coming from the heart. Perhaps it’s a coming of age story that never happened….but somehow the author recalls it in her head and in her heart like it was today…and the day after…forever. “Pages for you” by Sylvia Brownrigg “

“But sleeping : that was a new intimacy altogether, and one Flannery often could not believed she shared. It was a secret. What a person looked like when they couldn’t help it; what that defenselessness might suggest; what revelations might be conveyed by that loosend, floppy shape, in the unintended words or murmurs of the dreamer? To sleep with Anne was, an Flannery the ultimate trust. It was the handing over, the giving in. It was more than the keys to the realm: it was the realm, the realm of the deepest self. In their first nights together, Flannery made sure she stayed up past Anne, till she heard her lover’s breathing slow and thicken, and she willed herself to wake up earlier. But cumulatively, the fewer hours’ rest made her tired, and several days along she stayed up last past Anne, only to wake in the morning to find Anne’s cat face watching over her. Watching her while she slept. “What? What are you looking at? You. Sleeping.” Why, what’s the-? Hush. Anne kissed her “You’re beautiful when you’re asleep”, she said. “Beautiful”. And Flannery believed her. ”

“Meanwhile, as afternoons were given over to taking in her lover’s look and movement, she became more fascinated by every curve and every crevice, every gesture and hesitation. She knew Anne’s face when it hat a pale, sleepy sheen, and when her hair was scattered and unkempt. There was a wilderness to her beauty then that had intimations of the Brontes. Flannery kissed Anne’s clothed shoulder, remembering the taste of her skin beneath those layers of wool and leather. She could kiss her everywhere. And she did. Her mouth roamed over Annes’s body as freely as her hands, and eyes, and words. Her mouth knew that body’s secret distinctions :it’s caches of salt, it’s various textures (the way her earlobe was soft as dough; the hot fold at the top of her thighs), it’s hypnotic smoothness along her back, her cheeks, her stomach. But Anne’s mouth was still Flanney’s favorite place. Her home away from home. Her own went there always, before and after, returning contentedly to the perfectness of a kiss. Once there, she could stay for days.”

“Mm, was all that Flannery could manage to that, before she let herself swallow and give way.Kissing, in any case, was only good, as Flannery’s mouth was unscarred by the sun. And kissing remained an index to their proximity : the two women could not kiss, unless their spirits were close, and when there was distance between them their mouths avoided each other. I want you, Flannery murmured, as if that was not obvious. Her fingers found what they were looking for, and the two women became temporarily one.”

“They came together in a soulless cantaloupe-colored bedroom and Flannery remembered what Anne said to her in one of their first nights together : Keep your eyes open, beautiful. You’ll want to remember this! She tried and their lovemaking was quick, more plot-driven than descriptive. It was not an evening for lyricism. This is not one of our fairer nights.”

“They spent hours, or maybe it was days, in and out of each other’s gasps and embraces. Waves would crest, and break, and crest again. Sweet husky calls, a cooing almost, a pleasure-chuckle, some creatures shared mutual delight. And it wasn’t their sound now. The light, the taste on the tongue, the speed of her mind : all different. She was not now and would never again be the same. ”I used to think….”, said a sleepy voice near her. She shivered in her new skin with surprise. It was the voice of her lover.”

The story of becoming a woman, a lover, different within lovemaking, beyond curiosity, surprise and unknown sensations, on the road of finding herself, she overcame a love that was not hers and became the woman that perhaps she still is today.

   , the lovestory that never happened.