December 1959
No matter the time of night or day, Helen wakes up when Margaret gets out of bed. "Bad dream?" Helen murmurs groggily into the darkness.
"No, no. My back's killing me."
"You want aspirin?"
"No, I'll get it."
When she returns from the bathroom, Helen is propped up on her elbow, half-smiling. "Wipe that grin off your face," Margaret grumbles.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh yes you do, Helen Whitfield. You're laughing at my misery." Margaret does her best to climb into bed with irritation, but Helen just lifts her arm so that Margaret can curl up closer to her.
"Honey, I'm not laughing at your pain, I swear. But you have to admit, the Brownie Incident was a little funny." It's been over a week and Helen is still laughing. Margaret and Hawkeye had gotten a little carried away making fun of professional football players at Thanksgiving after each indulging in one of Hayden's Finest Special Brownies after the meal. What started as a mock slide tackle ended with both of them thrashing around on the floor, BJ laughing so hard he cried, and Yvette pouring a bowl of cold water on their heads and sending them out to the porch swing. They had promptly fallen asleep on each other, only to wake two hours later with sore necks and sorer backs. Come to think of it, maybe the swing was partially responsible for her back pain. Margaret makes a mental note to yell at Hawkeye about it.
"We do not speak of that day," she says primly, tucking her now-cold feet under Helen's calves.
"Uh-huh," Helen says, but rests her hand on the back of Margaret's head. They lie like that for a few minutes in peaceful silence. Helen's breathing is starting to even out again when Margaret speaks.
"Helen?"
"Yeah."
"Did you check the pressure on the bike tires?"
"Aw, hell. I forgot."
"Promise me you'll check before we go tomorrow morning."
"Of course I will."
"I'm not going to die in a bike accident for something stupid like a lack of tire pressure."
"You'll die because you distracted me while driving. Go to sleep." Helen strokes her hair soothingly.
"Alright." Margaret lasts about a minute before she breaks the silence again.
"Helen."
She moans, but she's half-laughing. "Oh Lord."
"Helen, stop that. Now listen. What would you think if I cut my hair?"
Helen shifts to sit up, weight propped onto her elbow, and looks down at Margaret.
"All of it?"
"Yes."
She reaches out, brushes hair out of Margaret's eyes. It's three years they've been together, two since they've shared a house. Sometimes they argue. Mostly they eat butter beans and take the dogs for long walks by the bay and reach for each other in the night. Their life is calm, and yet some little part of Margaret is nervous as she waits for Helen to respond.
At last, at last, Helen's face breaks into a grin. "I think you'd look very sexy with short hair."
It feels like her entire body is exhaling. Margaret smiles back; she can't help it. "You think so?"
"Bet you all I'm worth and half my life. You want me to cut it?"
At that, Margaret leans up and kisses her. She can feel Helen's mouth curving into a smile.
"In the morning."
"Okay. But with plans like those, we need rest. Sleep now." Helen gently guides her back down so she can put her head in the crook of Margaret's neck, and tugs the covers over them. "Tomorrow I'll buzz your head."
"Not that short."
"Okay, not that short. But tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."