Chiquitita - Chrissy Cunningham x Reader
After a night of rolling summer storms, you wake in her sheets. Soft, freshly laundered sheets, the clean linen reminds you of Delft porcelain you've been told not to touch, to only handle with care.
So you freeze until she wakes, thinking every movement of yours would shatter her small bed.
It's not long until the red clovers tickle as you tiptoe with strappy sandals hooked by two of your fingers, following the strawberry blonde to that favored shady spot in her open backyard.
There is not a dark cloud in the sky, only wispy whisps of whipped cream streaked across the blue sky, a color that only appears after a night of rain.
Is it really an abnormal color? Or are you just romanticizing everything in this moment, picking blackberries from the green paper carton Chrissy brought along as you sit on the soft tall grass that, surprisingly, doesn't itch the back of your thighs.
There's not a single berry left.
You two voracious girls with juice-stained fingertips and petal lips as tender as velvet indulged in the tartness, gobbling the midday snack as the sounds of cicadas filled the silence.
Chrissy brought along her portable, that small teal thing that runs on batteries, but it's oh so quiet.
The second verse of Chiquitita, barely audible, is carried with the bird-chirp symphonic breeze that rudely lifts the pages of your canary-colored notepad you brought along- wishful, for some inspiration after a winter romance that still frosted the edges of your heart. Surely, that would have you concocting something more than Shelley's Mont Blanc or Wordsworth's Prelude.
No more let poets vainly boast their fine descriptive art-
The sublime is real, it is here.
It is here with you and Chrissy.
The heat melts that dolefulness, the internal icicles dripping and collecting into a pool at the bottom of your belly as Chrissy has been by your side this whole time, indubitably and practically fused.
Red ink blotches your pausing point, seeping through the thin sheet onto the next, catching it as you shake off the thought of her body being so close.
The sunlight makes those little hairs on her legs glow as she stretches them out near where you lay on your stomach, giving them a small rub as you joke about how much her feet smell.
"They do not!" She giggles, her widened palm batting the denim shorts on your bottom in retaliation.
Soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Chrissy is the sun.- Shakespeare is so overrated as you turn back to the pad after glancing over your shoulder to catch the blonde trying to read your writing.
"When will you let me read them?" She watches you put away your poesy prose, back into your overnight bag that's lasted you three.
"It's nothing you don't already know," unintentionally comes out suave, making Chrissy open her mouth, but quickly close it for cutely crooked teeth to smile against her tight blushing smile.
"Come dance with me," Chrissy then speaks slightly out of breath, jumping around with arms wide as she dances in the open of her bedroom.
Her blueberry milk sundress with a touch of peach sways, remembering all the steps she choreographed herself-
Chiquitita, you and I know
How the heartaches come and they go
She sings along to the melody, now coming from that turntable on her vanity.
She holds your hand, guiding you to the sun-warmed round rug, and telling you where to step, when to step. When to spin around until the room starts to spin and sweat collects behind your ears.
Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy like a fumbling cat, you land back on her bed together and laugh as the old springs press into your ribs.
But the room doesn't stop spinning, round and round it goes with the taste of banana rollerball gloss, sweet and sudden, sticky on your lips as she thaws the last bit of frigidity grasping that ardor for the other girl.
A folly, she giggles after she pulls away to watch you lean in for another kiss.
Trepidation no more, you kiss her again and mean it, the words you've written about this moment, up until now, completely nonpareil.