Love Letter — By Heather Emmanuel
artwork by Adam Straus
Her masculinity is like a warm embrace. How she exists in the world, loose-limbed and self-assured, speaking with her hands. Those hands. Her hands — calloused, soft on my thighs, holding my face like a promise.
She sits with legs spread like the room owes her something, like she's daring me to climb on. I fit like a puzzle piece, her piece. Her hands dwarf my waist, pull me under the current – and I fall right in. Leather jacket, denim jacket, forearms on show with sleeves pulled up. A quarter zip that makes her look like a dad — her words, not mine.
She isn't called sir as much anymore, not since her hair has grown out. There's the occasional double take: at the height, the stance. I'm not a guy, she says sometimes, when eyes linger on her for too long. I’m not that, never that.
She shields me. Knows which side of the road to walk on, when to pull me closer in a crowded room, when we turn a dark corner. It’s how she looks out for not just me, but other women. Other women see her and know exactly who she is. That validity in her existing as herself is a signal for others, in a world that doesn't want her to be either — and especially, definitely, not both.
She's standing in a coffee shop in a tank top and low-waisted jeans: chest flat, belt low, a single ring on her thumb. It’s unapologetic, how she moves, how her slender fingers wrap around the reusable cup, how she says excuse me with more chivalry than most could dream of. And others see it, too. Other lesbians see it, see us, and another lesbian can think: Hey, it's possible for me as well. Or, oh, that's it. That's why.
She wears a sports bra under her scrubs and I know that's when she feels her most confident, most herself. Unintentionally, she dabs her forehead with the hem of her shirt, exposing the pale abdomen, the band of her boxers luring me in.
And when I have the privilege of dressing up around her and holding onto her arm — hand on the small of my back through a crowd. I wear the scoop neck dress that drives her crazy, lean forward and bat my eyelashes like the first date. She sits back, hopeless against my craving, and I know the night will end with heels kicked off and her belt unbuckled.
She glares at the instruction manual for the new bedside table we bought and says, Don't worry, I got it. Intelligence courses through her. She wants to figure out how things work, how the world works, what makes me laugh and cry and the mechanism of actions in any drug she prescribes. She will learn, she will search, she will spend hours between my legs until there, right there–
She takes care, always.
Heather Emmanuel is a writer of lesbian contemporary literary fiction and prose poetry, exploring the complexities of human relationships, self-discovery, and the quiet moments in between. She lives in England where she is currently studying a vocational degree. You can find her on instagram: @heather.emmanuel8