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Every day at four-thirty, Míriel picks her son up from school.
Fëanor is in kindergarten now, and comes home every day with something new to tell her, a new scrape from a tumble on the playground, a clumsy but earnest drawing of her––light hair a scribbled halo around her pale face, light grey crayon meticulously shaded for her eyes. Today, he emerges clutching a sculpture made of dry macaroni and string, painted a bright, sloppy red.
He skips ahead of her on the way home, black hair flying as he jumps over puddles in the sidewalk left by last night's rain. His bright yellow backpack bounces around as he moves, arms flung wide and airplane noises buzzing from his mouth. She navigates the damp pavement more gingerly, holding his still-wet sculpture well away from her brand new blue blouse.
She takes his hand as they cross the street, and he tears away as soon as they reach the other side, using both hands to gesture wildly as he tries to explain something that he learned today in school. She nod and smiles down at him as she uses her hip to bump their garden gate open, crossing the front yard.
"––and they showed us a picture of the caves, and the stala––stalagmites were this big!" He throws his arms apart, grinning up at her, and she laughs, trying to balance his art project in one hand and fumble for her keys with the other.
"Which ones are the stalagmites, again?" she asks, finally extracting her keys and trying to fit the right one into the lock. He gives her a look of long-suffering exasperation.
"The ones on the ground. Doesn't everyone know that?"
"Ah." She turns the knob and he darts inside before the door is fully open, shedding his backpack just inside so she has to nudge it out of the way with her foot as she eases the door shut behind her.
"Welcome home!" Indis calls from the kitchen, and emerges wielding a ladle, golden hair tied back in a long braid. A smile breaks across her face as she catches sight of the macaroni creation in Míriel's hands.
"Fëanor made this today," Míriel explains, laughing as she sets it down on the table. "Says that Nel helped him, but the red paint was his idea."
"Of course it was." Indis sweeps in, aiming a kiss at her cheek, and Míriel turns her head at the last moment so their lips tangle, clumsy and abrupt. She tastes cumin before Indis pulls away––doubtless somehow related to the heavenly smells filling the house from whatever is sizzling away on the stove.
"What're you making?" She follows Indis back into the kitchen. Out in the living room, Fëanor is already sprawled across the carpet, humming to himself as he bangs a toy hammer against one of his building blocks.
"A chicken curry. Mahtan gave me the recipe." Their next door neighbor is friendly and generous with his cooking, most of which are ancestral dishes from his homeland, India. His daughter and Fëanor often have playdates which tend to end in mutual dismantling of household gadgets or application of paint to surfaces that were never intended for use as artistic mediums.
As Indis stirs the curry, Míriel picks up a spiral bound notebook spattered with cooking oil and squints at Indis' impossible handwriting. "Is this your latest project?"
"Give me that," Indis protests, snatching the notebook from Míriel's hands. "You know you're not supposed to look until I'm done."
"Until you have me look over your article for spelling errors, you mean."
"Yes, that." Indis flips the notebook closed and returns to her cooking. "I'm behind on writing that, anyways," she mutters under her breath, and Míriel can see the tension in her shoulders from where she stands.
"You know I can never read your notes, anyways," Míriel continues, leaning over the pot from behind Indis. She runs a hand up Indis' back and rubs slow circles against her shoulderblades until she can feel her relaxing into her touch. "What's my favorite journalist reporting about now, hm?"
"My editor wants me to run a column on that new monument they're building out in Central Park," she replies, dipping a finger into the pit and licking a bit of sauce off. "Needs more coconut milk, I think. Pass me the rest of that can?"
Míriel retrieves the can but holds it just out of her reach, a smile playing across her face. "Kiss me first."
Indis groans in mock frustration, setting down the ladle and trying to grab it from her with both hands. Míriel dances away, laughing, and Indis crosses the kitchen in two steps, pushing Míriel back against the marble counter. Their lips meet, Indis' tongue darting forward, and Míriel's legs are suddenly a bit wobbly. She grabs the counter for support and feels Indis smirk against her lips.
"The curry's going to burn, you know," Indis murmurs, pulling back slightly, and Míriel shoves the can at her, grinning.
"Well. If dinner is at stake––"
Indis laughs, taking the can and sauntering back to the stove.
~*~*~
After dinner, once Fëanor is in bed (a process which takes much cajoling and several lullabies), Indis and Míriel curl up on the couch and watch a movie together.
It's a Friday night tradition that dates back to the first days of their relationship, when Míriel was still recovering from a rocky divorce and Indis spent nearly every free second she had with the young mother, claiming that the article she was writing about Míriel's up-and-coming clothing line really did take that much interviewing time. By the time the article was published, Indis had given up the pretense. The Friday night movies stayed, though, and five years later the tradition is still going strong.
Tonight it's Indis' turn to pick. She favors action movies, and tonight's selection features a big blonde superhero beating alien-things up with his girlfriend and the power of sheer muscle.
Míriel leans against her with a sigh as the blonde superhero and his red cloak take down something that looks suspiciously like a troll. "I swear, the older Fëanor gets the more effort it takes to keep up with him. How does his teacher manage with a whole class of them?"
Indis chuckles, hand going up into Míriel's hair, running through it. Míriel leans into the touch with a pleased noise. The light from the television flickers across their faces, the volume turned down so as not to disturb Fëanor's sleep.
"I imagine there are whole classes in teacher-school on how to handle six year olds," Indis says lightly. "Either that or kindergarten teachers are blessed with infinite supplies of patience."
Míriel leans into her, turning her face up for a kiss. Indis obliges, hand slipping down and cupping Míriel's breast as she does so.
Something onscreen explodes, but neither of them are paying much attention to the movie anymore.
They keep quiet, careful not to wake up the child in the next room. There isn't much room on the couch, but neither of them feel much like moving into their bedroom. Míriel's blouse ends up on the floor in a crumpled heap, and the blue light from the screen flickers bright across her bare breasts as she presses herself to Indis, lips going to the hollow of her neck.
Indis' hands run down her sides, over the softness of her stomach, weight that Míriel put on while carrying Fëanor and hasn't bothered to lose yet (meanwhile Indis gets up every morning and runs through the dawn––a level of athleticism Míriel envies only a little and appreciates if only for Indis' stamina in other places). Her fingers slip on the button on Míriel's jeans and she pulls back to slip out of them and toss them onto the floor.
"Shouldn't you be getting undressed, too?" Míriel whispers, and Indis' look is enough to convey her thought well enough––shouldn't you be undressing me?
Indis' shirt joins the rest on the floor and Míriel takes her time unhooking her bra, pressing kisses lower and lower down the swell of her breasts until Indis is squirming beneath her, trying to muffle the noises that escape her lips.
They finish quietly, Indis' hips stuttering against Míriel's hand and back arching against the couch cushions, and they rearrange themselves in a sitting position (minus most of their clothing) just in time to see the blonde superhero chasing his enemy through several worlds.
"Wonderful movie," Míriel whispers drowsily, hand idly caressing Indis' bare back.
"I don't remember a thing that happened in it," Indis laughs, and Míriel curls up against her and closes her eyes, smiling at the sound of her racing heartbeat against her ear.