One month became two and then rounded to three. They found someone to sublet their place in Toronto. Their friends, Fred and Carl, agreed to water their plants and keep their mail. And Tara was already a freelancer, like Alicia, and able to work remotely. The motel was cheap, though sometimes loud, but Alicia made it work. She wrote and wrote and wrote, living a dream life that she'd wanted since she was a girl. She practiced all that she learned in the workshop, plus more tips she learned after walking to the local bookstore one afternoon and loading up on all the classics. The Writer's Way, Bird by Bird, Writing Down the Bones, Zen and the Art of Writing, If You Want to Write, The War of Art ... All the names send chills down her spine. All of them stand like best friends on her motel room desk, along with her laptop that has seen her through many iterations of the very first line.

The novel is truly almost done, thanks to the desert allowing her to truly flourish. But Alicia feels nothing but dread, no elation. She does not want to be done. She likes the desert, the sound of animals at night, and garbled Spanish phrases in the morning. She cherishes the red earth that splits with pink dawn like clockwork, like her own steam whistle to start work. She needs the sound of her hands over the keys, and the sound of Tara's snores as she works. She likes waking to morning light without alarms or snooze buttons, without wake-up calls.

Tara groans, half-awake. She pulls the sheet over her eyes to block out all the sunlight that seems to come in through the blinds like blades. Neither one has figured out how to wake up gracefully in a bed that's not their own, though Alicia has gotten close to it now. The pink sky in the window when she first opens her eyes draws Alicia in, making her feel energetic. And hopeful, too.

Just not today.

After Alicia goes to the bathroom this morning, she does not bother to go to her laptop. She also does not bother to put her underwear back on. She sets her gaze on Tara, still asleep in bed, her hair spread out against the pillow like a wild fan and her eyes still hidden beneath the sheet. Alicia takes off her tank top before she crawls under the covers again, the sweat on her lower back beading down and rolling off her butt. She slides up close to Tara and pushes a hand under her shirt. She rolls her fingers against the nipple, touching her with barely-there fingers. She kisses her neck, but Tara does not move. Alicia thinks of her main character in her novel, a girl without a home that she'd based on Tara. Then another woman in the story, this one a scavenger who stole everything that was not nailed down. Obviously Alicia. Their meeting in the book happens when they both want to steal the same item -- one for the sake of survival, and the other for the thrill of it. Together, they manage to change their lives for the better.

It's not exactly an original plotline, Alicia knows, but it's all hers.

She still can't imagine sharing something so personal with the world.

Tara groans lightly in her throat by Alicia's fifth kiss. She pulls the blanket down from her eyes. She turns her face towards Alicia, feeling her lips and hands on her body.

“Good morning.” Tara smiles. Alicia kisses her as a response.

This time, Tara moves into the embrace.