Flora and Mirta 11: secret relationship

Flora checked her purse for the millionth time as she waited for the bus. She swore she was forgetting something, but nothing was missing. Keys, check. Wallet, check. Bus ticket, check. Book, check. Birth certificate in case she was stopped, check. She carried the roses she'd bought at the florist two doors down from the office building she worked in, so she knew she hadn't forgotten those. Had she forgotten to file something? Or maybe there was a memo she'd forgotten to leave on the boss's desk? Either way, it was too late now. She was already a ten-minute walk away at the bus stop and Mirta was expecting her home.

Flora walked onto the bus and gave the driver her ticket. It was the same driver she always had in the evening: a kind old man with short, thinning white hair. A much more pleasant one than the racist she had to deal with in the mornings. "Got a secret admirer?" the driver asked, nodding to the bouquet.

"Oh no" Flora laughed awkwardly. "They're for my -" Girlfriend. "Mother. Tomorrow's her birthday and she just loves roses."

"Well, aren't you a good daughter" he commented. Flora smiled appreciatively and took her seat at the back of the bus. Flora hated lying to the man, but this was 1952 and her relationship with Mirta was illegal in more than one way. Where Mirta had milky white skin, Flora's was darker, like café au lait. White didn't date anything other than white, and women and men didn't date anyone other than each other. Lying was a necessity; they had to do it to protect themselves. That was why everyone believed they were best friends who roomed together, not lovers.

For the longest time, they had just been best friends. They'd met on the sidewalk when they were six. Mirta had been playing hopscotch and Flora had walked by, commenting that it looked fun. Mirta had invited her to join. Thankfully, Mirta's parents were very progressive and had accepted; most white parents would have gone into hysterics at the thought of their precious little girl playing with a Latina. They would play at Flora's for the most part as her community didn't care much if the white girl came around. Every time Flora went to Mirta's, though, she could see the women peering out of the blinds and feel the shift in her mother's energy. By the time they were 8, Flora stopped going to Mirta's, but Mirta's mother happily continued to bring Mirta over. As they grew up, they kept their friendship secret, not wanting to provoke the racists. It wasn't as fun, but it was just easier that way.

Then, at some point, everything changed. They were growing into women and Flora began noticing how beautiful Mirta was. Dark red hair against alabaster skin and soft grey eyes, freckles that danced when she laughed, a soft raspy voice that gave Flora shivers and a heart so pure that Flora knew the world would be a much better place if everyone were like Mirta. It had taken two years for her to come to terms with the fact that she was in love with her best friend. Another year after that for Flora to confess it, fully aware that it would likely mean the end of her friendship with Mirta.

Flora'd picked a night when Mirta would be sleeping over and her parents were out of town, caring for her grandmother after the old woman had taken a tumble. Flora just couldn't lie about her feelings anymore. If Mirta stormed out, at least Flora wouldn't have to deal with the fallout of her parents asking what had happened. She told herself that not having Mirta in her life would make it easier to get over the redhead. She just had to hope Mirta wouldn't tell anyone.

She hadn't expected Mirta to kiss her or say she felt the same, but she had. Flora's heart had burst with a joy she'd never felt before or since. They kissed some more on Flora's bed until one thing led to another and they ended up spending the night together in the most intimate of ways, exploring each other's bodies with such love and tenderness. It had been heaven. They moved out together at 21, a year after that fateful night, claiming they wanted to experience independence before 'settling down'. It had been four years since that, and they still had no intentions of settling with any man. They were happy even if they had to hide themselves from everyone.

Flora got off the bus and thanked the driver. It was two blocks from the bus stop to their apartment building. She unlocked the glass door at the main entrance and checked the mail before heading up the five flights of stairs to their floor. Someone was cooking something heavenly – her bet was on the old woman at the end of the hall. She was a widow and constantly baking and cooking the most delicious smelling things.

Her path stopped at a plain brown door, apartment 503. The apartment she shared with the person she considered her true home. Flora tried to make herself presentable before she entered; flatten her hair a bit, adjust her shirt and skirt, check her lipstick and mascara. She'd had a rough day at work, she reminded herself when she saw the smudge of mascara under her eyes. She looked good enough. Besides, Mirta always thought she looked beautiful anyways.

The aroma that surrounded her when she opened the door was unexpected. The fresh herbs and juicy chicken mixed with remnants of something citrusy and sweet was mouthwatering. Flora moved down the corridor, stopping to slip her heels off and drop her purse on the floor beside the shoes. Past the bedrooms, one of which they'd decorated as 'Flora's' in case they ever got visit, and washroom into the small kitchen.

Mirta stood in the middle of the powder blue room with its white cabinetry and the small blue fridge that Flora had been ecstatic to find on sale. Her short hair was pulled back into a tiny chignon at the nape of her neck and she wore a black blouse and purple skirt with a beautiful black flora detailing. Mirta loved to sneak floral prints into her outfits; she claimed it was her way of showing the world how much she loved Flora since she couldn't actually show the world.

On the other side of the kitchen was their round dining table. A bouquet of red roses rested on the center of the table in a glass vase surrounded by tall candles in gold holders that Flora didn't remember them having. Along the sideboard was more candles creating a beautiful twinkling effect in the room that reminded her of a starry night. Rose petals swirled around the candles, popping brightly against the white sideboard.

Flora walked over to the table and laid the bouquet she'd bought down beside the vase. As she took in the room, she felt hands circle her waist and a kiss land on her shoulder. "Happy anniversary, my darling" Mirta whispered. "I love you."

Flora turned in Mirta's grasp and wrapped her own arms around the redhead's neck, pulling her in for a kiss. Every single kiss felt like the first time, even five years later. Flora cherished every single one because she never knew when she would get the last kiss. She never wanted it to come, never wanted any of the kisses to end. Mirta broke away, smiling at the beauty in her arms as she rested her forehead against Flora's. "I love you too" Flora told her, returning the smile. It was the sincerest smile she'd had all day; she never needed to fake anything with Mirta. Never had, never would. Years of friendship and love meant they knew each other inside out, and Flora never wanted that to change.