She settles herself against the headboard, closes her eyes. She dolefully picks at her guitar strings and sings an old English hymn that she half remembers. The high ceilings of Natasha's apartment reflect the sound back to her and her voice sounds rich and full. She trails off and returns to the chorus when she forgets the words of the verses.
"Is that you singing, Sawyer? You sound gorgeous."
Sawyer stops singing. She holds her guitar tight to her chest. Natasha gets back in bed with her for a few minutes, burrowing her cold nose into Sawyer's hair.
Natasha whispers, "Can we move to the lounge? I need to make sure I can hear my phone."
Sawyer knows there's no place in the apartment that Natasha won't hear it, but she nods and unwinds her guitar strap from around her shoulders. She forces herself to swing her legs out of the bed and onto the cold floor.
Natasha has volunteered to be on-call for the other people at her old support group. There's a drop-in, but for anyone that can't get away from their family, there's Natasha. She's taken it extremely seriously, phone constantly on charge and volume turned up to its highest level. Sawyer has urged her to put it on her resume, call it 'on-call phone volunteer for grassroots peer support agency.'
Natasha quickly checks the notifications on her screen as she crosses through the lounge holding Sawyer's presents in her arms. Sawyer flicks the lights on their tree on. It's not a tree, not really. Natasha has dragged in a handful of twigs from the Arnold Arboretum and wound some little warm-white LEDS around them. Natasha's explanation of it being a reference to a Pagan tradition are pretentious, but Sawyer quite likes the way it looks when she's had a fiddle with the little plastic capsules so they all face the way they should.
Her presents from Natasha are the most tastefully wrapped gifts that Sawyer has ever seen. She appreciates the weight of Natasha's wrapping paper, it's the thick brown stuff you buy in individual sheets from little bookshops or the gift shop of galleries. The paper is stamped with irregular, matte silver stars which Natasha has lined up either side of the join so there is never a half star.
Sawyer tries to resist opening the box that is unmistakably jewelry first, but she just can't do it. It's a silver ring, tall and cuff-like, taking up all the space between her second and third knuckles. There are raised square patches of brushed silver, cross shaped holes and little silver bobbles all over it. It's not quite to Sawyer's taste, but it fits perfectly (the little sneak must have stolen one of her rings) and has quite a heft to it as, she notes as she weighs it in her palm.
"Do you like it?"
"It's very different!"
"Yes! That's why I got it! My friend from college made it, she has a shop in South End."
"South End? Fancy!" says Sawyer as she wiggles her fingers, enjoying the unfamiliar weight of the silver on her hand. "How was it?" Natasha will know what she means, she's spoken to Sawyer before about being embarrassed to talk to college friends who are still paid artists.
"Oh, fine. I said I was a self-employed teacher and occasional mental health practitioner. Said the ring was for my new partner and things were going very well indeed," Natasha is using her pretentious voice, but her eyes are sparkling.
Sawyer leans over to kiss Natasha, "Well that's all true."
Her stomach feels warm and squirmy at the thought of Natasha showing off, showing off about her.
Natasha grabs Sawyer's hand and links their fingers together, rubs her fingers over the irregular lumps and bumps of the silver, "I liked the way you can fiddle with it, when I picked it up I thought about doing this while we were holding hands."
Sawyer adores her. Can't keep the smile off her face when she's with her. Could never be without her.
"I love it, Natasha. Thank you!"
She reaches for her second gift, a large box that she can't quite work out. She takes her time, slipping her finger under the expertly measured tape.
She laughs when she sees the iconic logo, Natasha starts cackling alongside her. She already knows what Sawyer is thinking and says, "You totally can wear them! Your feet aren't that big!"
Sawyer lifts them from the box. As usual, Natasha's taste level is idiosyncratic but impeccable. She hasn't gone for the usual patent ones, but the pastel, untreated leather with the unfinished edges around the ankles. The iconic yellow stitching is pastel pink, as is the font on the tab at the back. Her feet are going to look like boats. Big, candy floss covered boats. But she can't wait to get them on.
She's suddenly anxious about her own gifts. Over the last few months she's been watching Natasha put foundation on with her fingers or scraping around the corners of an eye-shadow pan. On one occasion she had tried to reform a cracked powder blusher with rubbing alcohol. Sawyer had thought it might be nice to get Natasha a full set of makeup, all matching.
Sawyer doesn't find many things as relaxing as swiping across an eye-shadow for the first time with a brand new brush, or twisting up a virgin lipstick. She'd enjoyed picking them out, analyzing Natasha's skin type and the color of her veins underneath the skin on her
