Mari brought her gifts. Nothing so obvious as flowers. Mixtapes she could hand to her between classes, handwritten labels. Sometimes with puns in the titles, sometimes with hearts or sweet notes. Moirine pushed notes into her locker, with coded drawings. Mari came over once a week to serve as a tutor, and played footsie with her under the table as her parents sat watching television in the next room over, neither of them dumb enough to try anything. Moirine went to Mari’s house twice a week, or more. There were more private places on the farm to try and touch, or argue or simply be a couple, free of restraint.

On the ground in the sparse woodland surrounding the farm, they wrestled or kissed. Mari lined up glass bottles and they took it in turns to knock them over with a rock. They talked around the subject of the future, held hands, did homework, sat in silence and looked at the stars.

Moirine wakes up with a head full of bad dreams. School is grey. Life means something when you skip class to go to a restaurant with your girlfriend. In dark cinemas, empty afternoon showings, they kiss in public and nobody can stop them.