Ethel/Muriel, Hera, 100 words (for femslash100)
Ethel puts the coffee on and Muriel sets the toaster. Hands shake, and neither acknowledge the fact. “Jam?” Muriel suggests. Ethel harrumphs. “Marmalade, if we have it.” They do, a small jar, half-empty, that Muriel canned last fall. Sunlight breaks through the curtains that Ethel made, when her hands were still reliable enough to run fabric through the machine. They’re blue, the color of the pin Muriel wore in her hair when they met. They’re blue, like Ethel’s eyes, like the sky, like the ocean they sometimes talk about seeing. “Sugar?” Ethel suggests. Muriel laughs. “Creamer, if we have it.”
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