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“So you ain’t a miss, you ain’t a mister, you ain’t a witch — is you God?”

“I ain’t God either.” Lula darted across the small space to meet Vivey at the pot. Lula got so close that her chest rested at the top of Vivey’s abdomen. Lula looked up at her, square into her eyes — Vivey could feel Lula’s small breaths on her throat. Lula squinted, “What is ya then, Vivey?” Vivey was no stranger to a stand off — white men who wanted her dead, white women who spit at her door, slaves who wanted her spot, white and black people who wanted her burnt at the stake, cause they were terrified of what she could do. Never a woman, soft and unafraid like Lula. She hd never been this close to another breathing self since she bought her freedom. Lula looked at her like a man did his wife. “Find out fo yaself, Miss Lula,” Vivey’s deep, towering voice trailed off into a small whisper as Lula clasped her hands around the small of Vivey’s back.

“I sho hope to,” surprised by her own movement, but wed to it, Lula squeezed Vivey tight enough for her to feel Vivey’s wind combing through her hair. Vivey began to run her long fingers up the length of Lula’s vertebrae to which Lila let out a coo, curved her spine into a semi-circle, and pressed herself deeper into Vivey’s chest. Neither of them could quite make out what was happening nor were they interested in stopping it. Vivey broke from the embrace first, tended to the tea, and poured two glassess. With their tea, Lula and Vivey sat close to one another on the cot. They’d sip, grin, periodically intertwine their thumbs, giggle.

“Do you know Phillis Wheatley?”

“No.”

“Can I read something to you?”

“Yes.”