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The squawking of the alarm wasn’t immediately a problem, when you had a wife like the one Alya did you were used to a little squawking. In fact, at first it folded nearly into the pre-morning dream state. The warmth in her arms, the back against her cheek, the rise and fall of ribs against her skin in deep slow breaths was a long familiar but ever thrilling experience. Mixed into this moment, the alarm’s sharp calls could be turned into a long winded complaint, the music of her woman, not a call to break from the sweet embrace of the bedsheets.
Eventually though the warmth shifted. There was a gentle press back against Alya’s chest, followed by a slow unraveling, then a swift turn and- Fwump. A well aimed pillow swept Alya’s phone, a lamp, and the book she had started yesterday all from the nightstand.
Alya opened her eyes, looking up at her golden companion who was currently rubbing their temples and glaring after the projectile. The phone still stubbornly announced its now muffled complaint.
“Don’t know why you still have that ridiculous alarm,” Chloé groused.
Alya shifted, but remained stubbornly supine, stretching beneath the sheets. The theme song to the first Ladybug movie kept playing on a stubborn ten second loop. “Mmm, because then whenever you hear it, or any of the remixes, you’ll think of me.”
Chloé’s glare focused on her, but the teeth went out of it. “Don’t know why you couldn’t just let me sleep in on today of all days. I should be allowed to bury my head in the sand as long as possible.”
Despite the bitterness in her tone, Chloé’s fingers brushed Alya through the covers before she stood and circled the bed. Alya got to simply observe, especially enjoying her wife stretch, reach, and grope for the phone behind the nightstand before turning it off.
Alya sat up, indulging a stretch of her own. “Maybe you have an easy day ahead, but I’ve got to cover Mayor Bourgeois’ inaugural speech. I’ve got hours of setup, wrestling with security, planning, then wrangling as many interviews as I can from guests who would rather not see me most days.”
Chloé rolled her eyes and shook her head before tossing Alya’s phone to her. Turning on point; Chloé strode to the master bathroom, shedding her silk pajamas as she went. She called back from the other room, “You could just skip it. Ridiculous political nonsense. Cover something important instead.”
Alya smirked, pushing herself out of bed and fishing through the chest of drawers. “Skip it? And let Chamack scoop me? I don’t think so. You knew who you were getting involved with long ago, honey. Too late for regrets.”
“Just because I love you, doesn’t mean I have to like all of you all of the time,” came back. Followed by, “Damnit, could you-”
Alya tossed a pair of panties and a cami that she had collected into the bathroom before Chloé had even finished the question.
“Thanks!” came back.
Alya scanned her phone’s queued messages to be sure they could be ignored before joining her.
Chloé’s hair was already up and impeccable. Alya had seen the woman turn bed head into a coif with a single motion, and yet still didn’t understand how she did it. She was applying makeup with a confidence to make professionals blush.
Alya budged in, giving her a hip bump then taking the low side while her long-legged wasp of a wife took the top. Alya set about sorting her own hair, a longer task that it had been before. Chloé had convinced her to stop straightening years ago, and they had both loved the results, but Alya was years behind in proficiency with finger combing.
She glanced up and spotted the real strain under the painted lines on Chloé’s face, “You could join me,” she teased, “You could stand in the press box, elbow to elbow with jackals jockeying for your place. You could take flak for being too revolutionary or being a toady for the state, depending on who was yelling. It’s a blast.”
She got a cutting look that years of experience taught her meant, ‘That did not work, but thank you for trying.’
They worked in silence from that point until they were back out in the bedroom dressed in blouses and blazers; Alya with buttons at her breast, Chloé with ruffles. Chloé crossed to Alya while Alya was trying to harangue her film crew into motion via text.
Chloé turned Alya towards her and straightened the front of her blazer, fingers lingering on the quarters. “What about after the speech? There are always parties to either join or avoid.”
Alya sighed softly and bumped foreheads with her. “Editing, writing up tomorrow’s segments, and trying to slip a few follow up interviews if I can. It’ll be late before I can break away. You know how it works hon.”
Chloé gave Alya’s jacket one more little tug, her voice pitched into a sulky pout that was desperately sincere, “I won’t get to see you at all today then… Sometimes I’m jealous of your success for stealing you away.”
Alya gave a little sass for that one, nudging Chloé’s tummy with a fingertip. “You’re trying to play that card with me Ms. Bee?”
Chloé countered,”You know it’s always easier with you close.”
Alya smiled. She did know. She knew because the same was true the other way around. She leaned in and just before kissing her whispered, “You’ll do fine, Mayor Bourgeois.”