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In a tragedy, nothing is in doubt and everyone’s destiny is known. That makes for tranquility. There is a sort of fellow-feeling among characters in a tragedy: he who kills is as innocent as he who gets killed: it’s all a matter of what part you are playing. Tragedy is restful; and the reason is that hope, that foul, deceitful thing, has no part in it. There isn’t any hope. You’re trapped.
– Jean Anouilh, Antigone, 1944 (tr. Lewis Galantiere)
When Junna finally tumbles onto her duvet with Nana in her arms it feels inevitable.
She shivers. She has never known the narrative threads come together so cleanly: the strange childhood of a strange young child; the willfulness—the stupidity—that drew her to this world, this life, these girls, this girl; Nana’s hand in hers during that final Starlight bow, gripping so tightly, tight like only Junna’s curled fingers were keeping her tethered to the earth, like if Junna had let go then she would have floated off the stage and away, away, away.
And now, this. Of course they were going to end up here. If she could live her life a million times over, Junna thinks, she would make the same choices again and again and still end up here, on her bed, her hips bracketed by Nana’s knees. Of course, of course. She is delirious. She has never felt more clearheaded in her life. Her heart is fluttering, is steady like the last exhale released before the curtains come up.
Nana’s bottom lip is soft and wet and fits impossibly perfect against Junna’s own. She bows her head so Junna’s fingers can shift from the nape of her neck and sink into her pigtails, tug at her scrunchies until her blonde hair tumbles down like a shock of sunlight flooding the room.
When Junna’s mouth parts—to take a breath, to murmur something incredulous, she isn’t certain, doesn’t know—Nana only presses closer, kisses her with the certainty of someone who’s been doing this for a long, long time.