- Jayma Reid | Ruth Blackwell

The shift came on a Sunday. The café was closed, but Jayma had texted Ruth an address—her apartment, a third-floor walk-up in an old brick building. Come see what I’m working on , she wrote.

Their first kiss tasted like turpentine and coffee. It was not gentle. It was the kind of kiss that happens when two people have been circling each other for weeks, pretending the orbit was accidental. Jayma’s hands cupped Ruth’s face like she was something precious. Ruth’s hands—those same hands from the painting—trembled against Jayma’s ribs. Ruth Blackwell - Jayma Reid

She walked over, wrapped her arms around Jayma from behind, and rested her chin on her shoulder. The garlic continued to burn. The cat yowled for dinner. Somewhere outside, rain began to fall—not a storm, just a soft, steady thing that promised to water whatever was trying to grow. The shift came on a Sunday

Alternatively, maybe the user is referring to two separate people with the same surname, like Blackwell and Reid, who are in some relation. Or perhaps a book titled "Ruth Blackwell - Jayma Reid." Their first kiss tasted like turpentine and coffee