Wednesday, 20 December 2006

All in good time

Our bar is always dark. In the 80s it was full of yuppie-rejecting alternatives who talked about death and drunk cheap red wine straight from the bottle. In the 90s it went overground along with underground rock music, and our favourite band partied with us after hours.

Couple in an alley of the Gracia district
Originally uploaded by !subjective¡.
We stumbled in drunkenly, early one midweek evening, when we were the only people there and the place still smelt of yesterday's cigarettes and half-hearted citrus cleaning detergent.

And we went home together, spent the night silently on your rickety single bed in your tiny studio, and listened to records loudly to still the thoughts in our heads, your ashtray resting on my still flat belly.

But today, it's Friday and happy-hour, and although the bar is still quite empty, it will soon be spilling over with bright young things. I haven't seen you for two years. I am hoping you might come, that you will stand next to me in the dark like you used to and look through me with your black eyes.

And somewhere during the third beer you arrive. Somehow, I thought you would have changed more. Last time I saw you, your face was covered with a full beard; your girlfriend likes facial hair.

Now, although she is still by your side, the beard is gone. And your face looks younger, shockingly familiar. Your jaw is slightly wider, but the line of your lips tells me that inside your winter coat and washed-out jeans, your body is still the same, slim, elegant, full of surprises.

My blood rushes from my neck and into my head, out to the very end of my limbs, my hands feel hot and dry, I think I'm blushing. I didn't know I could still blush.

Suddenly, like a 15-year old I'm glad I made an effort to look beautiful, to blowdry my hair into soft waves and to do my dark red lipstick to perfection.

You say hi. You ascertain that I'm still J's girlfriend (I don't need to ask you as your 2nd half is very obviously attached to your left arm). You tell me how your son liked starting school this year (and that he looks nothing like you and very much like his mother).

We don't make it obvious. We talk to other people. But even as we do, I can feel your eyes on the small of my back, on my waist, that narrow point where my hips join my torso. You liked always to hold on to that part.

The bar is filling up. Our friends are all gathered ahead of Christmas, maybe the last one before we all start finally building our lives with homes and children. You were always a step ahead of everyone else, as if your old eyes were forcing your life to catch up with them prematurely.

We're squeezed into a corner, my drink in one hand and my handbag dangling off my naked arm. You say something about my job, it makes me laugh, you put your hand on my arm. Our eyes meet.

You have never left my life completely. I have purged you from my bed where for years you would be the first thing I saw behind my closed eyes in the morning. I have demoted you to a secret corner that I never discuss with anyone, not even J. But you were always there, asking when it would be time for us, me telling you that soon, soon.

Your girlfriend is busy talking to someone else. I slip away towards the toilet, and when I'm out of sight I go around the other side of the bar, making my way through the crowd to the exit. I don't look back.

Outside, I know the air is freezing cold, although strangely (for alchohol related reasons) I don't feel it. I wrap my black pashimina around my shoulders, my nipples immediately harden and I feel the winter draft stroke my nylon stockinged legs. I slip around the corner of the building, into the alley only lit by the fire exit sign of the bar.

You've managed to get there before me. As we kiss, the heat of your tongue makes hairs stand up on my neck. I wish we had time to spend the night together, talking about everything and nothing, waiting for the sun to come up.

But we don't have much time. Our left hands interlace, you push the back of mine against the brick walls and pull my leg up with your right; inside your black coat, you run your hand to the top of my stocking, it is strangely warm on my thigh. You squeeze it, and I push my hips out to meet what I know will be a rock hard bulge in your jeans.

You kiss my neck, and all the blood that went to my head earlier seems to rush to that very spot, it tingles, I feel dizzy. "You know..." you whisper in my ear. But I don't want any words. I remember so many from before, I can't deal with the burden of another sentence tomorrow morning. "Just kiss me, just kiss me." I don't know if it's you saying it, or me.

With my free hand I unbutton your jeans, I put my hand down the back where your buttocks are as firm as I remember them, I grab you, push you in towards me. You are quiet. You were always very quiet. Your cock pushes into my silk skirt, I hoist it up and put you against my naked skin. Your hand joins mine, I feel your cool fingers on my wet pussy, and I can't help it, I moan.

I steer you into me, covered with an artificial sheet of latex that never used to be there when we were younger, and more recless.

Our bodies still know how to move together, as you lift me up and I wrap my legs around you, my back scraping on the brick and concrete as you press towards me, the heat from your cock spreading in my body as I cling onto you.

Our bodies still fit together, so well that life had to work ridiculously hard to separate them and send them to separate ends of the globe.

And that's the last thing I think, before I am engulfed in your darkness, I can only feel your breath, and your hands, and your mouth, your hair brushing my mouth; you smell the same, taste the same, and somehow your hand is in there, caressing my clit as you move slowly, with determination, bringing us to the point from which there is always a return, to someone else.

I think I come, I hear someone groaning, it's you, how your voice still sounds quite unlike you when you climax, you say something but I don't want to hear it, I feel your hot cum running down the inside of my one leg. A part of me somewhere far off smells it, metallic, earthy. Later, I'll wipe it off with snow and wonder if I'm pregnant, my hands red and swollen from the cold.

There are no more words.

I don't feel like crying, like I did when I first saw you with her years ago and knew I had lost you, I just feel like taking your hand and running away from everything, being 17 again, starting over.

But something would happen; a picture of your son or of my boyfriend would slip out of our pockets and there is always a return from this, always a world pulling our bodies apart. Or we would just miss the train. We were never good at being on time, except when orgasming together.

When we're back inside, my friend notices my scraped hand and asks what happened. I'm not sure what I blame, I'm very drunk.

"You should grow your beard back," I hear your girlfriend saying. "I don't even know why you shaved it off. You look so much better with it."

"All in good time," you say.

And that's what I say as I kiss you goodbye and head for the taxi, for J who is sleeping peacefully at home waiting for me, as you help me put my coat on in the crowded bar and you lift my hair softly out of my coat.

"All in good time."

1 comment:

  1. Lovely Post My Dear. Did you miss me? I've started writing again. Luvs you!


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