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Primal Drums.

     The summer sun was streaming down upon
Worcestershire, drying the grass to hay and bleaching the
window frame paint. The hills around blazed green against the
horizon. August had been stiflingly hot that year and there was
a slime of perspiration across my back as I sat sedately sipping
my coffee.
     "It is very rare that the occasion arises to obtain a tan
in England." I remarked to my beshaded companion, who
lolled dog-like upon the grass. She pushed her sunglasses back
up her nose and wheezed nonchalantly.
     "From the way your ears have turned a neon red I'll
catch the smell of pork scratchings any time now." she
giggled.
     "Am I burning?" I asked, suddenly noticing a tightness
to my skin.
     She threw a plastic bottle of Factor 15 to me and told
me to rub it on and go in to the cafe. I obeyed, reluctantly and
moved to one of the tables inside. A five year old girl was
eating one of those ice cream cones with a ball of bubble gum
at the bottom, she stumble against me and was then pulled
away by her mother who gave her a sharp slap across the back
of her legs. The girl began to cry.
     I put my coffee down on one of the plastic covered
tables and discovered that it was painful to lean back on my
chair. I picked up the copy of John Cale's latest CD that I had
bought in the new secondhand bookshop on the highstreet. I'd
borrowed it from a friend six months ago and been amused to
hear the name of the county next door in the final track.
Judith, crispy from the sun sat down at the table and dabbed
moisturiser on her neck.
     "It's always the damn same!" she cursed, "I sit in the
shade and wear blocking sun tan lotion and I STILL turn the
colour of beetroot. It's alright for you, you're quite dark
skinned anyway."
     "Born jaundiced, I don't think I ever really recovered."
I explained.
     "I'll be glad when autumn arrives. I'm not built for this
kind of heat, it makes me feel so uncomfortable. There is
nothing I like more than the gentle warm breeze of an autumn
evening, the leaves brown,"
     "And the sky is grey?"
     "Piss off."

     I can trace my own love of autumn back to when I was
growing up. The arrival of autumn indicated the banishment of
hayfever and the coming of my birthday (in October) closely
followed by Christmas. Wonderful.

     "The summer just makes me feel so, sexy." said Judith,
who wasn't looking terribly sensual.
     "Eh?" I replied, dropping my CD.
     "I don't mean that it makes me feel randy or anything
like that. The warmth just gives me this uncomfortable feeling
in my stomach which reminds me of when I'm turned on."
     "What? Like indigestion?"
     "Yeah, a bit like that I suppose, but it's more of an
ache really. There's a wonderful article by Umberto Eco,
which talks about it."
     "In Travels in Hyperreality?"
     "Yes, the one which talks about how wearing jeans
makes a person more aware of their own sexuality."
     "I remember reading that, it made me laugh I think."
     "But it's SO true!"
     "I'm not sure whether I really want to know about
your achy turned-on feelings."
     "I don't believe you, men are absolutely obsessed with
sex, they get this sort of transfixed look on their faces when it
comes up in conversation, you've got it now, quick get a
mirror, see what I mean."
     "Oh, come on! How can you confine it merely to men?
There are hundreds and hundreds of women's magazines
which just publish month in month out their Ten Easy Steps to
orgasm. As far as I can gather all that happens is they just
come down to the age old axiom of  it really helps if you like
who you're fucking'."
     "So we're all fascinated by each other's love lives, it's
all fairly self explanatory isn't it? It's the one topic that
everyone talks about but no-one discusses honestly just in case
people think we're weirdos."
     "So you reckon everyone gets these achy  I'm too
hot/turned on' feelings?"
     "Maybe. Perhaps I'm just a weirdo."
     "Probably."

     A streak of light cut through the air from the window
and I looked at Judith and noticed how lean and old she'd
become. The last few years had squeezed the puppy fat from
her face and now, depending on the way the light caught her,
she might seem an artless twenty year old once more or a
knowing and hopelessly middle aged woman.

©1998 Mark Sexton