You, with your hot eyes and your dirty mouth; I see you. And do you see me? perched on the edge of this age-old game, ready to step oh-so-daintily in, never plunging. Eyes up, eyes down, little smile, little frown, moving gently towards you. And you, are you a player, or are you marked by someone else? Or maybe playing a different game? Tantalisingly indefinable; long hair splayed out on your shoulders, warm smile, eyes flashing intelligence like an almost aggressive force, clothes neat and casual and male and female. You look up, mouth contracting down and eyes glowing. Is it a trick or a natural expression? Do I care, because either person, capable of either is what I desire, all I can think of, right now.

The heat swells from the party and I start to send out the signal, like a warm swell from the centre of my chest, and, as each time, I wonder if it will work, and how it works, and what it is. Is it chemical, a pheromonal fancy, washing out to make me biologically, generally desirable? Or is it a strange electrical pulse, flashing across disconnecting space to you alone, or a radiation, or something more mysterious than these; a call of the heart? You look up, smile again, fix me eye to eye. That’s it – the contact made. And will you play, or run away, or move straight to the conclusion? I hope you’ll play. I hope you’re female enough for that. More conversation on your part, and I’m closer, almost smelling you, yes surely, above all the others in the room, it has to be you. But this person you’re with. Does she own your heart or your loins or merely your attention? But surely your affection, for you laugh, and place your hand on her small shoulder, baring your neck, bowing backwards with pleasure. I get a disorientating flash, a vision of darkness, and your body arching. Is this a thing that was, or is to be? A memory or an event to come? I am back in the room, now feeling others around me; less focused, more aware. I smell the scents of a thousand perfumes and musks, and the damp sweat of armpits, groins and necks. The other smells are there, sometimes almost washed away, or drowned by the mating scents of other species. But it’s still there, the sharp, dry smell of the males, and the lush damp musk of the females. But right now there is only one again, as you ebb towards me, smile again, though not in my eyes, and move slowly away towards the wall. A challenge, a defeat, or what?

Dilemma. Am I to follow or stay, play coquette or conqueror? I must go with what I feel. If you will not have me as I am, then I cannot have you. For now, for some reason, as never before, it is important that it is me you want, me you play with, me that you might finally hold and devour and savour.

I follow, slightly dubious. But you may be thinking that you read the wrong signals if I do not display myself more surely. This is wrong. I stop in the crowd, hand to my head. I am thinking too much, what is the matter? This game of chemicals and instincts has gone a step further, higher up the brain stem. And why I don’t know yet. Or maybe I’m hiding it from myself, maybe I know what might come next, and all my fears of rejection and acceptance and freedom and responsibility rise to choke me; I feel so lonely, yet so crowded, hemmed in. I must fight for air. Coolness, the freedom of the winds and garden scents.

I struggle to the long windows, feet uncertain, game forgotten, politely desperate. Thank you, sorry, mutter, mumble, pitch increasing. I am blocked, I am trapped. In with all these others and their scents and their thoughts and their on, on, on driving me mad. There is too much information in this room, and all of it means too much. I drop my handbag, and scuffle miserably for it on the floor. A hand at my elbow, guiding me, pushing through the crowd with steel and determination born of a lack of panic, but by some concern. I must thank this person who brought me to my salvation, the cool, damp air, sharp with grass and green things, things that do not crowd my attention, that only contain information about themselves. And I turn, eyes already battened against the potential force of human information, and it’s you. You smile, release my elbow, step to the threshold of the window, and breathe deeply.

"You’re right – it’s far too hot in there. Or, if not hot, too much of something." You look down at me, eyes smiling and mouth solemn with some contained joy. Your voice is beautiful. "Do you want to walk? I’ll go in a different direction if you don’t want company."

But I think I do. The fresh, cool air and dark space would revive me, but with a companion who can recognise it, it would soothe and stimulate me, meaning so much more. My misanthropy forgotten, I step to the threshold and beyond, knowing that we will be holding hands in five minutes’ time without our noticing, that we will kiss, cool a first, then with mutual astonishment in our hunger. And the world will be you and me, breast to breast under a tree, caressing until the world ends and the other one intrudes. And there will be no male and female, no sense of right or wrong. And I know that this might be forever, and that frightens and exults me as I step out towards the garden, silent in its innocent, vegetable darkness.

*

"What’s your name?"

"Eve," she smiles, and I smile too. Of course.