From dusk until dawn she read the book from cover to cover. She found herself reading certain passages aloud to herself in the early hours, her voice keeping her company. She sought to reassure herself with the author's platitudinous view that solitude has soft, silky hands, but with though strong fingers it grasps the heart and makes it ache with sorrow. Solitude was the ally of sorrow, she learnt, letting her cynical mask drop for a while. It was also, apparently, a companion of spiritual exaltation, even when the colours in her paintings were disparate and confused as were the thoughts in her mind.
"Disparate, confused and quite as fatuous too," she frowned. "This book is pathetic and these colours are not right either. What is wrong with me? The colours and the book both seemed perfect yesterday."
Throwing down the book in disgust and grabbing her jacket she headed for the door. Winter had blown into town the week before - grey skies and as the wind whipped her hair into her face, she brushed it back absentmindedly. Walking slowly toward the beach, she noticed how quiet everything was: there were not many carriages or people on the street but it was still early and a Sunday besides. A good day to be by the fireplace with nice cup of coffee, snuggling and talking about nothing and everything, giggling, laughing.
Shaking her head, she continued walking. She noticed for the first time how grey the sky and clouds were - she sighed - even the grey isn't right. It isn't the grey she would use - it's… it's… it's HIS grey. Damn it! Leave it be, she thought to herself, striding a little faster she tried to distance herself from her thoughts and his words to her. But it was no good for they keep invading her mind, her heart…her spirit.
"I need some space," he had declared. "I need time to...to?" Even he didn't know why he needed to be away from her. It wasn't her or their relationship, it was just that he needed to sort everything out. And the look in his eyes told her so much. She could see pain, hurt, frustration and yet desire and passion, but at that moment, neither of them knew which was which…
Turning away so that he couldn't see her pain, she had responded "I understand, but don't stay away too long…please?"
"Oh my dear lady," he sighed deeply.. "Even you know the answer to that.....I'll return, I promise."
When the smile faded from her cheeks, it opened the way to a rippling trail of tears coursing down. A black frown crossed her face like the rain clouds gathering over the shadows of the trees. Trembling, she opened her mouth to break into his thoughts, again hiding her true emotions from him, she suppressed a tearful lump rising in her throat: "Then go - go now - before I ask for more."
Silently watching her, knowing how badly she was hurt and wanting to go to her, to comfort her, to tell her it will be okay, he hesitated. He just needed time and yet took one step towards her. Then he stopped and walked slowly away.
As the distance between them grew, it seemed like the sky became darker and colder. She clutched her fists together tightly, willing herself not to cry. Without turning around he spoke softly… "I'll be in touch........"
Looking back, though, through tear speckled eyes, she had known that something wasn't right when she had answered the door the night before. His body had been ridged and he wasn't smiling. She had wanted to sympathise with his evident misery and patted an arm chair, offering him a seat, but she had learnt from him that she needed to listen before she could imagine and direct her energy into to diffusing the way that he looked at her. His eyes filled with abandonment and despondency. Yet, she had held her peace recollecting that sensitivity must be balanced with skill.
Her mind swung back even further into the past, when the book had seemed true and when he had seemed so much more wise and able to cope than she. She was aware how he could contract his power like a dancer's muscle, playing with words through exercise, practice and performance. She wanted to take him back to that time when he had sat by her, supporting her head as words whirled around them leaving her puzzled and confused fighting their way together out of yet another angry nightmare of disillusionment.
Handing her a red rose, his eyes searched hers for a long moment. She stood there, not quite sure what to do. Eventually she resorted to a comfortable stance to put him at his ease, smiling until his face softened and he smiled back.
"Come on in, dinner's almost ready," she invited, maternally.
Putting his coat in the hall closet, he noticed something different.
"Hey. You have changed the room around - again!"
Laughing, she replied, "Yes, I keep trying for the entirely perfect combination. I'm not quite there yet, but I've almost achieved the effect I am looking for."
The couch was against the wall under the window. There were two chairs and a glass table were in front of the fireplace.
"Why not the couch by the fire?" he asked studying the layout of the room. "It would warm your guests' hearts."
She frowned… "My hospitality must do that without the aid of your feng shui. It seems more homely and cosier with the chairs there."
"Your virtues cannot be burned by fire, my love," he congratulated her, admiring her style - blues and grays - and, smiling to himself, he observed the black and burgundy pillows - just for colour or because they were the forbidden colours of his fallen and now forbidden house? Did she wish to show him that she didn't care for the fact that he had fallen from grace and was soon to be forced into exile? Perhaps she felt that it was but a momentary lapse in his fortunes and he would soon rise again.
Watching her in the kitchen, she reminded him of a woman in the first bloom of youth, hair pulled back in a ponytail - cheesecloth skirt, thin patterned blouse and, chuckling to himself, a dab of blue paint on her cheek.
"Trying your hand at painting?"
Blushing slightly she replied, "Yes, how did you know? I probably should leave it to my brother, though. I am not doing too good here. I can't even get the right colours. I think he inherited that talent rather than me."
Striding over to his baggage and pulling his mandolin from its case, he raised the wooden instrument in his hands and looked towards her. Then, looking down at the instrument, he began to strum a lilting tune that brought a startled look on her face.
"Now why should she look like that?" he wondered, knowing full well the strings on which his bow now pulled. As the music filled the room, they both were affected, almost at exactly the same moment. It always did that -- his playing - taking her back to her first glimpse of him coming over the fields towards her and to his first instruction to her:
"Come here, my dear."
She glanced up as her words of protest drifted away unspoken. He was looking straight at her, and his voice became a little stronger: "Come here now, please."
She poured two glasses of wine and walked slowly back into the living room. His playing seemed to be pulling her there almost against her will. Placing his glass on the table, she took a sip from her own and tasted the fruit and the texture. He took her into his arms and slowly she started to dance with an imaginary partner, dancing an invisible romance.
She wanted this moment to last forever, but she knew, with a sigh in her heart, that things were destined to change. The music came to a halt and as he turned to lift her chin with his hand, he saw her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"What's this, dear lady - tears?"
Brushing them away with the back of her hand, " Not sorrow. It must be from the onions Olga has been cutting up."
"Olga?"
"My new kitchen maid."
"I think not, somehow. You are not so sensitive as to weep solely from the demise of vegetables."
Their bodies swayed slowly to the memory of the music... "No, really… I'm fine…"
"You should discriminate between those who you tell your truths to," he responded, pressing her down to rest her tired head on his shoulder.
"Perhaps I have learnt to guard my openness, my friend?"
Taking her glass and setting it down on the table, his arms held her closer. "I would not know that something was bothering you if I'd not learnt how to be watchful at the same time?"
"You watchful and I cautious," she smiled. "We are quite the daring pair."
He reached up and took the clip from her hair, letting the curls fall down around her shoulders. "Ah, that's better… "
Nuzzling her shoulder, he found the spot - kissed her and felt her melt into him. She tilted her head slightly as if to offer him her neck to make her his. Yet she noticed he hesitated.
Eventually his lips touched hers. The kiss deepened and she trembled, taking his lips away only long enough to remove her blouse, he kissed her again - this time taking her tongue inside his mouth - making her lips a feast for him.
As his hands caressed her malleable skin, he noticed that tonight her blouse was a finer satin than ever. Her skirt matched it almost exactly - same colour, same fabric. He would have to take care when finally he unzipped her skirt and watched her shrug the garment to the floor.
She reached for him … and kissed him gently as she unbutton his shirt, one button at a time. And one kiss, for each button … one … two … three … four.. five…her kisses were so sweet. He sighed and leant back, wishing he had a hundred buttons!
"The buttons may delay but do my kisses injure you?" she frowned, mistaking his relaxation as withdrawal.
"No it is more my impatience at the delay in your caresses?" he ventured. She laughed, understanding again and reached up to fondle his chest, causing him to moan with quiet pleasure. The beat of the music in their heads lifted them both to another place as they gave to each other kiss upon kiss, their passions giving way to desires.......
..........And then he was gone. She staggered under the weight of her chagrin and unhappiness at this hasty departure. It was all very well trying to reassure herself that it was going to be okay. It was not as if he was leaving her forever. Yet, the tears she had been holding back were released now. Laying her head upon her arms, she let the tears flow freely.
Would his memory stoop to touch her lightly and run a tongue of remembrance across her lips, in an unforgettable sensation? Was it excitement or more than that? A rush of emotions bubbling up through her, rushing to the surface of her stream to broaden her life and wear away the scope of her feelings. And now, those feelings were sitting by her again. Yet, it was she who was crooning softly, while this remembrance of things past lurked on the threshold of her sleep.
She sometimes put her pillow over her head to blot the sound of that reassurance out, wanting to suffer perversely until she drifted off into restless nightmares. When that occurred the next thing that she imagined was the sound of someone, moving quietly across the room towards the window, to stare out fitfully, sleeplessly. She would often start up in sleepy recognition. She could sense the shadow in the darkness. The scent of - warm, agreeable, masculine melding with her fragrance. Their mysteriously entwined form turned in the window - in the moonlight and stood there - a still life.
As she came back to herself, the wetness of joy was slowly followed by a shuddering sob. The wetness trickling down her cheek and the wind whistling across the bay and the fact that her thighs did not sting made her alert to the silence in the house. She remembered the sound of his voice - puzzled, aggrieved, angered. And in the almost eerie quiet, she gradually became aware that she and her sobs were still alone, alone in a house of tears.
The darkness called but for a long while she resisted. She still felt so close to him. She wanted him to renew his enjoyment of her. She was, however, tired of crying herself to sleep or of thinking of the cold waters closing over her chilled body, at the most desperate moments. Perhaps another warmth in her bed, no matter whose warmth it was, would at least prevent that insupportable engulfing of her spirit to morbid thoughts.
To keep the loneliness at bay, to keep the sadness of her soul from being so consistently alone, she sought out company again, in a seafront bistro. As she stared reflectively for an age at the patterns formed by the red wine in her half empty crystal glass, she began to give up hope that someone would get up and come over. Finally, her patience was rewarded.
She smiled welcomingly when he sat down. Remembering that this unknown was but a substitute, she blushed, feeling disloyal. At the same time she recollected all that had flowed between them and, in particular, the pangs of abandonment that she had felt and the unhappy solitude that she had been abandoned to. Her company had been sought and she would reward the seeker with smiles, however, skin deep they really were.
She laughed when he made what he thought was a clever comment and she looked almost adoringly into his eyes when conversation lagged. The man that she had attracted was so intent on winning her, that he couldn't see what was there. In his male crassness, he overlooked the almost physical presence in the room, that nearly palpable loneliness and the bitterness at the previous abandonment of her. He didn't reach out to soothe away those pangs for he could not detect them and he seemed to feel that a bridge had been crossed with her welcoming smile.
Perhaps, if he had identified the demons coursing around her he would have withdrawn himself in that shallow craven way of a man presented with the unexpected challenge of feminine ego, not feminine guile.
All the same for a while he chatted amiably enough. Yet, since he didn't pay attention to her needs, he overlooked the signs of her mind wandering. He didn't notice her eyes looking past him as they talked, looking for someone, anyone else, of interest. Anyone to distract her from this vapid trickle of atavistic words.
"Do you think I'm listening?" she thought as she murmured her assent to some banal remark. "Do you really think I care?"
It is so easy to fool these bar wolves, she thought, as yet again she repeated the last few words he had said, boosting his ego with a shy smile. She almost gained comfort from the knowledge that he would never know the depth of her contempt. Contempt for him, for being able to lead him where she wanted to go. Contempt for herself, for allowing it, for not running things, for wanting and needing it all so badly.
It didn't matter how good his company was, she'd only see him this time. She stood and turned away from him and it was only at that precise moment that he realised he had lost her. He gazed up at her suddenly and hopelessly in love, even as she was at the point of abandoning her. As she reached for her purse, she looked down at his lovelorn doe like eyes and hesitated for a moment, almost won over by his belated devotions. Almost a reversal of roles, she thought, smiling her pity at him. She bent to kiss his cheek, showing that she cared a little and to thank him for at least being a pleasant diversion from the all-encompassing loneliness for a few hours.
She turned away, thinking what might have been, had it been right. Such passion could have ensued if only he had been it. He could have given her such pleasure such love through a sleepless night until dawn. Taking her in every way, making her moan in unprecedented excitement. Those fingers could have stripped her body, while those liquid green unblinking eyes could have bared her soul.
She clutched at her necklace with the palm of her hand, feeling her heart palpitate. She was thinking of a hand descending slowly between her breasts and then reaching up gently to cup each one and kiss the soft tips, to chide her for her inattentiveness that evening, nibbling, biting and forever teasing her to fresh whimpers. That warm kissed and now abandoned cheek could have rested on her pale belly, gazing down in admiration at the smoothness of her skin. If he had been right for her she would have crooned as his strong hands reached around her, sliding firmly over her breasts and his lips nuzzling into the flesh of her neck.
"Ohhhhh, be here. If only you were really here!" She mouthed silently.
"Shhh, yes , I am here....now, be still," the echo of his voice commanded in her head. "Do as I say".
The pounding of her wanton thoughts, and the throbbing pull between her thighs were unbearable. She needed him. Taking her hands and pulling them above her head, he would have taken a cord, and proceeded to wrap it around her wrists, hooking them against the foot of the bed to hold her there.
He would have slid around to her front, he devoured her, with a fiery bite added to each and every lick. He would have been passionate and harsh, but hungry with desire. Her moans were guttural and needy, rewarded only when he buried his head between her thighs. Would he have feasted there until another command sprang to his lips:
"Spread those legs for me, Now!"
She would have parted her legs for him. Her head would have hung back, totally at his mercy. Drifting into his far away mind, she became his possession. And she loved it. His tongue could dart between the lips that held the swollen jewel of her lust. She wanted to cry out, how she had longed for him, and now, he was really with her.
She was reassured by the familiarity of remembered movement as he stood behind her in her imagination, patting her. He would place one hand on the small of her back and his other arm around her stomach. He would push her into a dipping position that almost forced her rear around his hardness, once she was where he wanted her. He would restrain his impatience, even as he had restrained her and grasped her hips, pulling her to him in a sweet dream. There she floated, light as stardust, through his universe, her arms and legs, spread as a soft warm meteor shower coursing through him - feeling, swooning and pulsing through an eternity of space.
The almost boyish face, smoothed of stubble by a caring shave before he slipped into her bed, could have rubbed against the inviting spread of her thighs, kissing her, licking her and then reaching up to taste the viscosity of her sex.....
...She stopped at the entrance to the club bar, feeling dizzy at the thought of all that lost delight, half tempted to return and take the hunched figure abandoned behind her in her arms to lead him to her bed. Leaning back, she closed her eyes, to the alarm of the doorman who thought she was going to faint. Enjoying the pleasure surging within her, a gift of those thoughts that she had created, a realisation overwhelmed her. She was her own mistress and she would be the determinant of her future. Sombre nights follow from grey days, but the thought of a night aglow with stars in a cloudless sky pulled back the curtains of her sorrows and fears. Whenever she recalled the empty jetty now and the surrounding grey skies it would be with renewed fortitude.
"Remember, always, it's only us," the reassuring whisper would come from exile. Regardless of distance the disparate snippets from their shared past synergised into a single unity at her window. She had finally begun to capture the nuances of remembered pleasures. Now she would at last confidently retain the essence in him that added to her own inner strengths and capabilities. She was no frail woman to be patronised by egocentric novelists and vulpine creatures in search of vapid one night stands. She was her own woman and she would wait to sleep on her own terms, forever until morning.
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