Blackcurrent by Mary Cook
Comments gratefully received at: r.cook2@ukonline.co.uk
My other lesbian fiction can be found at: http://web.ukonline.co.uk/r.cook2/index.html
"Table seven two teas and a chocolate cake. They're a bit restless, so try and hurry it, OK Marnie?"
"Four lemonades, one cappuccino, three raspberry and one lemon pie on table four Rachel."
I try to take it easy on the staff. It works until a minibus of customers arrive, thirsting for coffee, wanting a table to talk about the mornings sights and some food to gear them up for their afternoon.
The other day I was counting the takings and I found twenty pounds was missing. I asked if any of the girls knew where it was. They all said no, but Chris was looking shifty. In the end, I let it go, I couldn't bear the thought of having to interrogate her.
"Shit" muttered Rachel. I looked down at the floor and saw shards of broken plate underneath a strawberry tart. She cleared it up, apologised to the customer and came back to the counter. She said sorry to me too, but I couldn't stop myself from admonishing her.
The day always seems to fly by, the minutes ticking away in time with the change dropping into the till. I feel most relaxed when evening is approaching and closing time is in sight. The number of customers dwindles, the voices of the few that are left getting louder as the noise around them grows less and less. Then a moment comes when they suddenly realise, usually cutting a sentence short, that they are the only ones left. They smile, tell each other they'd better be getting home. Standing, waiting until they reach the door to turn and say thanks to Rachel and Marnie and I.
After they have gone, I send the girls home with pockets full of money and a laden bag for their supper.
Alone, I switch off all the lamps and sweep the floor by moon and street light, put the chairs on the tables, have a cigarette near the window as I look out onto the yellow street.
Then the evening baking begins. I make the little strawberry tarts first. Sometimes Rachel likes one if she comes in on the way home from her evening class.
Next are the chocolate cake and coffee cake. It used to be fun experimenting with different recipes, or varying the same ones, seeing what made the moistest cake. But now I've found the ones that sell the best, the urge is gone.
There's a knock on the big front window. I know it will be Rachel and go to the door to let her in. She sits down on her usual stool at the counter, within speaking distance of the kitchen. I select the tart with the ripest strawberries and bring it to her on a plate.
"Thanks very much" she says.
I return to my cake mix and soon have the oven emitting inviting smells, leaving me time to talk to Rachel. Tonight there has been no talk from her, so I sit with a cup of tea, fiddling with my teaspoon.
"Nick and I are having problems" she says at last. "What sort of problems?" "He says we're growing apart, now he's at uni." "And are you?" "Yes" she says, looking wearily at me. "Can you see any sort of way through?" "I don't know. I don't think so." Sighing, she drops her head.
She has eaten half the strawberry tart. Her fork hovers over the rest, then she lays it down and gets up to go. She hesitates by the door, tears coming to her eyes. I come around from behind the counter, walk between the tables, put my arms around her, stroke her hair. She apologises and says thank you, then leaves to walk the few streets to her house.
I return to my kitchen thinking of a new base I might try for the strawberry tarts. The notes of my whistling shear up to odd heights as new bouts of shivers break out over my back. I feel protected from the blackness outside the windows.
I consider staying the night at the shop. There is a sofa in the back that has served well as a bed. I imagine a cup of tea and a book, sitting in the warm lamplight as it pours over the table towards the floor, collecting in a pool about my chair.
Gradually time flows away and soon my watch says two thirty. The girls will be arriving at eight. I turn for my sofa, first checking the door and the windows, shutting off the lights until all I can only see the woolly patches of green and red that swim over my eyes.
The sofa is warm and soft and soon I am asleep.
The next day I am useless. I seem to do a lot of ineffectual gesturing, forgetting orders, mixing them up, insisting I'm right when I am not. I don't manage to talk to Rachel at all. She looks tired, occasionally drawing her eyes wide as if to stave off sleepiness.
I decide to close the shop for lunch, so we can eat in peace. At one o'clock, Marnie flips the Open sign over and we all settle down at the table in the kitchen. The girls eat sandwiches and I have a cup of tea.
Talk idles its way around Rachel's now ex-boyfriend, Nick. It seems he rang her last night to say he'd slept with someone else. Everyone wades in with sympathies, but I hold back. Lighting another cigarette, I look over at Rachel and purse my lips, trying to look like I'm sorry.
Chris gets up to ring her girlfriend, taking the handset of the phone into the darkness of the coat cupboard, the wire between the door and the frame betraying her covert retreat.
Work begins again, the sign is flipped back, Chris emerges from her world of darkness and coats.
After we reopen, a stillness falls over the cafe. Chris leans on the sink, the plates, cups and spoons dripping onto the draining board. Rachel and Marnie stand near the counter, tea towels tucked into the waist of their skirts. For a little while it feels as if no one will ever come in again.
Of course at last a shape appears, visible through the glass of the door. The bell jangles and in potters an old lady carrying a footstool, and a man with two small children, his face showing the strain of school holidays. My heart sinks a little. I see Rachel's back straighten, see Marnie go and begin wiping down tables.
I've promised myself I won't sleep at the cafe tonight, but inevitably I end up stretching out the evening's baking, re-cleaning surfaces, wanting to stay in my pool of welcoming light.
Tonight when Rachel comes in, she looks less worried. She sits down at her usual place, breathes her usual sigh. I serve her a strawberry tart, watch her enjoy being waited upon.
"How was the walk back tonight?" "Not bad at all." "Don't you get nervous coming home in the dark?" "A little. I felt good today though. The darkness makes me think. There's less to look at so my mind can drift off. I thought a bit about Nick and what I'll do." "Want to talk about it?" I ask, hoping she has it neatly parcelled and disposed of. "Not really, I've got some thinking to do yet. I feel quite relaxed, actually." "Good." I pause and think. "With the darkness thing, I still prefer it when it's light. You can see anything coming at you then." "Winter's better for snuggling down onto a sofa with a book" she says, her eyes un-focusing for a moment, as though thinking of a treat waiting at home.
We are silent for a while. She picks at her tart, her lip looking slightly curled.
"How often do you sleep at the cafe?" she asks eventually. "Once a week, maybe less" I say, looking down into my mug of tea. "Oh, come on. You should go home to bed. I do." "But I like to wait for you." "Why?" she asks, though I suspect she knows the answer. "Because I know you like your strawberry tarts." "Actually," she says "actually I rather prefer chocolate cake."
I look down and then grin. Getting up, she fetches a piece of cake from the kitchen, bringing two forks with her. We share it, scooping the crumbs left over on the plate onto our fingers, sucking them into our mouths.
The next morning I'm surprised to find myself in bed. My neck feels deliciously sleepy and with an indulgent groan, I roll over and drift off again.
I get in late for work, see Rachel's dark, pleased eyes looking at me as I come in through the door, the bell ringing jauntily.
"Feeling good?" she asks. "Yes" I say, meaning it.
Today goes more slowly. I talk to the girls less, spend time watching the customers, wondering about where they go after they leave the shop. I see a surprisingly brave young girl make eyes at the woman on the next table.
I see as the amorous girl's tongue slips its way over her lips, making my mind burn in disbelief, the knife involuntarily jerking down, slitting open my finger. I don't take any heed, my brain still being consumed as the girl's tongue slips itself back inside her mouth.
The cut stayed a long time, occasionally reminding me of its presence if I treated it carelessly. I felt very conscious of it, shivering at the thought of catching the flap of skin upon something.
They became lovers I think, coming into the cafe together, the girl making the woman giggle helplessly as they sat with their tea and cakes. But presently, the woman resumed coming in alone, the melancholy frown on her brow perhaps a little deeper.
In the evening as I walk home from work, the trees arch above me, dark sky a surface that recedes with each look and touch, enticing my gaze and the raising of my arm. In bed, I fall asleep thinking of kisses from dark lips fluttering against my mouth.
I wake the next morning, lie in bed still half asleep with no idea what time it is. My clouded thoughts meander their way around the room, seeing each familiar bump and imperfection in the white white walls, seeing the door, the deep navy paint makes my eyes swim.
My mind wends its way into possibility and hope. A singles bar constructs itself in front of my dreamy eyes. A shady girl, a glass of wine divined. My synapses begin to clear. The bar darkens but doesn't fade, its persistence surprising me.
I get up and dress for work, deciding to wait until the evening to see if I still want to go.
Arriving at work, Chris greets me at the door.
"I've got some blackcurrants for you." "Blackcurrants? Where from?" I ask. "My garden, I've been growing them."
She dashes behind the counter and into the kitchen, then reappears holding a huge sandwich bag. Putting it into my hand, she asks:
"Have you ever tried them?" "I suppose I must have. Are they sort of sweet?" "No they're quite sour. They're lovely."
The bag has collapsed and moulded its soft, bobbly shape around my hand.
"Do they taste nice in a tart?" I ask, opening the bag a little and putting two fingers inside.
"Yeah, should think so."
I pick out one of the little fruits and roll it between my fingers, then I eat it. It's sour and slightly bitter, but good. I take out three and eat them all at once, then another two.
Going through to the kitchen, I ask Marnie if I can leave her in charge for a few hours.
"Of course." She smiles, lights coming to her eyes.
I dig out a baking tin. Its ridges and its scratched base inspire me to throw away my blocks of frozen supermarket pastry. I make my own instead, adoring the smooth softness as the butter and flour crumbles between my fingers.
I put the tart into the oven tenderly, admiring one valiant fruit that is poking up above the rest.
Going back into the shop I begin to wipe down the counter. I hear a woman say she can smell baking.
"Perhaps it's chocolate cake" suggests her friend, indicating their brown-crumbed plates. "Maybe" says the woman. "Smells fruity though. Whatever it is, it's familiar."
The gentle textures and moist smells of the day slide into memory. I recall when all days were like this, filled with distinction and contour. Back home, I once had a whole summer where the trappings of each day were identical. I was eighteen, waiting for exam results, every hour filled with paralysing opportunity.
I spent most of the time in an out-of-the-way greasy spoon cafe. They would serve me an English breakfast in the morning, some toasted tea cakes at lunch time. Then I would sit and drink tea, smile at the female clientele, sometimes persuading one of them to come home with me.
Now, today, my once ashen optimism has rekindled itself. I leave work early, the reassuring weight of the tart in my hands.
I get home, make a perfunctory meal, bolt it, then drink half a bottle of wine as I get dressed.
Rummaging through my wardrobe, I find my black dress. Its thin straps wrap themselves over my shoulders and the bodice clings to my ribs. I look in the mirror and my heart thumps in terror, thinking of all the people, all the dark faces, all the appraisal.
Steeling myself with thoughts of my adventurous blackcurrant tart, I get my keys, purse and jacket, put on my shoes, turn out all the lights, finish my glass of wine, go out through the front door, lock it and start down the street.
I walk into town, the darkness making me nervous. I pass the cafe, see a lamp still on. I consider going in, wrapping myself in the warm pool of light. But thinking of the tart sitting at home, I carry on.
After twenty minutes, I get to the bar. There are a couple of women standing outside. I pull my jacket about me, hiding my fear. Stepping inside I see it's gloomy, smoke hanging in the spaces between the people. A drab, functional bar sits in the corner, waylaying the stumbling drinkers.
I keep on going past it and choose a table at the back. Sitting, I wave my hand to the waitress. She comes over and her smile reassures me. I order a Manhattan.
The evening goes slowly, I'm aware of each minute as it is carved up by the second hand on my watch. Dark faces and bodies move about in front of my table. I get veiled glances, appraisals, but no one speaks to me, and I am too shy to approach. Eventually I get up to go, pay at the bar, say goodnight to the bouncer on my way out. At the door, a woman catches my hand.
"Where are you going so early darlin'?" "Home." I say. She is rather dashing, slicked back hair, even a leather jacket. "Want to come with me?" she says, her inflection dissuadingly crude. I hesitate though, suspecting vulnerability behind her brash persona. But her hand relaxes a little, her eyes wandering to the bar door behind me. "No thanks." I say.
I walk along the pavement, the streetlights flashing past. It's 12 o'clock, no one is about. My earlier fears resurface. Rapists and murderers loom in my mind, threatening to step out from the darkness, block my path. I restrain my frantic steps, then at last reach the cafe.
I hover by the door, keys in hand.
I wait still longer, staring at the lamp, its buttery light enticing me.
"Excuse me. Excuse me. I wonder if you could tell me the way to Spicer Street?"
The fight with James still burnt in my mind, and it made me brave. I felt strong, assertive, courageous. I caught sight of a woman on the other side of the road. She looked good - black dress fitting her well, bodice clinging to her ribcage, straps wrapping themselves over her shoulders. I chided myself as I let her slim ankles draw me over.
Bitch. "More space" she said - I gave it to her. "More time" she said - I gave it to her. No progress in three months. How can she blame me if I get frustrated? I barely touched her.
Red and green clouds obscure my vision as I turn from the cafe to the woman who has just spoken. She asks "Do you know the way to Spicer Street?", for the second time I think. But I can only stare at her, dumbfounded. She returns my look with black, black eyes: dark mascarared eyelashes, black pupils, black irises, even the whites of her eyes are in darkness.
"Yes" I say hoarsely, then I clear my throat and manage "Yes, I do." She waits. "You go down to the end of the road" I say, pointing, "turn left then keep going until you get to Cooper Street, carry on down and you should find Spicer Street on the right." "Thank you."
She flinches, as if starting to walk but then deciding to stop.
"Looks like a nice cafe." "Thank you." I say. Though I desperately want to, I'm unable to smile in front of her tragic beauty. Her eyes seem full with unshed tears, her face forlornly white, as though she is sick with grief. I picture her sitting in the pew of a church, wearing a widow's mourning dress, a bible clenched between her hands.
"Have you been in?" she asks. "I'm the owner."
Her smile shines through, sunlight spilling over the crest of a hill. If I knew her, I would spend every second of every day trying to illicit that transformation. Her expression fades.
"Perhaps I'll come in one day." "Do" I say, pathetically. She seems to rouse herself. "Well, thank you for the directions." "No problem at all." "Bye."
I watch her walk away down the street, my heart breaking with want. I pray to the dark sky that she will come.
The next days sparkle with her possibility. Rachel talks a lot, standing close by me, looking into my face. But I feel affection now, rather than my past ardour.
I dream of the woman who's name I don't know. Constant remembering embroiders her face, her eyes, her waist, her hands. But usually she is simply a pool of delicious haziness, only a few isolated features distinct. When I can bear it, I remember her smile.
One morning, Marnie bustles into the cafe.
"You've been looking very happy recently" she smiles. "Something I ought to know about?" "Oh no, nothing" I say, hiding my eyes. "Come on! Maybe some progress with 'I'm het really but I'll suggest a slight openness to persuasion towards alternative lifestyles' Rachel?" I laugh. "No, no."
The bell above the door rings and a customer comes in. Marnie goes to take the man's order, shooting me a postponing glance over the top of her pad of paper. I bat my eyelids back at her innocently.
A week goes by. February draws to a close and March begins. I imagine her sitting at each of the tables in the shop, eating each of the things we sell (or give, in her case).
Then one day I recall her as she really was: still beautiful, still erotic, but made of parts which can sometimes be perceived as a whole. I recall the way her black hair curled and frizzed above her forehead, the way her chin lengthened when she smiled. I recall every feature I'd seen during our meeting. She becomes a mass of sharp detail, rather than her previous misty impression.
But the idealism and perfection of my past memory is nothing compared to her monumental self in my clarified vision. How can I approach her? Talk to her? She seems unattainable - a distant star.
On Friday afternoon in the second week of waiting, I'm pottering about in the kitchen, thinking about baking a chocolate cake to take home. Marnie comes in, switches on the kettle and takes out two mugs from the cupboard.
"Tea?" She holds up the box of tea bags. "Yes please." "Tell me who's smoothed away that furrowed brow?"
I smile. "OK. OK." Taking a deep breath, I say "Two weeks ago today, I went to that place in town."
She looks blank.
"You know the one. It keeps changing its name." "Oh yeah, I know." "I was walking back home and..." "Back home?" "Yes" I say, feeling impatient "nothing happened at the bar." "Nothing?" "No, not really. I stopped outside the cafe on the way home when a woman came up and asked me for directions." "What time was it?" "About twelve." I saw questions flood to Marnie's lips, but she stopped herself and I carried on. "I turned and looked at her and she was beautiful." I find I can't say anything else, I can't express what I felt. "Really beautiful. We talked a bit and she said she'd come to the cafe and I've been hoping she will ever since."
Saying the things I've only thought about before brings a curious change. The woman seems more earthly now that I've talked about her. She seems like someone it is possible to know.
"So she hasn't come in yet?" Marnie asks. "No. I'm rather disheartened. It feels like she never will now." "Have you any other way of contacting her?"
I shake my head. Tired of talking about it, I say I'd better be getting back to work.
Walking back through to the front of the shop, I sink onto the chair behind the till. I have been waiting in this café forever. I feel low, cheated. It seemed like a chance had been offered, but it has melted away. Angriness begins to seep into my brain. My skull threatens to give way under the pressure of it. I look up and cast my eyes around. Everything I see fuels the rage that is crushing down upon me.
And then I see her. Sitting in the corner. The angriness mixes with relief and passion and it all pours into my mind. Seeing her perched upon my pine chair, I want to kiss her and touch her pale face. Then she rises, walks over to the counter.
"Hello again." "Hi, hi. How are you" I bluster. "Fine thank you. I found my way there." "Where?" I say. "To Spicer Street." She smiles. It takes a superhuman effort to rally my forces. "Oh good." I wonder if I'll ever say anything intelligent. "Well, I just thought I'd say hello."
I sense she's feeling awkward, perhaps thinking I don't want to talk to her. I curse my inarticulacy and say: "I'll send someone over for your order." "It's OK, a girl's already taken it." "Oh good. Why did you want to go to Spicer Street?" "I'd heard you can catch taxis from there."
I am disappointed -- I had expected something more exotic. I'm getting into a better flow however, and continue with: "Do you live round here?" "No, I live to the north, out of the city. Lots of countryside and little people." She smirks. "I mean, not very many people."
Marnie appears carrying a cup of tea and a slice of blackcurrant tart. She sees the woman standing talking to me and stops, says:
"Would you like these at your table?" "Yes, thank you". The woman smiles at me, says "Nice to see you again" and goes back to her place by the window.
Returning to my station behind the counter, I begin bagging up the day's change to give myself time to regroup. My mind twists as I think how to engage her in conversation again. Going into the kitchen, I get a Florentine from the fridge, hastily make a cup of tea. There's no one else in the café this late on a Friday.
I hover by the kitchen door, uncertain and nervous. Suddenly Marnie gives me a push out into the shop and I stumble. Some of my tea slops onto the floor and the woman looks up.
"Sorry." I say. "What are you sorry for?".
Fortunately I don't have to answer her because by now I'm close to where she's sitting and can say:
"Do you mind if I join you?" "Not at all."
We sit in silence. I am just getting to the distressing stage where I'm sure I'll never think of anything to say, when she rescues me.
"How long have you had your shop?" "Ten years."
I am proud of the café, but also feel slightly uncomfortable when I think of it.
"I bought the building eleven years ago. It housed a bakery then, so the kitchen was big."
She interrupts me with:
"Why did you choose to open a café?"
I flush, pleased she is interested.
"I don't know."
Then, after thinking for a minute, I say:
"During my teens I liked cooking. As time went on, I did it more and more. I grew to love it."
I feel a little embarrassed, a blush warm around my ears.
"I was fascinated by the way a taste can be created from lots of different flavours. Every time I made something, I'd refine my recipe. I think fried mushrooms ended up needing eleven ingredients." "But why not become a chef?" "Because I was interested in business as well." I smile. "I used to play Monopoly loads. I loved seeing a profit come from a decision or a holding. Something creating more than its face value was exciting. When I played, I'd see a property generate more rent than the price I paid for it and find that so pleasing."
Her eyes sparkle as she says:
"So you opened a café because you make mushrooms in a complicated way and you like Monopoly?"
I feel irritated, consider giving a caustic reply. Instead, I force a smile and say:
"I don't know your name." "Anne." "I'm Kate." "I didn't mean to belittle your motives. I've offended you."
Her eyes have swelled a little and this evokes tenderness in me. When I reply, I try to be as frank as her and say:
"I'm proud of what I've made." "So you should be" she says and laughs, as though anything else would be absurd.
My solar plexus lurches as I reflect on how much I enjoy her straightforward company.
We have finished our tea, scooped up all but the smallest crumbs from our plates. We sit in silence again. She stares off into the darkness outside the window, her face becoming ever more set, ever more leaden. She finally turns to me and says:
"Sorry." A pause. Then: "I was just thinking about home. It's going to be empty and I was wondering if you wanted to come for dinner." She begins to fluster: "I mean, I don't usually invite strangers into my house it's just..."
I cut her off, saying "That'd be wonderful. Really it would." I hope I sound more composed than I feel.
She smiles, her eyes narrowing, her face lightening; my heart breaks again.
"I've got a cutlet of beef I can cook. Do you eat meat?"
My heart is a fluttering sparrow bumping against my ribs, losing its rhythm, regaining it for a few moments and then thudding again against the inside of my chest.
"Yes" I mumble.
She gets up to go, puts on her dark suede jacket.
"What time should I come round?" I ask, nervous.
She looks at her watch. "Seven-thirty?" "OK." "I live at nineteen Ebony Road."
She moves to the door.
"Until later then?" "See you soon."
She leaves and I run into the kitchen.
"I've got to go early tonight."
Marnie, Chris and Rachel stand looking at me, presumably having heard every word.
"We'll lock up" says Marnie. "Off you go" says Chris.
I get my coat, give Marnie the keys to the café and dash out of the door. Fly home, breathing great easy lungfuls of air, my legs inexhaustible, the wind whipping over my ears.
Getting home, I go straight to the bathroom. Brush my teeth, clean my face, put on perfume, file my nails, slick back my hair, change my clothes.
Look in the mirror and change again, this time into my black dress. I call a taxi, sit on the sofa to wait. I get bored eventually but can't quite make up my mind to go and get a book. I'm just about to when I hear a hoot outside. Looking out of the window, I see a taxi idling outside the house. After making sure I've got everything, I go out of the door, shut it behind me, pedantically checking it's locked with several tugs on the handle, then get into the taxi.
"What's the name, love?" asks the driver. "Hampton." "Where to?" "Nineteen Ebony Road please."
We drive off and I sit back, watch the streetlamps flash by. About a hundred later, the taxi pulls up outside a terraced house. The windows are worryingly dark. I get out, pay and ask the driver to wait.
Striding up the path to the door, I feel unsteady. I promise myself I will be very frugal with the wine. Shit. Indecision grips me -- I'm already late, but I can't turn up empty-handed.
Go back down the path, looking behind me and hoping she isn't watching this little drama unfold. Get back into the taxi and ask the driver to take me to the nearest off-license. We get there and I go in and hardly realise what I'm buying. Back in the taxi, tell him to go back where we came from, we arrive, I pay him again, get out, walk up the path and this time ring the bell.
She opens the door.
"Hi. Come in."
I hand her the wine and step over the threshold.
"Follow me."
We walk down the dark hallway, come to a door and enter what seems to be the sitting room. It is dim, most of the light coming from candles on the mantelpiece, their flames fluttering in the draught from the door.
"Sit down" she says, motioning me to the sofa. "Thank you."
She sits next to me. There are two glasses on the table, an open bottle of red wine on the mantel, deep crimson absorbing the light from the candles. A fire burns in the grate, gently stroking us with its heat.
I feel so nervous, so exhilarated sitting next to this woman. I want to touch her so badly, my hand threatens to twitch over onto her arm.
"Supper will be about half an hour." "Lovely."
I consider whether her intentions are purely friendly. Normally I would settle for this -- I have done before. But my feelings for her are too strong: there must be all or nothing, dark or light. No grey. Love or death.
She gets up and I see the sheen of tights beneath her long black skirt. Taking the wine, she bends over the table and fills each glass, hands me one. We drink. Then she says:
"I was visiting some friends over the weekend, and at dinner we played a game. You had to describe yourself in one word, and then you had to describe each other person in one word. It's fun to play." "Stagnated" "Grace" "Transitional" "Sexy".
A kiss, her palm on my neck, the jolt in my solar plexus, the ticking of my mitral valve, then the separation of lips for a moment, seeing the angle of her face, the flash of her eyes, then a kiss.
My fingertips touch the back of her neck, feel the tiny curls that have escaped from her hairband. She pulls away, her eyes hot and white.
"Too fast?" I ask. "I don't know. I should go and check on the dinner."
She leaves me sitting on the sofa. I survey the room; it seems lighter than before. After a little while she comes back in, making the knot in my stomach tighten even further.
"The supper's ready."
I get up and follow her into the kitchen, sit down at the table in the chair she pulls out for me.
"Would you carve?"
Taking the proffered knife and fork, I set to work upon the meat. She brings roast potatoes and parsnips to the table. She serves me and then herself, pauses, leaves the kitchen, returns with the wine and our glasses and sits down. She takes a large gulp of wine.
"You seem nervous" I say.
She smiles, making her eyes look blurred.
"I am."
We continue eating, exchanging shy glances over the table. The wine is soon gone and she opens another bottle, pours us each a large glass. I suspect she is trying to get drunk. Perhaps she's just thirsty.
We finish, sit in silence. I look at her staring at the door, see her with the same set look I saw in the café. She gets up, comes over to my chair. I rise awkwardly, numbness in my legs making my knees shaky. She puts her hand again on my neck, our lips touch, then slip together. My fingers rest upon her thin shoulders, aching to touch her skin.
I feel her arm brush against my stomach, then she takes my hand, breaks our kiss, turns and walks resolutely out of the kitchen, leading me through the sitting room to the stairs. We solemnly walk up, reach the landing and go along it. She opens a door off to the left and we enter. Her bedroom.
She turns and kisses me again, harder this time. The knuckles of my hand slide against her side, adoring how it gently gives at my touch. I draw my fingernails softly down over her ribs, and then I feel the tug of her hand again.
We move over to the bed and she lies down on it, pulling me after her. Beside her, propped up on one elbow, I look down into her face. Touch the corner of her eye, her cheek, then she lifts her head, kisses me, draws me down with her. My fingers drift to the collar of her shirt, undo the top button. I touch the exposed flesh, just below her throat. Then I undo another button, and another.
Moving my mouth down, I flutter my lips against her neck, then slip lower to her chest. She turns beneath me.
"Stop. Stop."
I pull away, look at her face.
"Sorry" she says.
She is very drunk.
"Sorry I made a mistake I wanted to I wasn't sure sorry."
I get up, my eyes sore as if she has scratched them. I stumble from the room, go downstairs, get my coat, open the front door. There's no way to get home. Don't even know where I am.
I go back to the living room, sit on the sofa. The fire has flared up in the draught from the door. I look into its depths, the heat parching the tears from my eyes. The logs of wood glow red, patches of white ash covering their tops. The longer I stare, the more delicious the heat becomes. I imagine picking up one of the pieces of wood, raising it to my mouth and taking a bite. It would taste so savoury.
Deliciously molten desire slips down my throat to my solar plexus.
Go out of the sitting room, up the stairs, along the landing. Push open her bedroom door, hear regular breathing. Move over to the bed, look down at her. Nudge her arm. No response. Push harder. Nothing. Breathing harder, touch her breast, squeeze. She turns a little, settles.
Get onto the bed, draw up the soft hem of her skirt. Hands slide to the waistband of her tights, ease them down. Fingers on bare flesh, then under her briefs. Touch her touch her touch her. Not inside. Dry. Rub on her leg, harder, come.
I see her face, feel my hand beneath her skirt. My heart thunders, rages in my ears. My solar plexus burns and disintegrates. I see her face for the last time, then I am gone.