Beep, beep.
That ubiquitous sound of the 21th century. A text has arrived. I fish for my phone, buried deep in a pocket of my trousers.
r u you close? i have 2 things I’m sure u will luv
You are eight years younger than me and prone to use ‘txt’ shortcuts when you message me. I am more conventional, at least when I send text messages.
On the metro. Five stations to go. Home in about 20 minutes. What two things?
The Paris Metro is crowded with workers like me trying to get home to the sanctuary of their apartments. Mostly we are dressed for the office. Me in clothes I still cannot believe. I suppose this happens when you abandon everything and follow a French lover to Paris.
2 things u are always talking about. Hurry. I’m ready 4 u
I am so well dressed. You have patiently helped me understand how to shop for clothes and then wear them properly. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window of the train carriage. Is that really me? I am not young, and by no means anything special to look at. But these clothes! I feel like I have been asleep for my entire life. The clothes you helped me find and wear make me feel so alive, every day.
I talk about many things, darling. Can you give me a hint?
We found each other in the middle of our lives. Disaster followed. An affair. Divorces. Heartbreak for adults and our young children. More pain than I thought was ever possible.
Yet, here we are. Starting over. Surviving, but sometimes only just.
both r black
I am lost in memories of black things. Your hair. Your pubic hair. Coffee on the first morning of our affair. My heart – so black some days.
The train arrives at my station. Only a few minutes now.
Just leaving the station. I … I .. belong to you now. Please love me.
It is dark and cold and raining a little. Street lights reflect off puddles. Everyone is like me: lapels pulled tight, heads down, seeking the warmth and safety of home.
On the steps to our apartment …
i can see u. look up
There you are in our lounge window on the third floor. Jet black hair and the pale skin of you shoulders and arms are framed by our red curtains. Are you naked?
As I climb the three flights of stairs to our apartment I send:
Yes. I saw you. You are too perfect. Too perfect. Spare me, please?
never
I open the door and there you are standing in our kitchen. A glass of champagne is held languidly in your hand. You are naked except for black high heels fastened to you ankles with impossible thin straps and a black necklace.
The room is softly and dimly lit – just the way I love it. Our home is warm, but not hot. I smell quiche and wine and … you.
You lean your soft, round ass against the black marble bench of our kitchen. Your ankles are casually crossed. Your palms rest on the marble bench.
My eyes trace your body from your toes to the crown of your head. I drop my brief case and swallow deeply. I am instantly hard.
I struggle. I want to tell you, in words, the effect you are having on me. My mouth moves, but no words are possible. You smile at my rapture and take a satifised sip of champagne.
To be continued
