Extracts from Fifty reasons to say “Good-bye”
A completed novel now published by Lulu, and available here.
by Nick Alexander
"Each time the losses and deceptions of life teach us about impermanence, they bring us closer to the truth. When you fall from a great height, there is only one possible place to land: on the ground -- the ground of truth. And if you have the understanding that comes from spiritual practice, then falling is in no way a disaster, but the discovery of an inner refuge."
- Sogyal Rinpoche
“Like a roller in the ocean, life is motion. Move on.
Like a wind that's always blowing, life is flowing. Move on.
Like the sunrise in the morning, life is dawning. Move on.
How I treasure every minute, being part of it, being in it, with the urge to move on.
- Abba.
Catherine
I start seeing Catherine 6 months after I split up with Jenny.
Every night is insomnia night.
Friends say things like “Just use the extra time to read or something.”
My eyes are too tired to focus on the page. Still sleep eludes me until four am.
I lay awake, watch the headlights sweep the ceiling.
I can’t work out why, a feeling of unease, a tightness in the stomach.
Catherine’s ok I suppose.
I expect her to be much more involved. She never seems to say much. Other than “Umm” and “I see” and “How do you feel about that ?”
It annoys me. If I knew how I felt then I wouldn’t be seeing her.
“Why does that question annoy you so much ?” Catherine asks.
It takes five visits for me to get to the point, because I don’t know what the point is.
I suppose that’s what therapy is all about.
“Why do you think your girlfriend’s suggestion that you might be a homosexual upsets you so much ?” she asks.
I had said “gay”. Jenny had said “gay”. Catherine is paraphrasing.
A week later and we’re having the same conversation only this time I shrug.
I say “Maybe she’s right.”
Catherine laughs. It’s the first time she has reacted to anything I have to say.
“What ?” I ask. I missed the joke.
“Walk into any gay bar and you’d know !” she says.
“Know what ?”
She laughs again. “That you’re not a homosexual.”
On the way home I walk past The Burleigh Arms.
John has told me it’s gay. He knows from his days visiting every pub in Cambridge.
The “62 Pub Club.” It is the last one they tried, number 62.
I peer through the windows. It looks like any other pub.
Wednesday evening I go for a stroll, walk past it again.
Two men go in, laughing.
Thursday night I open the door. I walk in.
It is the scariest thing I have ever done.
I stand for half a minute looking round the place, try to supress the trembling in my hands.
I lean against a wall. It feels awkward, uncomfortable. As though it’s not my body.
Maybe that’s what Catherine meant. I think.
A man in the corner smiles at me. A round warm face. A good smile. I leave.
Outside I gasp. I had stopped breathing. Stress does that to me.
“Look.” says Catherine at my next visit. “You are not a homosexual.”
I wonder again why she says “A homosexual” instead of just “homosexual, or even “gay”. It sounds like a grammatical error, but I was never very good with grammar.
“Now tell me about this...” she glances at her notes. “Jenny, your “friend”.”
She lifts her fingers to form the speech marks.
On the way home I go back to the pub. I order a drink, I am trembling again.
The man with the smile is there.
“Hello.” he says. His name is Mark too.
He has brown eyes and gappy teeth. He smiles a lot.
We drink our pints. I tell him the story. He says “It’s hard coming out.”
Is that what I’m doing ? I wonder.
I like talking to Mark better than Catherine. He seems to have more common sense. He hates shrinks.
Saturday we meet in the park. We walk, we talk. He tells me about his family. His boyfriend is a fireman.
“He’s very sexy in his uniform.” he confides.
Monday night and I’m back with Catherine. Supposedly my fix after the weekend.
Gone is the cool detachment of our first meeting.
“Why did you go there ?” she wants to know.
“You said that if I went to a bar, I would know.” I reply.
“I doubt that I said that.” she says.
I frown. I shrug. “You did.”
She smiles. “Well if that’s what you think you heard. “ She says.
“Anyway.,” she sighs. “Do tell me about your “gay” night out.” she says.
She makes the speech marks again.
I want to ask her what the “” is all about but I don’t dare.
I say “It’s Ok really. It’s just a pub.”
“Did you talk to anyone ?”
I nod. “Yeah, a man called Mark. Nice. He has a boyfriend, a fireman.”
Catherine closes her eyes, breaths deeply. She looks as if she’s doing yoga.
I fidget in my seat. I watch her.
“Look, Mark. You have to stop this before you do yourself harm.” she finally says.
I feel strange, between tears and anger. I don’t know why.
“Can I leave ?” I gather my jacket towards me.
She looks at her watch. “In ten minutes.” she says. “In the meantime, tell me about... Whatever his name is.”
It is the first time she has ever fogotten a name.
I’m suprised. “Mark ?” I ask.
She nods.
I sigh. “I told you. He’s nice.”
“Are you, attracted to him ?”
I frown. “In what way ?”
“Well I’m not talking about his intellect now am I!”
“What ?” I feel angry but I’m not sure why. “Do I fancy him ?”
Catherine seems to swell, to sweat. Her eyes burn.
“Listen, Mark.” she says. “I’m going to stop this conversation right now, it’s not, good.” she says.
I stare at her.
“The only question you need to ask yourself is this, Mark. Do you ever want to be in a long term, loving relationship ?”
I smile incredulously “Well, of course.”
“Then, my dear Mark you are not a homosexual.” she smiles again.
I wrinkle my nose. I open my mouth. “Sorry ?” I say.
“Homosexuals don’t have loving relationships.” she says.
My mouth drops.
She shakes her head. “They have sex Mark, sex in bars, sex in back streets, sex in toilets, now if that’s what you want...”
In my mind I tell her to fuck off. In my mind I say “If you are a heterosexual then I’d rather be gay.” But for some reason I’m scared of her.
I say. “Oh dear, times up. See you next week then.”
I am unimaginably angry. I lean against a wall outside until I can breath properly.
I never return. I go to The Burleigh instead.
Sometimes I wonder if she did it on purpose. If she said it to push me.
But my guess is that she just doesn’t like gays.
Blow
"Hi ! How are you ?"
I look at him. I wonder if I know him. He's clean cut, tall, thin, fit, short blond hair, blue eyes perring through oval Armani glasses.
The light in the bar is low. I feel fairly sure that I don't know him.
"Sorry, I don' think we've..."
He smiles and holds out a hand. "Brian.”
His smile bares long white capped all-American dentistry.
"Mark." I shake his hand.
"So Mark, where are you from, you sound British."
I scan the mans clothes as I reply. Expensive grey suit, white shirt, double cuffs, discreet grey tie.
"I am, well originally from the south east of England, then France, and now here."
"Oh, you live here, cool. Manhattan ?"
"Yeah, 37th and 6th."
"Nice address, how many square feet do you have there ?"
I frown. This is starting to sound like a marketing survey. "Um, don't know really, it's a small two room apartment."
Brian nods. "A brownstone ?"
I smile. "Yes, do you work in real estate or something ?"
Brian frowns. "No why ?"
I shrug. "You just seem interested in where I live, that's all."
Brian raises the palms of his hands. "Hey man, just making conversation."
I have offended him, and I guess that this is simply yet another culture gap to be bridged.
"Sorry, I guess people aren't so inquisitive in the UK."
Brian visibly relaxes. "So what do they talk about in the UK ?"
I shrug again. "Don't know really, normal stuff I suppose. The weather, clothes, music..."
"OK let's try again." says Brian. "Nice suit you have there, very smart."
I smile. "I was thinking the same thing about you. You work near here ?"
Brian opens his eyes wide and cocks his head to one side. "Hey now who's the inquisitive one ?"
"I haven't seen you here before."
"Oh I often call in for a drink, mainly Fridays though." He reaches out and strokes my lapel. "Very nice though, is that an Armani ?"
I laugh. The suit is from Marks and Spencer's.
Brian appears vexed. "Hey what is it with you ? What do you want to talk about ?"
I shrug. “Sorry.” I say.
"If you prefer,” he continues, “we could talk about you coming back to my place, and me blowing you."
I can feel myself reddening. I glance around to see if anyone is listening but everyone nearby is seemingly engrossed in their own conversations.
"That's pretty erm, direct Brian."
"Sure. I love to blow a man in a suit, and you don't seem to like the small-talk so ?" Brian grins. "What the hell."
I smile. "Yeah, what the hell."
"So ?"
"What ? Now ?"
"Sure. Now."
The situation is absurd. We have talked real estate for ten minutes, and here he is inviting me to his place for a blow job. But strangely I want to do it.
I swig at my beer raking through my thoughts to get a handle on my motivation.
He's very cute, self assured, well dressed, sexy in a rather bland lawyer kind of a way. The offer is obscene and yet naive at the same time, almost childlike, as if coming from a space I had once known, a space where none of this stuff was meant to be bad or dirty.
Of course the only time any of this had been bad or dirty was before I even knew that it existed, but all the same.
I feel an urge to accept precisely because this is so entirely un-me. To go back with someone for sex, at nine pm on a Friday evening, after ten minutes of polite chat.
It seems ridiculous and story-like, and I feel driven to experience something different, something that someone else would do, probably someone in a film I know, but as the man says. What the hell ? At least it doesn’t sound as dangerous as visiting Julian Barclay.
"Sure." I say.
Brian has been looking concerned.
He punches my arm. "Good !".
His apartment is a short taxi ride away. During the journey he stares from his window in silence.
I doubt my reason, sift through the possibilities that he's a sadist or serial killer, but just as I am plucking up courage to stop the cab, to jump out, we have arrived, and he's leading me past the doorman.
"He's with me." He says, taking me on into the elevator.
It is not until we have stepped into his apartment that he speaks again.
"Hang up your coat." He says pulling his own coat and jacket off.
He's wearing grey silk braces. They match his tie.
I start to undress too but Brian stops me. "No keep the suit, just take off your overcoat."
I do as he requests.
He pushes me against the closed apartment door, kneels before me, pulls at my zipper, pulls my dick from my trousers and immediately slips it into his mouth.
I smile, amazed, amused, disconnected.
Brian pumps away, reaching up, pinching my nipples through my shirt.
I try to stroke his head, to unzip his own trousers, to kiss him but he refuses any involvement on my part. I resign myself. It isn't so bad.
When I come Brian flops my dick back into my trousers and stands up.
He grins broadly.
“Thanks.” he says pulling me towards him.
For an instant I think that he will kiss me, I imagine that it is now his turn.
He just wants to open the apartment door behind me.
He hands me my coat. I am dazed.
He grips my shoulders, spins me around and points me towards the corridor.
"This is where we say good-bye." He says.
As the door closes behind me I start to laugh.
Jean-Luc
Even the way it starts is strange.
A simple text message on my mobile phone. A message to call Jean-Luc.
Jean-Luc the cute one. Jean-Luc the guy I have been bumping into infrequently for nearly ten years, every time with a different boyfriend in tow. Jean-Luc who always seems pleased to have a coffee with me but nothing more.
Jean-Luc has the kind of charm that people recruiting salesmen dream of. That flirty way of giving you his complete attention, of staring deep into your eyes, with a cocky smile, whether you’re his landlady or his prey.
I phone him immediately. I guess he needs instructions on how to get to Jacques party, or maybe someone's phone number but instead he asks me to dinner. I am more than surprised.
Jean-Luc has changed. He's still beautiful, he still has those big brown eyes and the little smile lines emanating from them, and he still asks endless streams of questions, but he no longer listens to the replies. Most of the time I can’t even finish the phrase before he interrupts me with the next question.
Maybe he was always like that and I didn’t notice. I think.
I wonder why I am here but in a very detached kind of way as though I am reading a story, as though it is unfolding before me one page at a time. I am intrigued, an actor in my own life.
I accept the invitation to his flat. To see what will happen.
We have frigid sterile vanilla sex. Afterwards (and it doesn’t take long) I leave feeling more bored than cheap.
But the next day he calls me again. He wants me to spend the night with him again.
I say “No, sorry, but this isn’t working for me”
And he breaks down. He should have told me. His sister is dying, cancer. He can’t think of anything else, he’s not usually like this, he wasn’t listening to anything I said, he couldn’t even concentrate when we were having sex.
The conversation floods on and on I feel saturated.
I am interrupted by a friend at the door so I accept to go and promise to visit him that evening.
Again in his flat, he tells me all. She's in the terminal stages of leukaemia. He's leaving tomorrow to stay with her until the end. He needs me to stay with him tonight. He has no right to ask me this but he asks it anyway. He pleads. Surprisingly I accept.
He grips my arm as he sleeps a deep tormented sleep. I lay looking at the patterns the blinds make on his ceiling, listening to the passing cars.
In the morning he's sullen but grateful. I am tired. I take him to the airport.
The text messages start an hour after he arrives.
“I MISS U. I WISH WE COULD BE TOGETHER”
This is all surreal enough to interest me intellectually. Strange enough to make me follow through, to see where this will go.
Day by day, by telephone and by text message I follow the death of a woman I have never met, the sister of a man I barely know.
“SHE IS HAVING TROUBLE BREATHING. I COULD DO WITH YOUR ARMS AROUND ME”
The next day “SHE IS ON A VENTILATOR. WE HAVE TO DISCUSS WHO WILL LOOK AFTER THE KIDS”
Then “THEY'VE STOPPED ALL THE DRUGS... I THINK THIS IS THE END.”
“HER EX IS HERE SHE HATES HIM ITS VERY DIFFICULT I MISS YOU”
And finally, exactly a week later. “THAT'S IT ITS OVER. PLEASE CALL”
Robotically, at 3 am, I counsel him over the phone. He needs to know that I will be there for him when he returns. Dishonestly I assure him that I will. I think he needs this answer.
I don’t love him. I don’t even like him. He strikes me as dishonest and hysterical and selfish, But, I reason, who wouldn’t be under these circumstances ?.
I follow the preparations for the funeral, the negotiation of the inheritance, the visit to the notary.
I get confused and think I am watching a radio play. Friends seem confused as well and ask me for the latest instalment. But the play moves me to tears. It makes me weep with the loneliness of my role, of his role, of the whole plot.
I have to go away to England two days before he returns.
My own brother Peter is in intensive care with a burst appendix. Everyone says he should be ok, but my mother says he could die.
“You just can’t tell with a burst appendix.” She says, as ever, the prophet of doom.
Synchronicity. I think.
During my trip, Jean-Luc's sms messages dry up. I resist the temptation to keep him posted on Peter’s illness. He doesn’t seem interested anyway.
He’s had enough to deal with. I tell myself.
I spend Christmas in the hospital trying to make conversation. Peter and I know virtually nothing about each others lives, but we still can’t think of anything to tell each other.
By the time he’s out of danger over a week has gone by and it’s nearly new years eve.
I think about staying, going to some major bash in a London night-club for a change, but when I phone Jean-Luc he says “Oh, please come back... It’d be so good to spend the new year together. And we haven’t seen each other for nearly six weeks after all.”
I’m actually having trouble remembering what he looks like.
In my letterbox I find two free tickets from Robert to the Cannes dance festival for the 30th.
I phone Jean-Luc. He's charming. “Brilliant !” he says. “I’d love to go.”
He aasks me to pick him up early. “That way we’ll have time for a drink beforehand.” he enthuses.
When he opens the door I can see that he's himself again. He looks fine.
He steps back from me. He's appraising me as one looks at a painting. I wouldn’t be surprised if he half closes his eyes to better appreciate the forms.
I say “Me voila !” I wave the tickets at him.
He frowns at me.
I frown back. “What ?” I say.
He pauses.
“I’m sorry.” he says. “I’ve been an arse hole. This whole thing has been a mistake. I wasn’t myself, I thought I loved you, but well, I wasn’t myself, and I’m sorry, but I got over it. I’m really sorry.
I wrinkle my nose. I say “Uh ?”
“Would you be hurt if we just forget this ever happened ?”
I am flabbergasted, speechless. I stand in silence staring at him.
For some reason he repeats himself more slowly changing only the emphasis.
“I wasn’t myself. I’m sorry, would you be hurt if we just forget this ever happened ?”
I realise he thinks that I haven’t understood.
I stare at him. “You’re completely mad !” I say.
“I’m sorry!” He repeats.
For some reason my anger focuses on the wasted tickets to the dance festival. I wave them at him.
“and what about these ? Arse hole !” I say.
As I drive to Cannes I feel stupid and ugly and rejected and worthless. I want to weep for myself but it can wait till I get home. I can’t let the tickets go to waste.
I try to give one away to the stupid suspicious people who are queuing but they look at me as if I am mad, then they stare at the floor.
I angrily bin it and enter.
The dance starts and it’s beautiful. Ten minutes in I see Robert spring onto the stage. Even disguised as a tree I know it’s him.
It brings me to tears. Different tears.
And I know I’ll get over Jean-Luc long before I get over Robert.
Fabian
The music throbs, rolls, crashes over us.
Miss Honey, the guest DJ behind glass, frenetically slides new vinyl over the third turntable, pushes her lips out, grooves with the pleasure of the mix.
She nods her head, rocks the disc lining up the beat, releases it into the atmosphere.
She closes her eyes, rolls her head from side to side, breaks into a grin as the saxophone adds itself to the ambient funk.
She's too tall, too black, too lippy. Too woman to be woman.
The crowd is heaving, thumping. The dance floor rocks and rolls beneath the feet.
Some are aerobic, angular, some latin and sexy, others are flailing, screaming as the music climaxes, crashes to the ground.
A black guy to my left is grooving, rolling, spinning.
For some it’s a serious affair. Lips jut out, eyebrows frown.
I close my eyes, rock backwards and forwards, lose myself in it all.
Miss Honey pulls a slider down to zero, leaves us frustrated, the dance floor a wasteland of rhythm without bass.
The music builds, the rhythm transforms, becomes faster. A voice rises, climbs above the treble. “take it, take it, take it...” it screams.
The cymbals become harsher, louder; the voice mounts. The small guy opposite me gyrates his hips in small tight circles, bites his lip, eyes open, eyebrows lifted in expectation.
Tiny hints of the base line sneak through to the speakers.
The music builds to it’s climax.
“Take it a-l-l t-h-e way.” Laughs the voice.
Miss Honey whacks in the bass. We are drowned by the hugeness of it.
The black guy spins 360 degrees. The small guy opposite breaks into a huge relieved grin.
My spine tingles. I close my eyes, grin, swoop and fall on the melody.
Someone behind me falls against my back, barges me forward.
I open my eyes just as I bash into the small guy.
He catches me, grins at me, winks.
I watch him. The same tight little movements, easy, no pretence, dancing for himself.
He stares into my eyes, ecstatic. We grin, we roll, we move closer.
The crowd pushes us, we let it happen.
From time to time our arms brush, electric arcs leap across.
He moves away. I dance, follow his movements, follow the back of his blue sweatshirt through the crowd, down to the end, off to the right hand bar.
I push off to the left, take another route. End up accidentally-on-purpose by his side.
He shouts his order over to the barman, turns, performs an exaggerated double take at me.
He points behind him at the DJ. “She is sooo good.” he shouts.
I nod.
“Beer ?” he asks.
I nod. “Beer !”
We move to an upstairs bar where we have to shout less.
His name is Fabian. He's very thin, he has thinning hair.
He’s not good looking. But when he smiles his face lights up, radiates joy.
And he smiles all the time.
We talk. We dance again. We roll and bounce against each other until Miss Honey quits the box at 4 am.
Fabian nods towards the door. I follow him.
“Where do you live ?” he asks.
“Grasse.” I say.
“Jesus that’s a long way.” he strokes the side of my face with his hand.
”I can take you.” I say nodding eagerly. “I can bring you back tomorrow.”
He grins at me. “I have a car.” he says. “I’ll follow.”
As I drive I glance in the mirror at the white Fiat following. I wonder if I am in love, if it is possible.
We haven’t really spoken, we haven’t really met. We have only danced, we have only kissed.
So not love then. So what is this trembling fluttering at the top,of my chest ?
At home I open the french windows. We lounge on the sofa, look out at the night.
The first summer light is coming over the horizon. Birds are singing prematurely in the tree.
We drink tea. Fabian looks through my CD’s. He says “I have this.” and “Cool, Kid Loco.” and “Is this one any good I don’t know it ?” and “Can we listen to this ?”
We lay on the sofa, he lays his head on my chest. I stroke his hair. I think we should be getting down to sex before we fall asleep, but this is so nice. This is much closer to what I need. He tells me about his parents, his job, his dog.
My cat bounds in from her night hunt. Settles on his lap.
I smile, I am happy.
I watch him upside down as he talks. Feel the vibrations of his soft Bordeaux accent in my stomach.
He's beautiful. Gentle and honest and open.
Eventually, around 6:30 am he says “I’m tired.”
Sunlight creeps across the lawn.
“We should sleep.” I say.
“I like you.” he says in my arms as we doze off. “It’s weird.”
“Why weird ?” I ask.
“I feel safe.” he says. “As though nothing bad can happen to me.”
I smile. “It can’t.” I say.
We awake together, entangled and sweaty.
We lie watching the afternoon sun force through the gaps in the shutters.
I kiss his neck. “Hello you.” I say.
He sighs, turns, looks at me with big brown eyes. “Hi.” he says.
I hug him tightly. “Great evening.” I say.
There is a silence. His body tightens. “I’m HIV positive.” he says. “Sorry.”
I say nothing. I sigh. I hug him a bit tighter.
“You’re not then ?”
“No.” The words catch in my throat.
He pulls my arms tighter around him. “Oh well.” he says.
I sigh.
He shrugs. “Another story that won’t work then.”
I sigh. “Who knows ?” I pause. I think back. I remember wht friends have told me, the paranoia, the anguish of feeling you’re not allowed to get angry, not allowed to be demanding about anything, not with someone who might die.
“I’ve done it before. Too complicated.” he says. “Too much stress, too much paranoia.”
“I know. It wouldn’t be easy.” I say.
He rolls away, onto his back... “Nah...” he says. “Been there... Done that... I don’t even want to try.”
“We could see ?” I say.
I stare at him. My eyes sting.
He shrugs. “Nah.” he says. “Your can make me breakfast though. I’m starving.”
We eat, we talk. We lounge in the hammock until sunset. Then I close the door to the little white Fiat.
He winds down the window, big brown eyes look up at me. “Thanks.” he says. “You’re lovely.”
I smile at him, a lump in my throat. “So are you. I’ll erh, see you in the club then ?”
He nods, smiles. His eyes shine. With a little wave he drives away.
We are sitting in a restaurant. Until today we have only swapped e-mails.
I have seen photos of him, his full smiling lips, his brown eyes.
I know the shape of his life and the shape of his mouth when he plays the sax.
I have read his prose so I feel that I know some of his dreams and his terrors.
The rest I have imagined. These shoulders, the smile, the glint in the eye.
And I have imagined the future, the feeling of his arms around me, the tenderness of the kiss and the joy of drinking coffee on a cold sunny morning while he plays saxophone in a nearby room.
Right now he is here, opposite me. And this time, finally, he is exactly as I imagined him.
“You are exactly as I imagined.” he says smiling coyly.
“Did you ever see that Woody Alan film ?” I ask. “The one where…”
It is the one where Woody goes on a blind date, where the girl opens the door and he asks if they can get the first kiss over and done with straight away, to avoid further embarrassment.
He knows which film I mean before I say it, and he understands why I am mentioning it.
He leans towards me. “I think he was right.” he says.
I am terrified. A kiss can be so revealing, so disappointing, so grounding. A single kiss has the power to destroy a dream. But the kiss, that first kiss, is perfect.
The second is at the end of the evening.
My heart is swollen to bursting point with joy. All feelings of loneliness and abandon, all images of the meanness of existence are banished from my soul. The future holds only promise.
Four hours of astounding, immediate intimacy, of finishing each others phrases, of roaring with laughter at our jokes and then looking around the restaurant at the surprised faces, and then laughing again like guilty children.
We stand in the chill night air. A spring breeze is blowing in from the sea, swirling our hair and filling our nostrils with iodine, promise of distant lands and voyages to come.
I want him to walk with me, to stick to me, to lay with me, but I also want him to resist, to respect the first-ness of this meeting. It’s taken that long.
He leans in; the wind is pushed from between us. His lips touch mine, slowly, gently, respectfully. I shiver from cold and sheer pleasure. My body is a tingling mass of cells, electrified and crying out for more.
We hug and I feel the broadness of his shoulders, the softness of his jacket, and he's gone.
I am alone, slightly drunk, warm with satisfaction and hope.
The third kiss is in the park Albert Premier, the sky is grey, the grass is wet from recent rain.
He has brought a gift, a CD, Cesaria Evoria, his favourite. It is my favourite as well. I already have it but I don’t tell.
I have brought sandwiches. Cheese and butter in thick baguettes. Old people sit on the other benches. I look at them. I fretfully realise that their presence means that we can’t kiss.
But when he leans towards me I forget them. I can feel a crumb on his bottom lip.
This time these are not tender mouths kissing but impassioned orifices probing and exploring.
I can taste the butter in his mouth.
I want to stay in this embrace forever but I have to return to my job.
Those who have noticed are staring. One old lady is smiling at us, her head wistfully at an angle.
At work I stare dreamily through my computer screen, unable to maintain focus on the text before me.
A colleague asks, “What’s his name?”
I feel drugged, sensual. I feel sleepy and strokeable like a cat on a red armchair.
I smile knowingly. I am desired. By Steve.
The fourth is as I get into the car, it’s just a peck on the cheek. But a peck has no pretence. It says I know you, I can just peck you on the cheek for no reason.
We drive along the coast to Agay. We sit at the base of the crumbling red cliffs.
It is icy cold and he opens his coat and wraps it around me. His thick white jumper scratches my neck. His nose nuzzles into my hair.
We sit on a comfortable mattress of dried seaweed and stare at the sea and talk the gentle rhythmic talk of lovers, words lapping as the waves roll in, phrases rolling around like tongues kissing, searching for the truest expression of self.
I know that today is the day. We both know. My overnight bag is in the borrowed old car. His saxophone is next to it. “I’ll play for you later.” he says. “We’ll stop somewhere quiet.”
He smokes a cigarette and hands it to me.
Sharing that cigarette strikes me as intimate and wonderful.
Clouds fight their way towards us over the Alps.
I push back against his chest, fold myself deeper into his being and a tiny tear squishes from the corner of my eye. It could just be the cold wind making my eyes water, but it isn’t. It’s the pain of letting myself hope.
We head along the coast road, waves are crashing against the rocks, the closed seaside towns seem desolate and beautiful.
At Fréjus we up to the A8. As we thunder along the motorway it starts to drizzle.
The car feels warm and safe. Silence falls upon us. To start with it is a comfortable silence.
We are both thinking about the joy of being able to do this. Being able to simply go away for a weekend with someone and feel so comfortable.
But a tension eases into the air. The rain gets harder, the light outside dimmer.
By Marseilles I am feeling walled in by a deafening vacuum. I don’t know what it means.
I look at him for reassurance. He turns. He smiles. He is perfect.
My hand is resting on his leg. I have to lift it when he changes gear. Rupture and reconciliation over and over. I feel sick with some unknown sentiment. I analyse it for meaning. Compare it with stress, pre-sex nerves, love. None of them seem to fit.
I am overcome by an inexplicable sadness, not a weary maudlin sadness but something huge and profound. I don’t know where it comes from. I want to talk to him about it.
He fumbles behind him, pulls a casette from his bag, slips it into the player.
He fiddles with the controls it starts. It’s Casaria Evoria.
He leans across and kisses me. Then looks back at the road. I know that I am in love. Again.
I think of the Buddhist meditation on death and for the first time I understand that it is possible to be ready. “Oh little bird, if now is the moment then that is fine, for I have lived and loved and I am ready.”
I stretch. I smile at him.
I feel his leg tense beneath my hand.
His expression changes muscle by muscle. I see it happen. I see it ripple across his face.
His forehead tightens. His eyes widen. His mouth drops. It happens so slowly.
I am torn between his face, so twisted, so distorted, so beautiful, and whatever he is seeing.
I glance in front.
I see the tunnel. I see the road-works. I see the truck. There is no safe place.
The car is skidding now, sluing sideways, and I am emptying.
A vast chasm of death is opening before me and I feel angry and cheated and alone.
But then, just as we pile into the truck, in those last few microseconds before we leave this wonderful world, amazingly, as though someone had added a few extra seconds to the frame just for this moment, he turns slowly to look at me. And through the terror I see the love.
And strangely it’s not just the love that we feel for each other that I see, but the love for every one of them, for every hug and every kiss, for family for friends, for lovers. For every shared moment of joy. It is huge and profound and enveloping. It sucks and tugs and pulls us in.