This is how they met. Her, back straight, head high (supercilious, as always), eyes blank, scanning. Him, responding to the call, walks directly up with: ‘Hi. Didn’t I see you at Daisy’s last week.’ Or something to that effect. Her bird neck straining. A slight change of expression. Hand shifting to her other hip. ‘Yes, I was there.’ And so it went. All formality. Decorous. He looked put together. She was well-dressed.
In their first room. Keeping to the outskirts, tracing the seams. They talked of the paintings and mutual acquaintances. He responded to her lips, their map of creases exciting in him his desire for her approval. She found him serious. Intent. Watching him watch her speak; her mouth, small, round, perfect. She pulled her arms tight across her chest. He wanted to kiss her.
Later that night, she shivered at the thought of him. Wondered if it could lead to something. He wanted her too. His hands stumbled over his erection as he tried to fix on what it was about her – something behind the eyes – an imperceptible fissure in the glass.
Theirs was a procedural courtship.
He called her up. Dinner and a movie?
Yes.
A stroll in the park. He reached over and took her hand. It was cool and dry. He would have liked to pull her closer, but was insecure. Instead he suggested a drink. He watched as she swallowed the whisky. Sip by sip. She struggled with the liquor, to seem ladylike as it burned its way down the back of her throat.
Their first night together was a relief. They dove into each other, savouring the ordinariness of it. Too many two-steps. Too many weeks. It was fun. Just to let go. She really smiled at him. She sweated and climaxed and smiled. He felt successful. She thought maybe he would be all right. They stroked each other like sweethearts. They fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Then the first of many adequate mornings. Courteous. He pulled on shorts. Brought her coffee in bed. He didn’t try to lick her in the sunlight. Didn’t nibble at her ear. She sat up there, sheet pulled around her exact breasts, satisfied. Unthreatened.
She appreciated his attention to detail. The cotton sheets. The china cup. He had no money, but his apartment was highly considered. He wasn’t one for clutter. Sometimes yesterday’s newspaper would lie folded on the corner of the kitchen table. But there were no little jars full of pins. No knickknacks. Not even by the telephone. Just one pen. And a small, square writing tablet.
He noticed the way she placed her clothes on the chair when she undressed. Steady, unhurried. There was a system to her folding. He was fascinated by it. Some nights he would race her to bed. Just so he could see. Pillow-propped. Naked. Her shirt. Her trousers. Her underwear.
In these ways she became his music. During the in-between times. He would try to count it, hum it, sing it as she went. A special beat. Carried to him by a breeze, perhaps. Fading in and out. Like perfume travelling the air. As pervasive as jasmine blossom.
They became accustomed. To each other. To each other’s homes. On occasion he would borrow her car. Sometimes she would wear his clothes.
This pleased her parents. No end. Warmhearted, middle class. Pressing him with more mulled wine on Christmas Eve. The boyfriend. They shared family stories in the living room. Ate Windmill biscuits from the tin. They appeared to be having fun. Straight-up and real. Privately the mother wondered how it was they could have produced such a twig of a daughter, so poised, so barren.
He was taken with the backslapping farewells. Dared to think he might become part of something, belong somewhere. He said nothing of it, of course. But it sent him into himself. In bed they lay silent in a contemplative embrace. She said he seemed a little quiet. I’m fine, he told her. He pulled away briefly to turn out the light. As she settled back into his arms he said, out loud, I love you.
They began to fight. Endless. You’re always working, you’re always late, there is always something going on. She would say, ‘What do you want from me?’ And he could only look at her. He did not know how to tell her that it was something about the way he felt when he saw the trace of blue vein at the curve of her throat, or that no matter how many times he kissed her, the press of her lips always tasted new to him, unfamiliar. Finally he said, ‘I just want to see you more often.’ She stood still for a moment, then walked out the door. Even he knew he was being ridiculous.
‘What do you want to do tonight? Where do you want to go?’
‘I don’t know.’
This became their thing.
She had a key to his apartment, but wasn’t committing to moving in. Occasionally she would arrive very early. Knowing it would be hours before he would be home. The high ceilings contributed to the echo of her steps on the simple, polished boards. She would walk slowly about the place, listening. It gave her a thrill, to be there alone. She liked to feel the emptiness. The order. She would run her hands over the flush of the drawers. Press her cheeks to the cool metal loops. She had no curiosity about his coat pockets. She didn’t want to read his old letters, look at his photographs. She felt no desire to open and explore. No. What she wanted was to link her fingers through the hook of his handles, to run her shirt cuff along the back of his sofa chair. To be everywhere and not, both intrinsic and unseen.
Sometimes, if he was very late, she would feed his cat. She would wash out its bowl, then measure in the food, an exact half tin. The food smelled disgusting. It clawed its way along her nasal passages. ‘How can you eat it, Kitty?’ she would say. She hated that smell. Long after the break-up, when she thought of his apartment, this is mostly what she would remember.