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For a lot of people – in London or not – Thursday nights are officially the start of the weekend. For us, Thursday nights were no different from any other night of the week with regards to smoking, but tonight we had opened a bottle of vodka that Sofia had bought on her way home from work. Vodka was unusual for Sofia because she rarely drinks spirits. In drinking terms she is a complete lightweight and after a couple of drinks you can easily see the difference in her.
Sofia and I are once again ensconced on our opposite sofas. The opposite sofa scenario has never seemed relevant before, but to me it’s beginning to take on a significance. I’ve started to notice that we are keeping a distance from each other intentionally. We are always close enough to tell what the other person is thinking just by a change in expression, but never close enough to risk touching each other physically. This physical personal space is respected by each of us, although there are many sideways glances, where one will catch the other looking for no apparent reason.
“Vodka? You planning on having a party?” I asked Sofia when she had placed the bottle on the kitchen table.
“I just felt like something different tonight. Been a long week, a few drinks are needed I think. Are you going to join me?”
“I never turn down a drink.”
By nine o’ clock the effects of the drink are beginning to hit home and Sofia has been talking again about her relationship with her ex, but this time simply talking, not looking for analysis or any advice. The therapy sessions have all but died and we both know this. But in one quick move straight out of left field she decides to hit me with a question I’m not expecting.
“Are you still in love with your ex, Cal?”
“Why?”
“You rarely talk about her. You refer to her in relation to how my relationship ended but you never really discuss how you feel about her. Do you still love her?”
I pour another vodka, consider the question and decide to give an honest answer, or as honest as I can.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’m in love with her. She’s gone, but I still miss her and I’m taking my time getting used to it.”
Sofia pours us both another vodka.
“Was the sex good between you?”
Another first. Sex has rarely been brought up between us. It was about the only subject we skirted around and didn’t discuss in our analysis sessions.
“I can honestly say that it was the best sex I’ve ever had in a relationship.”
“Really?”
She sounds surprised.
“It wasn’t just sex, it was making love, and I’d never known the difference between the two until that relationship. Corny, huh?”
Silence. I look over at Sofia, who is sitting gazing over the rim of her glass, which is balanced on her hunched up knees.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“It’s not that I don’t understand the meaning, but sex is sex. Making love, what does that mean to you?”
I’m not sure if she is being intentionally dense or actually doesn’t understand or is just trying to see if I’m being honest. Maybe she just wants to turn the tables with the analysis.
“Making love and fucking are two completely different things,” I said, ‘to me anyway. I know the difference because I’ve been in plenty of relationships before but had never felt that way when having sex. There was a feeling of complete trust, of complete love, whatever that means. It’s hard to put it into words. It didn’t happen immediately but when it eventually did I realised what I’d been missing in previous relationships. Fucking is just having sex, in the end it’s just looking for relief. Making love goes deeper than that.”
“Or maybe it was just the best sex you ever had.”
She laughs but there is something forced about her laughter.
“Didn’t you ever make love with John? You guys were together for much longer than I was with my ex.”
“I’m still trying to get what you mean by making love. You, specifically, your definition. Sex, fucking, making love, it’s all the same thing.”
“I don’t think so. Like I said, it’s hard to explain but it’s...” I pause trying to find the right words, “It’s like being completely open to the other person, all the barriers are down, and you just give in. It’s as if you have decided to trust the other person completely. You don’t need drink or drugs and it’s better than both of those highs. You’re just being you and yes, you are right, it’s the best sex you can have...fucking is good but to me it doesn’t compare to making love with someone you love. Actually I don’t think you can make love to someone you don’t love. Well, I don’t think I could anyway. Making love should be regarded as one of those major life milestones, but they never include it in those lists of things you should have done by a certain age.”
“Well maybe that’s why you miss your ex so much. That’s gone now, it’s been taken away.”
“Well, I pushed it away for my own fucked-up reasons. You still haven’t answered my question. Didn’t you ever make love with John?”
She stands up, finishes her drink and puts the empty glass down on the table.
“If we did we were probably too stoned or drunk to realise. It’s late now. I’ve got to go to bed, I’ve drunk too much and I shouldn’t be bloody drinking during the week.”
I thought I could hear anger in her voice.
“Are you okay?”
She doesn’t answer, and closes the door behind her.
I refill my glass and try to retread the conversation. Where the hell had all that come from? I was simply being honest and I don’t think it merited her becoming angry. What exactly was she hoping to find out? Is it me who is being intentionally dense?
I sense that things between us are taking a new direction and I’m just not sure this is a road I want to go down, especially as that road always seems to lead to the same place in the end.