Thursday, November 8

Another definition of She

WE SAT IN the conservatory of their ground floor flat; him, her, me. It was gone midnight and beyond the mirroring glass was black and the very feint golden shapes of windows. She and I were on the sofa and he was sat on a stool. We all listened very closely to the music. The conservatory was cold; there were ornaments on the sill, a messy table with placemats and dirty glasses, a variety of plants, and the thick smell of weed in the air. In the background was a tiny heater working very hard to make us comfortable, and a little portable stereo. I was introducing him, her South African flatmate, to a band he hadn’t heard of. He really liked it, staring into space, nodding in time, focused. Occasionally he’d ask me a question – ‘Where are they from?’ ‘Montreal,’ I told him. He listened some more. ‘Have you seen them live?’ ‘Yeah, in this disused church in a local town. They were great fun. I stood right up to the speaker because I wanted to hurt my ears.’ He laughed and continued to listen. She just daisied on the sofa, smiling, playing with my hands. A joint did the rounds. The air was thick and sour.
We arrived back from the bar. I had met her two weeks previous. Four days after I beat her at a game of darts, we went for a drink. Seven days after I beat her at a game of darts, we had sex and she told me the names of her two cats and explained their personalities. Now it was fourteen days after I had beaten her at a game of darts. I was in good spirits and relaxed when we walked in the front door, which was promptly closed against the March winds. ‘The kitchen’s getting decorated soon … excuse the mess.’ Her accent turned me on. The three of us threw rocket and salami and anchovies on pizzas. Then we took the pizzas into the conservatory and after we ate them we got high. I hadn’t been high in over a year but it was soft enough so that I did not mind it; still, I kept my wine.
Her legs, free of their stilettos, were draped across my own. As we listened to the music I ran my fingers across the sheer of her stockings. My calluses rustled. I got to the top and there were no stockings, only the hairless plump of her thighs. I kept my fingers there.
When I looked up, her flatmate had gone.
We lay there. We smoked and the music played on. The night kept on blowing. My fingers lingered on the soft tissue of her thighs, the gracilis muscle, and I felt the heat of her cunt.
‘Let’s get you to bed.’
Her bedroom led off the conservatory through glass double doors. There were hardwood floors, a couple of rugs, photographs of friends & family from Brazil on the wall, paintings from Brazilian artists, CDs, records, books, and a fireplace that had not been used in years. I undressed and got between her sheets while she tended other things. I had set up the stereo in her room so that there was very gentle music. She drew the curtains over the conservatory and she undressed. I watched her undress.
Her body was thick, Amazonian, big breasts and big hips and perfect. The lamp shone on her. She watched me watching her. Then she tended some more things. Her room smelled of her and had high ceilings, painted white. Before she had become nude I had studied her books and her records but now that she was nude I was distracted. I just looked at her prancing around, applying creams, tidying away things that could have waited until morning. The surface of her was cool when she got beside me.
We had sex and the album played two-and-a-half times before she got up and changed it – ‘This is some Brazilian music’ – and we resumed. The music had a beat, which we both worked to, like men digging a ditch. I did not like to look at her tattoos but the rest of her body was unlike any other. She gripped me tight and I knew that I was reaching deep inside of her. I thought that I was very minor to her. She tasted sweet, moaning and dribbling sweetly down my chin as my nose sored on her bristles. When she came she did not stop. She squirmed and pulsed and I watched her face because it was very interesting to see. She rocked up and tied me to her bed, put her finger inside of me, come hither, and took me in her mouth. I was tied down with some material that she had found in her cupboard, wrapped securely around my wrists. The painting over her redundant mantle was of a crooked woman and a straight guitar. It was very jagged. The colours shone. I came. Everything started to blur and I, too, could not stop myself as it spun out of me for her to smile over.
She climbed on top. Her hips pushed me into the wall. Her brilliant Brazilian hair parted over a pink nib. I thought she might blast me through the wall. Her Brazilian music was in the background. The whole room shook and it was all her fault.
In the morning I awoke and was facing away from her, so I faced her. It was a bright morning; I could tell through the white curtains. She slept. I listened to the nothing of her Saturday morning room. Soon the neighbours upstairs stirred and could be heard walking around. ‘They’re elephants,’ she told me. They moved around a lot, on the old hardwood floors. One of her cats was clawing for breakfast at the door. She got up and fed them.
I put my hands behind my head and appreciated being alone. I could hear the sound of her opening tins and putting bowls on the floor, but, for an instant, I was alone.
She returned, put on some jazz and climbed back into bed. Her smile was childish and, from the photographs on the wall, it had not changed since she was young, posing on South American beaches. There were no photographs of her ex-husband – ‘We’re still friends,’ she told me.
She tasted of last night; her lips, her ribs, her nipples, her arsehole, her holy vagina, her forehead. I repaid the neighbours upstairs for waking me up, against her headboard, with all hallelujah in my hips. There were the fireworks of her orgasm, again, and I was possessed by the convulsions she was arrested in and they caused my blood to froth. She opened the tall curtains, got between my legs and massaged and tongued my penis. I watched her and she smiled and spat and when I wasn’t watching I was looking out of the window at the sun reaching its peak. She was tender, then brutal; claiming what I thought was mine, until a long time had passed and sparks flew all over my chest. She rubbed her breasts in the come and we lay there together some time longer.
Coffee was served from a cafetiere in the conservatory. She rolled another joint for the midday sun, but there was no work so we could laze around. A cat-hair covered, old poncho covered her nakedness; I pulled on my old underwear. We listened to some fifties soul and I strummed along on a guitar that I found. Neither of us felt like eating. We just stayed there while the day tried to happen. Eventually I knew that I would have to begin the ninety-mile journey home so she instructed me in the art of using her shower. Her flatmate’s toiletries smelled very masculine so I didn’t care for them. A tiny window was in the bathroom, behind the shower curtain with me so I opened it and cold air rolled on in and, I suppose, I felt alive.

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