He tries to, but can’t quite, disinterest himself. Just as well though for my mule body won’t — inciting itself only at his obliging my hips. Bit harder? he wonders. I. I. But the mouth on my breasts then — tickle and strange delight of being seen — surprises me, if not to everything, to something. Like first foot inveigle toward what this could be. With the look in his eye. With his body in me. Going and going and harder until Oh fuck, he says Hold still, I’m way too close, any chance you are? Not this time no. Can I help you? and his hand sliding down. No, I like it but I won’t tonight I want you to though. Just as well, he says, body going tight. Going barely barely. Can’t bear to shift. Go on, I say. Then his legs go and. Lights he. Pain turning white inside me. But. Even in this moment, even as he takes, he is the one getting killed.
That was really fucking good, he says still kissing and not like on the afters of sex. You’re so warm inside. Is that weird? No, it feels great. His blood slowing under my hand. Sorry it was all interrupted and that. Don’t worry, it’s good not to be a lazy bastard. What does that mean but he asks instead So how did you find it this time? Much better the second way. Well, that’s a start. I say I think that’s a lot. He Hmms, unconvinced, but Does that count as my second or third time having sex? Second, why do you ask? Because we did it two ways. No I think that’s still second, he says Unless there’s been someone else since? There hasn’t been, has there for you? Don’t think so, he says. Ow! I Ow! My leg’s gone asleep! Hang on, let me get hold of the condom first or all the good work is for nowt. Slide off him. Pins and. Hop and Don’t look. Bit late for that, he laughs — standing up — Right I’m off for a piss. Bin goes the condom. Swats my arse on the pass, all naked unbothered getting into his bathrobe. And how I envy him that; the looks and not giving a shit.
Silent in his room. Cigarette. Sit or shift? I halfly dress. Stay or leave? What do men expect? What would I like? To know exactly what he considers to be the right what now.
Dressed already? Yeah it’s getting late. You off then? Suppose so. Oh right, he says Don’t you want a tea or? Well if you don’t mind? Why would I? I don’t know, does that usually happen? Usually? Afterwards. That depends. On what? Whether or not she fancies another round. Do you fancy one? Yeah, I reckon could. I’m kind of sore. Well then, we should probably leave you be. So I should go? Do you want to go? Not really. Oh my God! and him laughing now Just fucking stay and I’ll think of something else to do with you, alright?
Barefoot I then, through his lamp lit room. Tip touching his boxes Is it clothes in them? More books and scripts, that sort of thing. Why don’t you get some shelves? I should, just never get round to it. But it’s been ten years. Actually more like Jesus, is that true? — his eyes calculating above — Fuck! Fourteen years and I don’t even like it here. So then why’ve you stayed? At first it was all I could afford. After that I I don’t know I stopped thinking about it I suppose. And passing the tea. Such blue in his wrist. Mouth shifting his fag and an intricate quiet he crashes with Anyway let me lend you this, and he’s into a box, elbow deep. Black Snow? It’ll make you laugh and, by all accounts, where you’re studying, you’re going to need that. What do you know about it? What everyone does; that they love to kill people up there. Oh thanks very much. Pleasure, he says then Wait, isn’t that Dennis Potter thing on tonight? I shrug but he’s already down on his knees hauling an old portable Kayvision out. Untacking dust and used tissues Sorry about that. Up on the drawers and aerial twitched, he lies down on the bed and offers me in beside him. So I, head by the tamp saucer on his chest, lie soon yawning while he stays rapt. Fine though, all of this I think, and like it, before falling right off to sleep.
Two-ish wake, bursting. Roll out of bed. You leaving? No, toilet, I say. Mm, him, sleeping again.
Eyes pull in what light there is and someone backing the door. Is there a queue? There is, she drunk. I, hopping the hop Are you Irish? And? Nothing just me too. Oh? How long’re you over? Two months, about. Well let me give you a word of advice, never read the Irish Times. Why not? On the tube. Why’s that? Why? I’ll fucking tell you why. I was at Warren Street the other night, minding my business, reading my Times when the train gets held, only five minutes like, and this fella starts going I know what this is, fucking bomb scare, fucking IRA. I said nothing, no one did, everyone was like Just shut up, in their head. Then oh my God, he starts going Do you know what it is? I bet you fucking do. Don’t bother starting on me, I said which was the wrong thing because Jesus fuck he went apeshit, roaring Paddy bitch and your Paddy rag. We’re all stuck here ’cause of you lot. I said There’s a ceasefire, which you’d know if ever opened a paper yourself. Anyways, the train started then but he kept going Thick Paddy tick Mick, all that. Eventually this wee Paki lad says Enough mate, enough. You’ve had your say. Soon as we got to Euston though I just legged it. I was shaking, you know the way, when you’re fit to be tied? Twenty years I been living here, paying my tax. The toilet door opens so she swaps the man sliding out. Anyway, for what it’s worth, that’s my advice. Thanks, I say and let it dander my brain as she pukes away, suffocatingly.
Back from the world in the stuff of his room, I strip down to knickers and no bra. Slip off his glasses too. Him waking just enough to help me back into the warm space of his sleep. But maybe later, passing three, I wake to, in the long deep, him. Sat at his window. Smoking like breath. Staring off into the street.
*
Morning. Light. Him asleep on my hair, legs patterned to mine. I search hurts out and where, new laying his print on his print from before. Each pass brings clearer. Turned out more right. Is that sex or him? Which would I like? Be glad for the night and the what next I. It’s not everyone you’re not lonely with.
Hair caught under Ow, as he sucks the air Morning are you awake? Yes, did you sleep alright? I did, you’re like having a hot water bottle in the bed. Stretch and click. Are you wiping your nose on me? Itching only itching, he laughs And you smell so good fancy making it the best of three?
Last relics of old pain work down to his up. Sparse though, palled by his damp on my back. Thigh pinned. Reached. He has me every which way but still it circles just beyond my body. Where I see and want. Where it’s certainly him. Where his long fingers perform while I long to give in, way, gratify. But the skin and what’s in it can’t let yet. When I tell him so Fuck it, he says Really? What can I do? Nothing, I like it, bit sore, that’s all. He goes Mmm, in the grip of his qualmless own, making its way to the well-traversed close. Even where and how he touches me in the moment seems re- and re-rehearsed. Many times I’d say. All but the bite. Back of my neck. Sorry, don’t know what that was about — he says after — Luckily I didn’t break the skin. War wound, I say. Now that’s more like it! as he lets himself slip out of me.
And he opens the curtains in the spiral of day. Body white in the light with his cigarette. Have you work to do? he asks as I blind in the dazzle. A scene to learn from Richard III. ‘Was ever woman in this humour woo’d’? Yes, I shade my eyes. Shall I be on the book for you? he offers. Oh, okay.
Stare up for concentration instead of at him. He knows it already better than I do. Makes tea and prompts from all round the room while I stumble and untether text. What about your RP? I can’t do that. Have to learn, he warns Might as well from the start. So I hide in the pillow but the words make blocks, hard, with no movement in them. Despair-ING, he corrects Not Despair-EEN. I think it sounds exactly the same. He repeats in my accent ‘And by despaireen shalt thou stand excused’ Great accent, I say. Irish mother, he mumbles. From where? No, you can’t distract me — but consoles with his own student tales of Mercutios sounding like Hepburn Doolittles and the slaggings he got for that. Eventually though I am saved by the Toast? And hang over the bed, over his shoulder as he passes back triangles to chew.