He pulls my shirt away, then my bra, caresses the curve of my back with his fingers, which makes me shiver. Never before have I been touched with such tenderness.
His eyes are wide open and gazing at me. They are pale green and it almost looks as if he is about to start crying.
Because it’s now happening.
But Trevor hasn’t the time to consider things long enough as my own hands are already exploring him, moving up and down his thighs until I reach his groin. I can’t help myself from touching him, kissing him, losing myself inside his smell, letting my tongue draw a thousand arabesques across his body. I watch Trevor’s eyes soften, the green become more intense, and I feel him swallow.
Everything is in the right place. Trevor’s trousers are on the floor, my legs straddle his body. I feel him lifting me by the waist and furiously entering me. His hands grip mine and pin me back, allowing me no movement that could disrupt our precarious equilibrium. Trevor brushes some strands of hair away from my face. He wants to look at my face, and he will keep on doing so all the while as he moves inside me. Our bodies are perfectly embedded in each other. Trevor plunges deeper into me, and I do my best not to scream out aloud. But I must, as he watches me. Trevor wants it all, the white skin of my breasts reddening beneath his bites, the taut muscles of my stomach as he drills into me. Every spasm, every emotion betrays me. This is truly the only way to know another: carnally.
Trevor seeks total control. Good, because so do I.
I want to capture all of him, how he moves, how he walks, how many times he brushes his teeth before he goes to bed. I want to steal his most intimate thoughts. I want to experience his sadness and make it mine, binding myself to that ironic smile of disenchantment that crosses his lips.
I want his English accent.
I want to know the reasons for his divorce, the true reasons, not the ones he tells everyone else.
I want his ash-blond hair between my thighs.
I want to devour him. Digest him.
This desire is so strong, so obvious, that it can be read all over my face. Trevor is not surprised, because he has no reason to doubt me.
My face is his face, my will is his will.
I should maybe have warned him, prepared him for this. Too late, now. Too late to hold all this at bay. Trevor is so overwhelmed by the love I have in store for him that he attempts to struggle free; he is upset and ready to lie to save himself. But the equilibrium is now broken. My hands are free, finally able to touch Trevor’s hair, while my tongue chases him, hunting him, hungry for his saliva. Our sweat mingles, cancelling out all forms of friction, we are so totally dishevelled, a total mess. To let oneself go in such a way is a benediction. Our hands wander all over, clumsily, awkwardly. To each of my caresses, Trevor answers with a moan. He’s not quite ready for this, not yet, but he knows that my madness is rising. But I am in control of him. Of his breath. It’s a death rattle. Long, unending.
Morning catches us in the throes of an embrace and confused.
Trevor moves his face closer to my breast, and his unshaven skin brushes against me. Under the bed covers I feel his legs solidly fastened to mine, a position made even more uncomfortable by the white streamlets of sperm still leaking from my cunt.
Have we slept like this all night?
Chaotically clutching one another, with our legs squeezed together higgledy-piggledy. I smile. Our bodies, in such ridiculous embrace, are an insult to the art of perspective.
“What are you thinking of?” Trevor asks, lighting a cigarette.
“I’m thinking of the book I want to write,” I answer.
“Is it that important?”
“Yes.”
“More important than me?”
I remain silent and kiss him. His mouth is both small and fleshy, like the mouth of a child. As a matter of fact, Trevor is no longer Trevor. He’s just a fifteen-year-old who does not understand the meaning of words like failure and frustration. He’s a shy high school boy with cauliflower ears who will never get used to wearing spectacles.
Trevor is no longer the man whose face is so close to mine. He is another who looks like me, but is so much weaker.
“I’d better go, now.”
“Stay a little.”
“I can’t, Trevor. I have things to do.”
I quickly slip on my sweatshirt and my jeans. I walk towards the window and note with satisfaction that it isn’t raining any more. My hair is dank with sweat, and brushing my fingers through the strands fails to revive them.
I miss my things, my house. I want to listen to my phone messages and check on my electronic mail. But Trevor takes me into his arms, holds me against those broad shoulders that make me feel both small and gracious in comparison. I have taken a decision, now is the right time.
“I will not be going to Toronto with you,” I say to him.
Trevor’s embrace tightens, becomes more insistent.
“You know all too well that my son lives there. I can’t abandon him. He’s only two years old; he needs me. You just can’t ask me to stay here forever…”
“Actually, I wasn’t asking you to.”
“What do you mean?”
“That you must return to Canada, Trevor. There’s nothing here for you, neither fame nor fortune.”
I move away. Trevor is attractive, but I no longer want him.
“So, what about this night? Why did you come here and stay the night?” he keeps on asking me.
“To fully understand that this was the right thing to do. To take control again, Trevor.”
I concentrated and stared straight at the door.
“And if you do manage to leave, it will mean once and for all that I control you, Trevor,” I said in one breath.
Trevor’s only reaction was a feeble laugh, but there was no joy in it. Right now his shoulders were so much less imposing. Hate is such a sterile emotion, so empty and impractical. Unless you have the means to avenge yourself.
“So, you’ll be going to New Orleans with Maxim, will you?”
“Yes.”
Trevor’s voice is already full of resignation.
“Will you sleep with him?”
I remain motionless and silent.
“Will you go to bed?”
On my way out, I am cheered by the fact that the rain hasn’t broadened the streets, that the night wind hasn’t blown the manhole covers away. The mild air brushes against me harmlessly. I’ve stopped shivering. I hurry along, and should be home in an hour or so. Of course, one day I should learn to drive, but for now I have no need for it. My independence will not be threatened by a spring storm. And of course there are so many advantages to travelling by foot, small occasions when you can meet people along the road. I see a photographer’s sign and walk into the shop. I speak to the owner, a quiet, pleasant man in his fifties.
Photographs. I have a house full of them, but always want more. I just can’t resist the temptation of a midday snap. Four flashes in quick succession, four small stamp format images and it’s done. Now I wait for the film to dry, thinking back to what Danila said, all the chatter about my metallic eyes, owls, birds of prey, predators of all ilk.
Danila is mistaken when she confuses me with an owl. Owls are creatures of habit, and their rhythms always remain the same, sleeping by day, hunting at night, or so it goes. I’m a coldblooded animal. I assess the dangers ahead, analyse them. I pretend to be dead, defenceless, and all the time I am observing. I evaluate the adversary, extrapolate his movements, determine what his weak points are. Then I devour him. Assimilate him.