He tapped on the door a minute later. “Bottom of the road?” I grinned. His smile was nicer than I’d remembered. He had a single bag and an old blue car. His brother’s, he said. I let him in.
He dropped his bag next to the sofa. Ack, I thought. Should have put some pillows and blankets out. Wouldn’t want him to think I assumed he’d be sleeping with me. We faced each other, said nothing, just smiling.
“So.”
“So. Go for a walk?”
“Walk it is.”
We wandered for hours. I didn’t even notice the time until the sun went behind the trees. He talked about his family, his work. He talked with his gorgeous mouth and his hands. We sat on a bench and watched round women walking their tiny, even rounder dogs.
“Home?”
“Home it is,” he said.
I offered to cook something for him. “To be honest, I’m not really that hungry,” he said. I wasn’t either. He brought a large bottle of liqueur out of his bag. There must not have been room in there for much else. We sat at my kitchen table with a bowl of ice and finished the bottle.
I was tipsy, so was he, but in a nice way, like the night we were first together. When the glasses and bottle were finally empty, I took him up to my bedroom. We kissed and fondled each other through our clothes. “Your breasts look great in this,” he said. “May I ask you something?”
Anything, I almost said. “What’s that?”
“May I whip your breasts? Through the shirt, I mean.”
I produced a rubber multitailed whip for him. He started with light taps at first. I laughed. “You can go harder than that,” I said. He did. It hurt. It wasn’t the hardest anyone had ever whipped me, but it felt like the most fun. I kept laughing. He didn’t say anything, but he smiled too, it seemed so ludicrous. When he finished, he put the whip down and his hands under the shirt.
“The flesh is warm,” he said. Lifted the shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra. “They’re pink.” He pushed me up against the wall and had me like that. Then we fell into bed and were almost instantly unconscious. lundi, le 21 juin
The phone woke me. I was groggy and answered without looking to see who the call was from. “Hello?”
“Hello.” It was the Boy. I shivered. I should have hung up. Didn’t. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Umm, at home.” No point lying. No time to think. “Where are you?”
“Outside.”
“Oh.” I put down the phone. Stretched, gently pushed the sleeping man beside me awake. “Um, I have a guest downstairs,” I said.
He must have heard something in my voice. “Who is it?”
“My ex.” A frown flickered across his face. He asked what I wanted to do. “Answer the door, I suppose.” He said I didn’t have to. That I could ring the police. I said I knew that. We dressed. He went down to the kitchen. I answered the door.
The Boy stood there. Shorts and a T-shirt. His car was pulled up opposite. He was alone. The street was quiet. He asked if he could come in. I let him.
He nodded at Dr. C in the kitchen. I introduced them. Asked if anyone wanted tea, breakfast. They said yes. I put the radio on. Everything seemed far too calm. I turned to the stove and scrambled eggs; put bread under the grill to toast. Made light chatter with both about the weather (pleasant) and what was on the radio (rubbish) and the news (depressing). I dished up and put plates of equal size in front of them.
The Boy dug straight in. His head bowed over the plate. It was odd to my eyes to see him sitting at the table after these few months.
“Aren’t you having any eggs?” Dr. C asked.
“Just a slice of toast,” I said.
“Lightweight fuel,” he said, smiled, and ate. The two of them were quiet. I couldn’t sit down, just paced lightly in front of the sink nibbling a crust. The Boy finished quickly and asked to use the toilet. I said he could. He had never had to ask before.
When he was out of the room Dr. C turned to me and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
“Didn’t think there was anything to tell,” I whispered back. “Haven’t seen him in months.”
The Boy came back in. He asked if he could talk to me. I said he could. We stood there, in the kitchen, silent, Dr. C watching us. The Boy asked if he could speak to me in my room. I said yes. We went up the stairs. I left the door open. He sat on the bed, motioned for me to sit next to him. I sat. I knew we were within earshot of the kitchen.
“I have to ask you a question, I want you to be honest,” he said.
I bristled. What right did he have to ask me anything? And when had I ever not told him the truth? “Yes?” I said.
“Are you sleeping with this man?”
“Yes.”
“He slept here last night?”
“Yes,” I said, and it occurred to me to wonder how long the Boy had been outside.
“I can’t believe you would do this to me,” he said. I was mystified. Was I supposed to be keeping a tally of lovers to recount for him? Was I still supposed to answer to him, care what he thought of me, care what anyone thought? I asked him to go.
He was calm. Oddly calm. Usually the Boy is fidgety and talkative, but he was silent and composed. He said he could let himself out; I insisted on walking him down. To the door. Out the door. I stepped outside after him and pulled the door shut. Dr. C was still in the kitchen. Heard the lock close after me. I didn’t have the key. Whatever the Boy was going to do, I wouldn’t let him attack a stranger. He would have to get through me.
The Boy realized this. He turned, the color back in his cheeks. “I have to talk to him,” he said with sudden urgency.
“No,” I said, and crossed my arms.
“I have to talk to him,” the Boy said. “He can have you, I just want him to know what… what he took from me.”
“He took nothing. He doesn’t even know who you are. Why should he? You let me go. Twice.” The Boy asked to go inside. I refused. He asked again, several times; I refused. I knew it was beyond his code of conduct to hit me, but I didn’t depend on that and I wondered just where his breaking point would be. A few people were starting to come up and down the road in the course of normal morning business. I counted on that to save me, if I needed saving.
The Boy was clearly getting nowhere simply by asking to be let inside. “Come on,” he whined. “The man’s big enough. He can clearly take care of himself.”
“You wouldn’t touch him?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t touch him.”
“Liar.” I could see his arms were crossed but his fists were clenching and unclenching over and over, turning the knuckles white then pink then white.
We stood. He looked at me. “Go to your car and drive away,” I said. He stood unmoved. I repeated myself. He went. I followed him out of the garden gate. Watched him get in the car. He was slow to put the key in the ignition. I waited until he drove away. Went back to my door and knocked. Dr. C let me in. We went up to my room and fucked. mardi, le 22 juin
In the morning Dr. C left. He had to drive back south. I smiled and made the bed as he packed his scant belongings. I didn’t know if we’d see each other again; the bruises across my chest were already faint but may last longer than the two of us being together. I didn’t know and didn’t mind.
There was a car on the corner, could see it from my window, and he knew it too. The Boy. I walked Dr. C to his car and waved him off the street, went back inside, locking the door behind me. The phone was ringing. I didn’t answer.
A few minutes later it rang again. “Hello,” I said.
“May I come in?” the Boy asked. I said no, I’d meet him outside. I locked the door behind me and slipped the keys in my pocket. Kept the mobile in my hand, just in case. He walked out of his car and met me at the gate. Asked to come in again. I refused. Said we talked in his car or not at all. He tried again, saw I wasn’t giving in, and I followed him back to where he was parked.
I sat in the passenger side and half-closed the door.
“I’m sorry, I know I’ve done so many things wrong, I’m so so sorry,” he said. His eyes had gone red, and his shoulders turned in. I was struck with a pang of tenderness. I said nothing, though. He kept on apologizing, crying. I let him. I thought of all the times when we were dating when he hadn’t apologized and it had torn me up, and of the few times he had and I’d hurried to soothe him and reassure him it wasn’t his fault.