I’m in town for the night. I have to see you. I know it won’t be good for either of us.
You won’t be expecting me. And nor will you want me. It’s been a long Thursday and we’re both tired. But I really need to see you, just to be around you even for a little bit. I don’t know what you are to me, but you’re something. I’m nothing to you. Nothing to anyone.
We met in a club. You were wearing a tight black halter top with a wide silver belt around your tiny waist. I guessed a 36DD. I don’t think I noticed your face for a long time. It was my place, that night, I think. It wasn’t really all that spectacular. I came, but then, I always do. I thought you did but I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t all that bothered really. The club, the drink, the sex……nothing new
But we talked after we did it, and that was new.
We met again. In another city, another club. The top was different, but you always wore the same belt. I knew you instantly; you’d forgotten me. We used each other again. And again. We started to arrange our hook-ups rather than leaving them to chance. The arrangement was cynical, no strings attached.
I know you’re not pleased to see me at your door, arriving like I do, tired and dusty. You haven’t had a good day. We’re neither of us in the mood for sex and that is all our arrangement is, we agreed, nothing but sex. You try to explain. “Pat, I’m tired……..” “I know. I am too. I just wanted to see how you were.” You smile and I come in. Your smile is strained, uncertain. You don’t quite know what to do. I don’t either. I hand you the flowers, the best that Statoil had to offer. You take the flowers away and come back with two glasses of wine. We usually have something a lot stronger. But this is a working night. We’ve never been together on a working night before. It takes a long time for the conversation to get started. Talking was always so natural in bed, nothing like this unbearable awkwardness. You tell me about your art, your poems, your work with the refugees and destitute in the community centre just 12 minutes walk away. Sometimes you cycle, or rollerblade, or use your old moped. You love that bike. You tell me about how you worked and saved your way through a life-drawing class modelling job to get it. I’m jealous of your life. But I’m glad you still have the bike. You deserve something to brighten up your life the way you brighten up the lives of everyone around you. You’re not as young as you were, but you still captivate me.
It gets late. You stand up. Obviously I should leave. I feel wretched. I want to stay. I don’t want to sleep alone anymore.
I want to lie in your bed which is soft and warm and smells of you every night. I want to kiss you properly, to wrap my arms around you and pull you close, my tongue exploring every last secret of you as I shut my eyes and lose myself in the miracle that is you. I want to be your baby, to have you care for and look after me, protect me from all knowledge of the big bad outside world that waits for me just outside your door. I want you to be my baby, to need me and care for me as I need and care for you. But your smile is only polite as you thank me for the flowers and see me to the door.
I wish I could be brave enough to fight for you.