Yearning (30 page)

The tight knot that had driven him so mindlessly into his many affairs was unravelling. As it loosened it left stray loops of unfinished business that kept tripping him up. Each time he tried to pull it all back together, another random strand, in the form of a past lover, a faltered beginning, a painful ending, would escape and demand answers from him, asking questions of him he had no answers to.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The airy weatherboard cottage overlooking the sea was filled with light. He’d used the move to finally rid himself of the clutter of twenty-five years, leaving behind the blank husk of his life as a snake sheds its skin. He threw out boxes and boxes of accumulated old notes. Unread papers, faded sheets, ancient dog-eared books, and mementos of past lovers – bookmarks, earrings, even a G-string he found buried at the back of a drawer.

In the mess he came across a large unmarked envelope. Frowning he opened it. Inside he found a handful of small pink envelopes, his name written in fat teenage hand. Her letters. He re-read them, one after the other, and recalled her skin, so clear and fresh, like snow. Even now, years later, they disturbed him. He put them all back and threw the envelope into the recycling bin. But they never made it to the kerb. As he picked up the box to put it out he changed his mind, retrieved them and put them into a packing box with his poetry books.

Before moving in he cleansed his new home in the tradition of the local people, by smoking the entrance with
burning eucalyptus leaves. He inhaled the acrid smoke as he passed through the front door and fanned it through the empty rooms. It was the last time he’d scorch his lungs with smoke. He’d cast his cigarettes into the purgatory of a street-side rubbish bin as he’d entered the seaside town.

This was the place where he would free himself. He would write enchanting erotica and spell out his knowledge and experience for his dull, disinterested brotherhood, try to inspire them to explore the wonders of the feminine. He had plenty of material. His memory yielded it up as the waves washed flotsam to the shore, and he wandered among it, a scavenger searching for something precious.

Yet the space and transparency of the rooms laid him too bare. Without clouds in the air he was exposed, naked. He felt scrutinised by the expansive windows. He’d settle each morning to his task with a clear vision of what he wanted to write, and within an hour he’d find himself tangled up in excuses for what he’d left behind.

It seemed so empty. So many beautiful experiences, so many beautiful women, yet the words that spilled from his fingers were laboured and affected. Over and again the word ‘love’ kept popping up. He sounded like a corny advertisement for chocolate. And when he wrote about sex, it came out like porn. That wasn’t what he was aiming for. As his magnificent cock wilted in his boxer shorts, so did his inspiration. His own words challenged him with an uncomfortable truth: when it came down to it, what was sex without love? And what did he know about love?

He pushed his chair back from the desk, pulled on his running shoes and called to his dog. He clipped a lead onto the German Shepherd’s collar and stepped under
a sapphire sky into golden world parched with heat. Air fresh from the ocean calmed him. The dog bounced excitedly by his side, tugging hopefully at the lead. A walk into town would do both of them good.

Last night he’d lay awake, listening to the waves rushing the shore and watching falling stars through his bedroom window. He’d spent an hour resisting the temptation to pull out her old letters and read them again before he finally fell asleep. He assumed it was guilt that kept her in his mind. He couldn’t forget the helpless look in her eyes when he’d said goodbye, or the disappointment in her voice, the hard edge of it when she’d yelled and called him selfish. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d wanted to say sorry, wanted her forgiveness. But he’d only made things worse. He thought that physical pleasure was the greatest gift he could give her but, in the end, it hadn’t been enough. He couldn’t give her what she really needed. Looking back he probably should have just said sorry that day he picked her up in his car and left it at that. Then it would have been over with. Or would it?

It was late January now. Her baby would be a couple of months old. He worried about her, wondered how she was faring. Whenever he thought of her the guilt resurfaced. He hated that he couldn’t protect her. Even though it wasn’t meant for him, not his responsibility, the urge to make sure she was safe and cared-for kept returning. He wondered again if he could make contact with her. Unknowns fluttered through his mind – Max, her parents, himself and her. He brushed the idea aside.

He smiled as he remembered the chaos of her, the effervescent delight she greeted him with, the girlish innocence
she never seemed to lose. How could a woman remain so young yet so much a woman? It was this that aroused him so deeply; this naivety, a characteristic lost to the stained histories of all the other women he’d known. They came to him with lustrous skin and eyes of lightning, unleashing their unmet desires and returning to their lives knowing he wasn’t theirs to keep. But not her. She wasn’t jealous, but she’d always considered him hers and hers alone. She’d claimed him for herself and he liked that.

He remembered with private pleasure the voracious hunger of her, the way she had drawn him in both physically and spiritually. The willing sound of her, her breath sweet like apples, the soothing feel of her. She’d opened him like a woman might be opened – making him moist and warm and receptive. How he’d loved to make her wait for him, watching her muscles throb with anticipation before he entered her. Then – ah! – the purest of pleasures, the glorious moment when he surrendered to her instinctive movements, a slow swallowing of him as her rhythmic pulses drew him in and tightened around him like a vice. The two of them locked together, barely moving, groans of pleasure washing over them.

Of all his memories, this was his favourite. It would bring the familiar tingle in his groin and his cock would stiffen. She had immersed herself whole into him, like a chocolate plunged into a moist mouth. She’d made sex different somehow. She was able to hold all of him in her hands, the raw bestial maleness of him alongside his sensuality.

He took some deep breaths to settle himself and reflected how fortunate he was that she was so far out of
his reach. If she’d ever been available to him he might easily have been trapped into mating in captivity for the rest of his life. He couldn’t have given up the instant chemistry of the first meeting. He liked being free to explore a connection then leave while it sparkled still, saved from having to make his way through the ravages of long-term love. Wedded and wretched? Not for him. He’d leave that to the miserable majority.

He tied the dog’s leash to a bike rack at the front of the newsagent and went in for a newspaper. He stopped by the rack of postcards and spun it around. A mosaic of tourist attractions flicked by: beaches, sunsets, bikinis, dolphins, boats. Maybe he could drop her a quick line, a carefree, just-to-let-you-know-where-I-am kind of line. A line that said I remember you, I’m sorry, I hope you’re okay – but not in so many words. He picked out a photo of the local lighthouse standing stark white and red-tipped against limitless blue.

A tanned sunny woman in her late forties stood behind the counter. She greeted him with an encouraging smile, bangles jangling on her wrists. The tiny peaks of her nipples showed through her thin singlet top. He gazed at her full breasts, too round and perky for her age. Instinctively he flirted with her. Habitual charm made this ritual an easy one. He flattered her and she responded with zeal, her eyes whispering to him, ‘I like you. I want to. I won’t make you work for it.’

He paid for the paper, postcard, envelope and stamp and asked her when she was free for a coffee. She fluttered with anticipation, leaning over the counter to write
her phone number on a scrap of paper. He could already tell she would be easily discovered, her mysteries stolen long ago by other men before him. By the weekend he would have her in his bed screaming for more. He looked forward to some physical inspiration. Perhaps it might help with his writer’s block. They arranged a date for the end of the week and he left the shop whistling.

At the café he talked to the waitress. She was young, her skin tastefully tattooed with Celtic emblems. A bulbous piercing protruded from her bottom lip. She was working to save for university the next year. She wanted to change the world. They talked about politics and shared jokes about the conservative right. She patted his dog as he sipped a latte. More customers arrived and she left to serve them. She returned with a fresh coffee for him. ‘On the house,’ she whispered, crinkling her nose at him conspiratorially.

He turned his attention to the back of the postcard, blank with possibility. Words turned themselves over in his mind. He let them move among each other, like polite guests at a cocktail party, configuring themselves into natural groups with in-kind interests. After some reflection he selected an inoffensive group, seemingly harmless in their intention.

Hey,

Have moved here by the ocean to write. The cliffs are magnificent. Got some feature articles published and am working on a book. Bought a dog named George. He’s great company. Natives are friendly. Hope everything went well with the baby and things are working out for
you. If you’re ever down this way look me up. I’m in the book.

Yours in sunshine and spirit

Solomon

As he re-read it, another group of words that had been hiding in a corner of his mind emerged to pester him, tugging at him for recognition.

Hi babe,

Living by the ocean makes me think of you all the time. I miss your body, your face, your mind. Can you come visit me and we will make love through the tranquil wave-washed nights into the sun-kissed morning? I want you. I love you.

Solomon X

Sighing, he addressed and stamped the envelope, resisting a strange urge to kiss the card before he pushed it inside. He paid for his coffee, thanked the waitress and rushed to post it before he changed his mind.

*

She wiped the last of the crumbs from the counter and tossed the cloth with her apron into the laundry basket. A small envelope containing her pay waited against her handbag like the last kid left at the school gate. She stuffed it into a side pocket as she rummaged for her car keys. Her breasts were swollen to bursting with milk. A five-hour shift was too long. She called out to Marge.

‘I better go pick up the kids. Dad goes nuts if I’m late.’

‘All right, darl. Give my regards to your mum. You’re in again at ten tomorrow, aren’t you?’

‘Yep. Can I finish at two? I’ll really need to feed Poppy. My tits are killing me.’

‘Oh, darl, why didn’t you say so? Of course.’

‘See you then.’

Snarling heat reflected off the footpath and crawled up her skirt, eating up the remaining cool of the bakery. Her tolerance for heat had dropped since the children had been born. Pregnancy and age had brought irreversible and unwelcome changes to her body. Her skin sagged listlessly around her belly button, squashing it to a wink, and she couldn’t rid herself of the foggy vagueness in her head. She had to write everything down these days.

A hot gasp spewed from the car as she opened the door. She braced herself before sinking into the stifling depths of the seat, trickles of sweat running between her breasts. As she turned the key in the ignition, she flipped the air-conditioning on and waited for the molten air to dissipate.

She coasted past the park. The grass was limp under the brutal sun. The shrill song of cicadas bored through the heat. A stray image. A young Solomon, in summer, teaching in jeans. He always wore tight Levis. The only time she’d seen his legs was when he was naked. She basked in the memory. Smooth muscles rounding out coffee-coloured skin, black hairs curling a path down his calf to a long foot. He always smelled clean and fresh when they made love. Delicious. She sighed, dismissing the image wistfully.

The interim separation from Max had been a good thing for both of them. It had given them both enough
space to see each other again. The shock of her affair with Solomon had changed Max in surprising ways. There was a new tone to his voice, a softer look in his eyes, calm in his very being. He said he wanted to give their marriage a proper chance – that after everything they’d been through, it deserved one. They’d come so far, he argued, learned so much. Two beautiful children were dependent upon them. He could offer her things Solomon couldn’t. It would be a waste not to try and build something new together.

He made sense. She knew there was no point in pining for a man who wanted only to be free. Max was the father of her children, the man she’d chosen to marry, and it looked as though he’d forgiven her. He understood, he said, how young she was, what kind of man Solomon was, how she’d been blinded and manipulated. She hated him saying that. It was so far away from what she’d felt. It made her feel like an idiot when he put it like that, like she’d been taken.

The thought made her squirm. Maybe it was the truth. Solomon had used her from the beginning and she’d stupidly let him because she thought she loved him. But was it really love, this deeper-than-forever longing? Ever since that terrible night, when Max had found her phone, he’d surprised her. And so had Solomon. They’d both disappeared and it was Max who’d come back for her. Not Solomon. Probably never Solomon. Max had been there for her ever since. Not demanding, not whining, just quietly there. Max was there for her now in a way that Solomon had never been.

Max had stood by her side, massaging her back, while she birthed Poppy. She felt warrior-like, wanting to show
Max she could be strong without him. But in the end she’d needed him. She’d sweated and pushed while the baby’s head crowned, receded and crowned again. Furious that she couldn’t do it alone, she gripped both of Max’s hands, bleeding them of colour, and hissed quiet curses through her clenched teeth. He bore it without complaint.