Families are like fungus

'Families are like fungus.'

‘What?’

‘I said, families are like fungus. They don’t have leaves or roots so they obtain their nutrients parasitically.’

He giggles. ‘Where’d you get that from?’

‘I just thought of it.’

As Liam leans across me to get the suntan cream I want to sink my teeth into the tautness of his upper arm as it brushes my nose. Instead I stick out my tongue and let it run over the hair on his forearm as he falls back on the plaid blanket. 

‘Don’t you think families are parasitic?’

He makes a noise between a smothered laugh and a hard sniff. ‘Yours is!’

Liam is young and all his reactions are young too: effortless and predictable. Deep to him means one of two things: water or penetration, ha ha. For his impeccable young body I willingly sacrifice myself by only uttering one interesting remark each time we meet. The ‘families are like fungus’ analogy has been ringing round in my head all day and I needed to share it with someone or die. 

I stare up at the translucent young beech leaves, pale against the tree trunks and the cloudless cobalt sky.  Not a parasitic fungus to be seen.

‘You cold?’ Liam sits up on one elbow and runs a hand up my upper arm. ‘You’ve gone all goose-pimply.’

I turn and in his rum-baba brown eyes I think I see concern.

‘I was looking for fungus on the tree trunks.’

‘You’re not on about that again!’ He grins and bends his face towards me, a clump of dark curls touching me before he does, before I taste healthy teeth and peppermint chewing gum.

Then, as Liam rolls on top of me, I think I hear a ghost from the past crunching through the dried beechnut husks behind my head. A ghost whose step I know only too well.

‘Liam?’

‘Mmmm?’

‘I’d rather go somewhere more private. I hear footsteps...’

He slides his hand out from my pants and brushes his hair off his forehead. This time he does look concerned.

‘Your old man hire a detective?’

I laugh. ‘No. It was just a ghost from the past.’

He springs up, fastens his jeans with a loud hissing of zip and stands swaying on the beechnuts.

‘Fungus the Bogeyman, was it?’ He grins at me over his shoulder. 

I stand up beside him, bundling the rug in my arms.

‘We could have a beer at that pub.’

He shakes his head. ‘Got to be back by seven. Darts tournament.’

‘Oh.’

Walking and pulling his shoes on at the same time Liam leads the way to the car.

I feel let down, deprived. No physical action and now no cosy beer together. But I hadn’t been mistaken. Those footsteps could have belonged to no one else.

In the car Liam sits with his bare feet on the walnut dashboard. He flexes and cracks his fingers, his mind already on darts.

I drive back to where we’d lain, my sleek midnight-blue Lancia as quiet as a stalking panther.

He stands there, leaning against a tree, one foot idly kicking at the ground where the rug had been spread.

The sun dancing off the chrome round the headlamps makes him look up. As our eyes lock my heart freezes.