Cravings (IP)

She holds out a cigarette and my hand moves automatically to take it. I pause then lift my hand and run it through my thinning hair.

“I quit,” I tell her.

She chokes out disbelieving laughter and smoke together, her green eyes sparkling. I put the coffees down, feeling childishly hurt. “Sorry, no, that’s good. That’s really good,” she says, still smiling, watching me curiously, as if she’s not sure she recognizes me.

More than eight years since my last cigarette yet this sudden, intense craving overwhelms me. I sit and stare at her. She hasn’t changed, stunning, still, even more than I remember.

Martha Rochelle. Two crazy, wonderful years of drunken parties, late nights, laughter, me and her against the world and through it all endless coffee and smoking.

And then one afternoon, she’s just not feeling it anymore. She still likes me, but the spark has gone. Gone where? I beg, I plead, desperation destroying my dignity. She waits patiently, seems bored. Do the two years mean nothing, everything we’ve been through? Apparently not.

Now, a chance encounter on the street and here she is again, sat on the other side of a café table, tapping her cigarette into a plastic ashtray, while people stream by us on the pavement. She crosses her legs, smooths her skirt down over smooth, bare thighs. My mouth goes dry.

“So,” I clear my throat, “long time no see.” I cringe at my own banality.

“Yeah, what is it? Five, six years?”

“Nine.”

She raises an amused eyebrow and draws on the cigarette, her lips curved around the filter. God, I want one.

“Yes, time flies when you’re…” I bite my lip to cut off the cliché.

“And have you been?” She’s teasing me, enjoying my discomfort. “Having fun, I mean.”

“I’m married,” I say, not answering her question. I hold my hand out and she glances at the plain gold band.

“Congratulations.” The flat tone could be sarcasm. Or indifference.

“Susan,” I say, “that’s her name. My… wife. Susan.” She looks at my hand still dangling between us. I snatch it back, embarrassed. “Five years.”

“Yeah? What’s it like? Married life?”

An unexpected image of Susan as a fifties American housewife springs to mind, holding out a freshly baked pie in oven-gloved hands. ‘Comfortable’ feels like the wrong word to use. I find myself nodding meaninglessly and then say, “It’s good. It’s really good. Susan’s great. Really great.”

More silence. She exhales a slow stream of smoke. I grit my teeth against the craving.

“And you?” I ask.

“Oh me.” She waves a hand vaguely. “You know, a few guys, but nothing too major,” she gazes into the middle distance, remembering those few guys.

I hate those few guys. “You seeing anyone now? At the moment.”

She shakes her head. Her hair falls over her face and she brushes it back behind her ear. I recall the feel of her hair on my chest, the scent of her skin, lying together, sharing the post-sex cigarette.

No, there’s no one on the scene at the moment. She’s still working in the bookshop, doing a few open mike nights at the Flag and Dragon. She talks about her friends, the names conjure vague faces in my memory. My mind drifts. I stare at her face, her lips, the gestures of her hands. My eyes stray to the loose black top offering tantalizing glimpses of skin. My mind replays the naked hours exploring and enjoying her body.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said I’m just going to the loo.” She stands and walks away, her bottom twitching in the short skirt. I feel movement in my trousers. It’s my phone vibrating. ‘Home calling’. I hesitate then put it back in my pocket. My head is fogged with thoughts and images, the past and the present mingle and now she’s coming back.

She stands, resting her hand on the back of her chair. She watches me as my eyes take in her whole body from head to foot. “I’d better go,” she says.

I jump up, nearly knocking my chair over. “Really? You have to go? Now?”

“Yeah, I think so. It was good to see you.”

She raises her arms and moves in to hug me and I start and lunge towards her awkwardly, my arms coming round her stiffly. She whispers into my ear, “Take care of yourself,” and turns her head to kiss me on the cheek.

I jerk my head round and my lips brush hers, then press hard against them and we’re kissing and the taste of smoke fills my mouth and I want her, I want her urgently right now, but she’s pulling away from me. She takes my hand in both of hers and holds it up between us, taps the ring with her finger then drops my hand, turns and walks slowly away.

I stand looking after her until she turns a corner and is gone. I become aware that people at the other tables are looking at me, smirking. Hurriedly, I grab my jacket from the back of the chair then I see the packet on the table. I grab it, fumble it open. There’s one left and I shake it out and hold it in trembling fingers.

I turn to a man at the next table and ask for a light. I draw the smoke into my lungs and hold it. It feels good. I close my eyes and exhale through my nose.

My phone rings again. ‘Home calling’. I put it back in my pocket, stub the cigarette out and hurry home.