You passed this way once

‘How many children do you have?’ you ask, looking at my stretch marks.
‘Six,’ I say.
You look puzzled-amused and search my eyes for the truth. This is the moment I fall in love with you, for that bewildered look.
‘Or eight.’
You laugh and smooth my seersucker-striped belly from navel to pubis, the heel of your palm coming to rest on my domed bone, your fingers tangling the damp hair between my tired legs.

Our bodies are pearl white with a pale blue crazing of veins. They might belong to cave dwelling creatures who have never seen the light. Yours is long and lean; mine soft and rounded.

You are wearing your glasses. They sit askew on your thin white face. I notice part of the frame has been melted once, placed thoughtlessly on something hot. I am reminded of a documentary I once saw about a nudist holiday camp. Everyone was naked except for shoulder bags, sandals and spectacles; the absurdity got in the way of everything else. I make to remove them, but you stop me.

‘I like to look,’ you say. Then, ‘You have great breasts.’ You have a slow, aromatic accent that I can’t place. The words sound like poetry.
‘I know. I needed them for all those children.’
You make a little noise that must be a laugh. You have the undershot jaw and crooked teeth of a Crufts-failed labrador I once loved. I twist a clump of your heavy velvet hair and remember how I used to tug her ears. You groan comfortably and arch your back in satisfaction.

Your lake-green eyes scrutinise my unlikely pale pink nipples with scientific interest. Your tongue investigates hesitantly, testing their flavour. I wonder if you have seen their like before and want to apologise for their odd little-girl appearance. You nuzzle cautiously. I show you how to take more of my breast into your mouth for comfort. I cradle your head in the crook of my arm, stroking your long, dark hair and thinking that twenty years ago we were both doing this three-hourly.
‘That’s right,’ I say, rocking gently. And below my breath, ‘That’s right, my love.’

I have been dozing. You stroke my cheek and I waken to find you sitting on the side of the bed. You are dressed now and leaving. I am discomfited to see that you have tidied the room. I see you to the door. You take out your wallet.
‘Fifty wasn’t it?’
‘You could give me your phone number instead,’ I say.
You do the puzzled look again, but fleeting this time, barely a second, then smile broadly.
‘Here’s eighty,’ you say, wrapping my fingers around a bundle of notes and kissing my forehead. ‘Buy yourself something nice.’

You stride away up the hill, your clothes, simultaneously too big and too small, flapping about your pipecleaner body.

As you disappear from view a stiff breeze is blowing picture book clouds across an absurdly blue sky.