Ten Lives and One Death

How the hell did this happen? I had seduced the last woman of the ten. My project was complete. The final one had unexpectedly been the most enthusiastic sex of all. Now here I was with a breadknife in my belly. If only I could get to my mobile phone. If only I could call someone ...If only there was someone to call.

It was 12.50 am.

A black pool with dark red edges spreads out on my shirt around the wound. The knife has gone out the window. Another black pool spreads out on the wooden laminate floor. My vision is obscured by yet another black pool. The front door of my flat is open. Life is draining from my shoulders. I have no feeling in my stomach. There is a metallic taste in my mouth...

I have a flashback to the smell of number ten. She was light and airy, but with a darker note of spice somewhere in the background. I had thought at the time that the scent was a sophisticated perfume, made in a cunning sexual laboratory. It was a perfume that disguised the lust in her basement with the smell of innocent flowers from her living room.

There is blackness all around me. I can’t move. I try to speak. Nothing! Somewhere in the distance a woman is yelling. I hear indistinct voices. I feel as though everything is quiet near me... although there is activity far away.

Then I smell a woman close to me. Is that the rustle of her clothing? It’s some form of nylon or other synthetic material. She is a mature woman. I reach to hold her. But I cannot move. I hear a male voice say, “Is he dead?”

“I can’t get a pulse”. She says. I hear someone sobbing near-by and a siren in the distance. They are talking about me.

I didn’t know where I was going when I started. I don’t know where I am going now.

It was only an exercise, a test, a project like at school. The project’s definition was to persuade ten women over 35 years old to sleep with me. The Internet refers to women of that age as MILFs. Yet they were all different. Everyone is different somewhere, somehow, in some way.

I thought it would be easy but it was very difficult. I thought I would have to try and engineer situations, try to create circumstances that provided the right conditions for success... but there was something else going on as well.

Most women were suspicious. I lost count after the first fifteen failures. There were probably a hundred attempts on the way to ten successes. Women who had seen something of the world thought they knew my intentions. They checked their purses and their credit cards before speaking to me. They gathered their image of their ‘self’, their responsibilities, their inhibitions and society’s paranoia around them to help to keep me out. I thought I had to be clever. I flattered some. I joked with others. I offered understanding to most. I listened to them all. Does anyone listen except when they are in love or are trying to seduce? The fact of the matter is that everyone wants to be loved. Especially when you don’t believe you are loved. Everyone wants to be adored. Especially when the world tells you that you are no longer attractive. Everyone wants to be someone’s sexual fantasy. Especially when you are not sure that you have ever been anyone’s sexual fantasy. Get all that right. Make it risk free and BANG! I thought you can have anyone you want and everyone feels good. That is unless you compromise the fantasy.

Why did I do it?

I don’t know why.

I never knew my parents. I grew up all over the place. I was always polite to those in authority, because they treated me better that way. I read a little. I was careful with the other kids. They were more dangerous than adults. I played games with them but we never connected. Does anyone? It is possible that I didn’t connect because I never stayed in one place long enough. I was happy that way. I was given help to get a place of my own and a job. I got better jobs and saved money. I had to help myself because there wasn’t anyone there to help me. Some of the girls my own age went out with me. We did the usual things and ended up in bed. It felt great at first. But then empty repetition made it boring. The world confers far too much value on the attractiveness of youth. If there is nothing going on behind firm flesh, then it is just meat. It may be warm enthusiastic meat. But it is meat mimicking the movement from movies. I’ve seen those mouths opening in that mock sensuous manner on TV screens. I have seen those effusive outbursts in late night films with titles like “Lust after Dark”, “Hotel Erotica” and “Debbie does Dallas”. I have seen those body contortions before. I have seen the arching of spines; the massaging of breasts; the ridiculous rolling of tongues around gloss lips. I have heard their calls to God. I have seen and heard it all a hundred times. Those movements are empty, worthless and pointless. Those movements are even more ridiculous when made by teenage girls trying to behave like porn actresses. They are putting on a show. There is no pleasure. There’s just pantomime.

One night I lay in some young girl’s bed. I looked up and I thought what if there were a secret web cam in the ceiling or behind a photo frame. I looked up at all the cuddly toys arranged along the headboard shelf and asked myself, was she performing for them, for the front row, like they do in those movies? If it was for my benefit, the audience was disappointed. I imagined the fluffy animals were also unimpressed. Was sex always an imitation of desire as seen in films? Was it all Cocaine and Quaaludes, simpatico lighting and posing for video cameras? Did the human race really do all that posturing before porn was made widely available? Probably not! The men grunted. The men rutted. The women watched silently whilst a spider span a web in the corner of the ceiling. The men haven’t changed. The women have.

I thought of real women. Not those on the screen or in glossy photos. Not the teenagers that I knew. I thought of real women that I had met. Women who had experienced life, who had experienced disappointment. Women with something to say. Women who had problems. Women who were getting on with their lives. Women with subjugated desires. Women with hang-ups. Diverse and different women. Women made of warm shapes. Women with soft lines. Women with hard lines. Women with ideas about their lives. I presumed that they had repressed desires. I presumed but I didn’t know.

I started to develop an idea. I don’t know where the number “Ten” came from. But “Ten” became the number. It was my target. It was my project. Then I forgot about the number ten and I concentrated on finding number one. I naively thought that my project would enable me to “liberate” ten women and possibly redeem myself for my lack of connection with humanity. I laughed at my discovery and my arrogance. I knew that there was truth somewhere in those stupid thoughts and I didn’t care where it was. I decided to launch the Project? Where did I start? I didn’t care. I just had to start.

CHAPTER TWO

NUMBER ONE

I was born in a cross fire hurricane

But it’s all right - In fact it’s a gas

Jumping Jack Flash – The Rolling Stones

They call it the glass ceiling don’t they? You can see through it but you can’t get in without shattering something, usually your shoulder blade.

I remember that I was sitting opposite ‘the little shit’, otherwise known as my husband. He was muttering and stuttering, trying to say that he was leaving. Not my fault...his fault. Sorry but there was someone else. “They” were “in-love”. Twenty - two years of marriage and he tells me over the muesli. I said nothing I looked at him and stayed strong. He was a cliché with his thinning hair, his paunch and his penchant for stupidity. He’d always been a cliché, a stereotype. It was either going to be a young girl or a motorbike. It would either be his secretary or a throbbing piece of machinery. No imagination you see? It was possibly both. He said sorry, with carefully apologetic shoulders and baleful eyes. He tried to make a phone call. He quickly sent a text and then he left. It was quiet in the kitchen, quiet in the living room, quiet within me.

I looked into the coffee. I saw the outline of my reflection in the blackness of the liquid. Light was streaming through the window over my shoulder. I knew that I would cope. I dabbed a tear that had formed on my lower lip of my right eye. I had two priorities, my daughter Lucy and my job. Lucy had gone to school. I had to go to work.

There would be something from the divorce. I’d make the little shit pay. But I would have to keep the job.

I got to work that day to find that the day was delivering even more fun. My two co-directors were uncharacteristically silent at our monthly board meeting. They were silent in order to avoid the wrath of our Chief Exec. He began to direct his rage at me. We had all under-achieved on “The Budget”. What was I going to do about it? I started to speak, but now he was in full flow. Missed opportunities! Poor judgement! Mistakes! Abysmal management! Shareholder’s demands! Bring me solutions not problems. Targets! Ya–di-Ya-da! I saw the look in my colleague’s eyes. Fear and yet comfort that we were all sharing the venom. In their minds, they would not be taking responsibility. It was the old man having his annual grouch. However, for me it felt like someone believed it to be my fault. Stuart Taunton surreptitiously smirked at Ben, but not at me. They were co-conspirators. Maybe it was the smirk. Maybe it was the “little shit” and his pre-pubescent airhead girlfriend, driving around texting sexual come-ons. The “little shit” with his socks-on sexuality and his foul smelling farts. The ‘love of his life’ air - head with the shopping catalogue brain and the pathetic pneumatic boobs, “Oooooh Steve we can go shopping together, you can help me try on lingerie that you want me to wear for you!” Maybe it was the fact that Ben and Stuart had half the targets to meet that I had and yet I am sure they had bigger salaries. I was even more certain that they had little dicks. Maybe it was the hair fluttering in the Chief Exec’s nose whilst he raged or the emptiness in me that I wanted to dispel.

I stood up. “That’s enough!” My target is £7.5m. It’s nearly as much as their combined targets. I’ve undershot by a few thousand...because of the Leatherwart deal...which Stuart fucked up and you all know why! And yet you have the gall to include me in your pathetic little diatribe and as for you pricks over there, you don’t have the balls to say anything. So tell you what...why don’t all of you stay here and wank off over the figures...because today I’m pissed off, pre-menstrual...and I quit!”

I picked up my notebook computer, shoved it in my bag, flounced out...as best as I could flounce with a big bag under my arm and a laptop power cable bouncing after me like the tail of a monkey...I went down a flight of stairs in high pomp to get to my office. I looked out the window. “Buggereration!”

Some will say I was not thinking straight. That I let my emotions get the better of me. Balls to you! It was me against the world and I wasn’t going to let those insipid little pillocks win.

Tim, my PA cautiously peered into the office “You OK?”

“Yep! I just quit”

Embarrassed he retreated.

“Bugger!

I hoped that Tim didn’t think I was calling him. He didn’t come back in.

I left the office and rang my friend Sue. She came round that evening with a bottle of Pinot Noir and Stephen, her husband’s accountant.

Six months later, I had my own business. I had two thirds of my accounts moved over from my old company and occasionally I had Stephen. Although I don’t think either of us were particularly enthusiastic about it.

The “little shit”, had rung once to say that it was all over with what’shername...and he was sorry... How was Lucy and could we talk?

“Fuck off” I said and “next time call my solicitor!”

Then my old friends, Sue, Bonnie and Jane were on a train with me to London. We were travelling First Class. I had an appointment at 11 and afterwards we were meeting for lunch. They were getting the train home that afternoon; I was going to stay at the Knightsbridge Hilton. Lucy was staying at Sue’s as she always did when I had to stay away. Lucy was friends with Sue’s daughter. The train was crowded. Across from our group, a young guy was reading a newspaper. He kept looking at us. I thought he was looking at me. But then I was talking rather a lot.

“How’s it going with Stephen?” Sue asked archly.

“It’s not. I’m not bothered about him and he’s only doing it because he thinks I am desperate and it will keep the business”.

“But surely, you feel something for him?”

“Is ‘infinite pity’ an appropriate emotion?” I said. They all giggled.

“Have you been happy with anyone.... you know ...in the bedroom?” Bonnie asked in a whisper. I was disappointed. Did she think I was some kind of voracious beast that couldn’t be satisfied? Perhaps I was?

“I’m keen on the act but rarely happy with the execution” I might just change sides!” We all whooped with laughter. Then we stopped abruptly as we looked across at the guy with the newspaper. He was smiling.

“Can I watch?” He said and then a red flush spread from his neck up to his chin and the lower parts of his cheeks.

“Sorry” he spluttered.

“You’d have to join the queue!” I said and we whooped again and returned to our chatter.

By the time I arrived at the hotel, I was tired but happy. I was hopeful of a good contract from my 11 o’clock and had spent the afternoon with my girlfriends. I checked in at reception and then turned to go to my room. Standing three behind me was the guy with the newspaper from the train.

“Hello” I said as if we were old friends. “What are the chances?”

He looked sheepish and said nothing.

I realised that my tone may have been inappropriately friendly for such a brief acquaintance. I headed for the lift.

“Hey! It is a coincidence, isn’t it? Some form of fate, what do you think?”

I shrugged, now reluctant...

“What if we had dinner tonight?” He said.

I looked at him. He was about 5ft 10. Early twenties, brown hair, brown eyes. He had a reasonable body, reasonable looks. Not repulsive, but nothing special. Why did he want to have dinner with me? I am 49. I disguise my pear shape with good clothes. Being in the rag trade, my clothes are stylish and appropriate. I know my breasts attract men of a certain type, usually senior sales reps at conventions. It takes me an hour and a half to put my face on every morning and half an hour to take it off at night. My hair is coloured, short and manageable. I like to make sure it is lacquered in place. I am well kempt and if the modern world wanted Rubenesque, I was all they needed! But surely I was not his type? He’ was just a chancer. If he had friends with him, it would be for a bet.

“I can pay on my company expenses!” He spluttered.

Mmmmmm cheap as well! I thought.

I looked into his eyes. He clearly realised the stupidity of his last remark. I could see that he was desperately seeking his next line. Beyond, that there was something else going on that I couldn’t determine.

I nearly didn’t answer. Why bother? But then I said “Eight O’clock here!” It was a curious response, from a curiosity within me that was rarely stimulated. The lift doors opened and I stepped in. I smiled at him as the doors closed.

He’d never show. But I would have eaten in the hotel restaurant anyway, so either he was there or I dined alone.

I got into the room and unpacked my overnight bag. My heart raced a little. This was an unusual situation. I wasn’t sure why I’d said yes. I wasn’t sure what he wanted. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. I had been pursued at sales conferences a couple of times, and I had succumbed recently after drinking too much and letting my guard down. I had allowed losers in before, like Stephen and the guy at the conference last month, because it suited me. But now? And was he trying to get in? It seemed like it.

What to wear? I freshened up and put on my light beige broad stripe, trouser suit that I had worn from earlier, but replaced the brown blouse with a burnished gold v-neck top. I recognised that I revealed more than a hint of décolletage. I would have worn it anyway.... probably...

I finished some emails and checked the time. It was 8 o’clock. I “skim-tidied” my room, sprayed some Chanel and casually, without that much anticipation, headed downstairs to the restaurant. What were the words? “Que sera, sera.”

He was waiting by the lift. If this were a romantic novel, he would have been pacing like a panther. But in reality, he was nervously checking his watch against the clock above reception. As soon as he saw me he came over and moved to kiss me on the cheek. Like the anticipation of a dancer, I read the move, checked away and he pulled out so that there was little embarrassment for either of us.

“Let’s go in,” He said.

“First ought we to do names? I am Dianne Ferguson.

“Christian. Christian Hook” He said. He smiled and I followed him in.

I took the lead over dinner. Told him what I did. Asked him perfunctory questions and got answers that told me nothing. As we passed through to the dessert I took the bull by the proverbials.

“Why have you asked me to dinner?”

He looked down. He looked to the left and looked above my head. I waited. He actually was good looking. I waited. His eyes twinkled but he was in some form of confusion. I waited some more. He started to speak in that way that people speak and no sensible words came out.... lots of ‘wells’ and ‘errrs’ and ‘you sees’.

Finally as if he had found something he’d been looking for, he announced. “I am planning to write a novel”.

All I needed was to arch an eyebrow and he continued. “About a young man who seduces mature women...” It was like he’d reached the end of a road that stopped where there should have been a bridge and he was staring over the edge frightened. He’d found himself a path but had run out of road. It looked like a long way down.

I looked at his face and we both realised that I was the bridge for that particular road.

Our dinner conversation had been so unlike the lead up to my previous sexual encounters. The “little shit” had wooed me as a young woman. He showed his interest, I accepted his interest. You do more things together. You become two. You fool around in his car. You fool around when your parents are out. You fool around when his parents are out. You go on holiday together. It’s like a conveyor belt. You have to do something to get off. Then suddenly, twenty odd years later you’re getting divorced.

Another time, the loudest brashest sales guy from the biggest competitor gravitates towards you at a late night drinks reception. You’re holding court. He’s telling jokes and making innuendos. You’re returning the innuendos. The audience peels away and there’s just the two of you at the bar and he gives you the treatment. Jokes first and then whispered boasts. You go to your room and you get what you deserve...ten minutes of exertion, followed by drunken snoring, whilst you peel off your face.

Or your innocuous accountant comes over far too often to look at the figures. You sit together on the sofa, with a computer on your lap. He rests his head on your shoulder. He leans over and kisses you the way a nervous school kid would kiss his childhood sweetheart. You put the laptop down and lead him to your bedroom. Afterwards, he seems pleased with himself. You feel miserable. It was the act you craved but there was nothing pleasurable in the outcome.

This young fellow at dinner wasn’t looking at me. He’d given up looking for his next line. He was looking down and steering a last piece of pudding round his plate. “Oh my god”...I thought.

“Room Number 102”, I said. Delicately, I wiped an imaginary crumb from the side of my lips. I rose from the table and headed to my room.

It was ten minutes later, when the knock came on the door. I had removed and hung up my trouser suit. I’d used the old through-the-sleeve trick to remove my bra without removing my top and my breasts moved freely. My shoes were stored away. Lights had been dimmed. I shouldn’t have felt so turned on, so expectant, but I did. As I got to the door, I suddenly had a panic thought; maybe it was the hotel coming to ask me to sign for dinner, because my co-diner had skipped? But then I realised he had left his room number; I had not given room number to the waiter.

I opened the door. I decided against any faux slinkiness. He was standing there. He made a move towards me. This time, I did not dance or sidestep. I put my hand round the back of his head and drew him to me. Then it was lips and tongues, and doors shutting. And his hands were beneath my clothing exploring, stroking, weighing. He’d hardly contributed to the dinner conversation, yet his movements were firm and assured. For a moment my whole body was like jelly and I couldn’t tell if being passive was good or bad. Gracefully we started to glide into the room. It was like lovemaking in the movies. There were no interruptions. Everything was seamless. We were kissing by the bed. Then I was lying on the bed and he was kissing my inner thighs and my arms were above my head in surrender...

Everything before had been the act. This was the execution I wanted. I did things. He did things. I was smiling. He was smiling. I forgot who I was. I didn’t care who he was. I liked to control my life, but now I was sharing this moment. I was sharing a moment in my life with someone over whom earlier I had felt superior. But then his youth and his desire balanced out the equation.

I was on top of him, giving pleasure to him. He was giving pleasure to me. The word, sixty-nine was all I could think for a moment as his tongue first massaged my button and then invaded me. I sucked harder. Oh, I’d done all this before, sometimes enthusiastically. But I had not done this recently. A wave of pleasure engulfed me. He stopped for a moment and I clung on to his thighs. Then he started again slowly and methodically. He was exploring every inch of my flesh down there. His hands were holding my arse. I gave in totally to the moment. I didn’t care.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!.

Was it the best sex ever? Probably not, but it was pretty close. It was many things in the night. It was vigorous. Then it was tender. Then it was dark and erotic and at times novel and almost dangerous. The night didn’t revolve around one orgasm. The night revolved around pleasure. When he first came, I thought that was it, he would want to finish. He’d had his prize. But he wanted to continue. I was shocked that he was interested in me, in my body. I could see him smelling areas of me as he caressed and kissed and sucked. Then he was in me again. He was hard, but his actions were gentle. We rolled over. We took up all the positions I had ever done before. I glanced at the time. It was nearly one o’clock and I came again.

Then we were sleeping. Like a love struck teenager, I was holding him in my hand and he grew hard again.....he woke and smiled and pressed me into position. I was sore, but I didn’t want to stop him.

When I woke in the morning, light was streaming through the windows and bathing his body in sunshine. It wasn’t what we did. It was his interest in me. His interest in my body and what I wanted that made the night. But it was over now. He was just a naked man on a hotel bed. There was no future with him. I had a different future. I had a past. I had to join my past and my future together again.

He looked up. I was nearly dressed.

He glanced at the clock and then leapt out of bed, searching for clothes.

“Perhaps we can get together again”?

“Probably not”! I said.

It would have been stupid to have responded to the expectation. It had been a moment. It was transitory, like all the other good moments in my life. It had been a brilliant lovely, releasing moment. But it was not connected to the rest of my life.

He looked disappointed. He was now dressed and heading for the door. He came back to kiss me. But I moved my lips out of his way. It was a kiss on the cheek and then he was gone.

The night had been a pleasure island. But a pleasure island does not get visited regularly or it ceases to be a pleasure island. I wondered if I would share the story of the night with my friends. Perhaps I would mention that the guy we’d seen on the train had been in the same hotel. Perhaps in years to come, I would tell someone, but only provide a sketch, like a dress designer’s guide for the cutter. No. I thought, I’ll keep this to myself.

The room was quiet. I could hear the hotel stirring into action. I looked at myself in the mirror. For the first time in my life I had no opinion. The face that stared out at me was the face of a woman with a past, a present and a future. I decided to wear less make up.

CHAPTER THREE

SOMEWHERE ELSE

Yes, she was the first. After several unsuccessful attempts, I struck lucky. I’d said to her in the hotel reception that it was ‘fate’ or something. It was, but not in the way she took the meaning.

My project was off and running when I least expected. I’d gone to wine bars, where I had heard there were women who wanted fun. I’d stood next to a few. But they didn’t notice me. I’d opened conversations, but they’d been closed pretty quickly. I’d even been on two-hour train journeys trains before and started up conversations. I’d got a job that took me around the country. I had seen plenty of likely opportunities. But they never happened.

On the train, she’d had the most energy. It seemed to me then that her friends were extras in her life, walk on characters. They might have all qualified for my project, but it was obvious at the time which of them had the life force. However aside from the life within her, the best qualification was that she was staying in London. I’d heard her say the name of the hotel, so I cancelled my room in another hotel and booked into hers. I’d hoped to see her, but I hadn’t expected to run into her at check – in.

I’m not sure I had anything to do with it. I mean, I wasn’t in control. Thinking back now, I remember gathering my clothes together in her hotel room the morning after. The sex had been wonderful. There was no artifice. There was just pleasure. And then it was over. When dawn came a magic spell had been broken. She didn’t want to meet up again. She didn’t want a final kiss.

I had not controlled the situation. I had set up the circumstances. I had clumsily asked her to dinner. It was as if I had found a car to travel in but someone else was driving. Interestingly, I’m not sure she was driving either. We’d chatted over dinner. I was polite. I knew that people treated you better that way. The defining and deciding moment came when I made up the idea of writing a novel about a young man seducing women. It was a lie, but it cracked the project wide open. She talked a lot but when I said that, it was like I had cast exactly the right incantation. She seemed to be hypnotised. She gave me her room number and I thought to myself, she’s in a trance. I have the power!

And oh! How beautiful that night was. She was warm. She had soft flesh. She moved like a woman not a girl. She had a real woman’s body, with breasts and hips and hair and scents. At first she didn’t want me to see her body. But gradually, she revealed all. I plugged directly into her. There was a connection, but there were no words. I thought at the time, that I might need some words, but I didn’t know what they were.

Over the next few weeks, my thoughts kept returning to that night. That night concretised the project. Now it really was my project. I had proved it could be done. I was driven by the project. I knew what the next step in my life should be. Although, I wasn’t sure how to go about taking it. I tried to work out what had contributed to this first success. Opportunity? Risk reduction? Fate? It was nice to believe that the project was mine, but perhaps the project belonged to someone else, something else.

It took three months before I found number two.

CHAPTER FOUR

NUMBER TWO

Sitting in the morning sun

Waiting for the evening to come

Watching the ships roll in

And then watch’em roll away again

Sitting on the Dock of the Bay -Otis Redding

Whenever two couples start getting together as friends, there is always, always, always some sexual connection. A spark flickers between at least two of them. It may not be acted upon, but somewhere across the quartet someone wants someone, or someone fantasises about someone.

One day Paul said to me, I want you to meet Phil from work. He’s a nice bloke. What he meant to say was that he wanted to see Phil’s wife, Amber on a regular basis. We went out. We got on. Amber was lively. She made jokes. She was sarcastic and humorously critical about Phil and Paul and men in general. I laughed. I liked her. I liked Phil.

It went from one drink together, to going out together once a week, a restaurant, the local club, a movie. Before I knew it Amber was ringing me and we were arranging things. We became friends. I didn’t notice that Paul and I never went out together on our own. It seemed that we now needed both couples together to make our relationships work. We went on holiday together. They had teenage children, but we had none. I was giving my life to my home, my husband and my job, probably in that order. People thought Amber was beautiful. I thought Amber was beautiful. I looked at the four of us and saw a beautiful lively woman; a quiet man; a quiet woman and Paul, my husband joking all the time. But that was his way. He didn’t change. That was why it took so long to notice.

Paul and I made love most Friday nights. It was almost a ritual. The week was over, we relaxed. We drank a few glasses and watched the TV. It was normal. It was all I needed. We went to bed. He lay beside me. He put his arm over me. We faced each other. We kissed. It was comfortable. It was anticipated. I watched him bopping up and down. The headboard occasionally banged. Once the lamp fell off the bedside cabinet, he stopped and put it back and started again. Every time, after he had finished, he rolled off me, kissed me and we fell asleep. That is what it was like. It felt nice. It was nice.

On Saturday nights, we went out with Amber and Phil. We always drank too much came home and fell asleep. I think we once tried after a Saturday night but he couldn’t. I told him not to worry. He didn’t. We did it again the next Friday.

I don’t need sex. I need love. And Paul provides me with love. Comfort love. Love of convenience. Love based on repetition. We never fall out. We never argue. He is always pleasant. I read in a magazine that love should be passionate. Why? Love is what you want it to be. I wanted this comfortable life. Paul wanted Amber.

I realised this when I saw him looking at her one night. Phil saw it too and looked at me. I could see that Phil knew too. Were they doing anything when we weren’t there? I don’t know. Does it matter if nothing was happening? Was it innocent? What is innocence? Innocent until proven guilty they say. But do they mean innocent until you act? Innocent until you are caught?

That night I challenged him. “Don’t be silly” he said. “You’re imagining it”. He didn’t protest that much. However I know that a light extinguished within me. A sharp breath of disappointment, a flicker and then the flame went out. I carried on as before, work, housework, Friday night, Saturday night. Nothing changed outside. But I had changed inside. Phil seemed not to care and I never caught his conspiratorial eye again.

One day I had to leave work early. It was a warm day. I walked from work to the dentists. In the waiting room, they had a big mirror. I looked into the mirror and didn’t recognise myself. For a second, I was shocked and stunned. Then I realised. I could see myself as a young girl, underneath the face that had puffed out; the hair that wasn’t as shiny; the waistline that was bigger; the clothes that didn’t flatter; the breasts lower than I remembered. An old man in the corner of the waiting room smiled kindly at me. A woman with two kids ignored me. The receptionist prattled on the phone.

I had my check up and left the surgery. I walked across the road. I heard screeching tyres, a scream. I saw a woman across the road holding her hands to her face. A car bumper touched my leg, gently at the end of a skid. I realised that a horn had been sounding. People were rushing over to me. The driver was a young man. He got out of his car. He was shaking. His face was white and he looked very concerned. A male voice from another car shouted, “You should watch where you’re fucking going, you stupid cow...”

A woman was asking me if I was alright. I was trembling. I slumped to the floor. The young driver squatted near me. He had friendly brown eyes. He put his suit jacket over my shoulders and guided me to a low wall. People milled around, but slowly departed. I think a police officer came over or a traffic warden or something, but then they went. The driver stayed. He was sitting next to me on the wall. “Can I give you a lift?” I nodded. We got into his car. “Where to?” he asked. I shrugged. “Let’s go somewhere warm,” He said.

The world outside was a blur. Inside the car it was safe. He didn’t say anything. Then I realised we were in a pub. He sat opposite me and he pushed a brandy towards me. I sipped and the warmth flowed into me. I smiled at him.

“Are you OK? “ He was watching me intently. I smiled again at him and nodded.

“I should be going…my husband...”

“Take your time, I’m in no hurry.” He said. His voice was soft and comforting.

“Do you want to phone him?”

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

I shook my head.

CHAPTER FIVE

A VIEW FROM A DISTANCE

She had a very pretty face. I saw her as I was driving down the road and because I had noticed her first as she was walking along the pavement. I was able to stop in time. Just in time.

I didn’t realise that she might be number two until we were in the pub. Then I worried whether it was appropriate. Of course I was concerned. I had nearly killed her. But she seemed not to care. She didn’t want to phone her husband. She didn’t want to phone anyone. The brandy warmed her. Slowly she came back into the world. She seemed surprised to be in a pub sitting opposite a stranger. But not so surprised that she wanted to leave.

We went back to my car.

“It’s a nice car”, she said and pulled my jacket round her again for warmth, even though it was a warm outside and inside the car. We drove onto a long undistinguished road of semi-detached houses. I live at 1021 she said. I counted from 997. As we approached her house, she said “Drive on...please...don’t stop”...I drove past. There was no one in the garden, no car in the drive, no one watching from the window.

We kept driving and I was unsure what to do. She started telling me a story. Her story, her relationship with people called Amber and Paul and Phil.

“And I don’t think anything is going on, but something is going on! But where does that leave me? She said vacantly.

After a quarter of an hour, I stopped the car. Without either of us speaking, she got out and followed me to the door, up the stairs, and into my flat on the first floor. She was standing in the middle of the room. She handed me my jacket. I went into the kitchen to make a drink.

“What am I?” She said. It was a rhetorical question.

“I’m 43. I have no children. I’ve lost my looks, my figure, my purpose, I’ve lost my husband and now I’m lost!” She spoke without conviction without drama, as if she was recounting matters of fact. “When I look in the mirror, I see a shell of a person. Actually I didn’t lose myself. I just got smaller and smaller until one day I just disappeared”.

“What do I do now?” She asked me directly, not rhetorically.

I came to stand behind her and we looked into the mirror together.

“But you are beautiful!”

“I’ve got two chins when I do this” She moved her head to look down,

“You’re hair is lovely!”

“It used to be long and shiny.”

“You smell gorgeous!”

“It’s just a perfume. I can’t remember what it’s called”.

“You have a woman’s body.”

“It’s not my body. My body’s somewhere deep inside.”

I turned her round to face me. She moved as if she were a dressmaker’s figurine.

“Your body is beautifully in proportion.”

“Who would find me attractive?”

“I do!”

I put my hands on her arms above her elbows and looked intently into her face.

She wasn’t looking at me, but somewhere deep within her, behind her eyes, which at first appeared lifeless, I thought I saw a flicker.

She was wearing a soft light woollen cardigan over a shapeless, unflattering pink blouse. I wanted to see what she was hiding.

I kissed her. There was very little response in her lips, but her eyes were definitely brighter when I pulled away.

“Do you want me?” She said.

“Oh yes!” I said enthusiastically.

Was it an invitation? Was it right after what had happened earlier?

I kissed her again. Her lips were warmer and wetter than before. There was a response. She put her arms on my chest. Did she want to push me away or to pull me closer?

I pressed my tongue against her lips and they parted slightly. I pressed myself against her. She seemed surprised to feel me. She put her arms around my neck and kissed me deeply. Her tongue entered my mouth, nervously at first and then more confidently.

Her head moved to the side to get more leverage. Her tongue was making all the moves. I pulled away. For a second she looked disappointed. I looked in her eyes and held her gaze whilst I found the hook and the zip at the side of her skirt. The skirt slid down. She stepped out of it. She was wearing tights. It was ungainly, but I rolled them down her legs. She put her hand on my shoulder to help her balance. I smelt soap as I stood up again. I began to unbutton her blouse and eased it and the cardigan off her shoulders. She put her arms across her chest. The bra did not match the knickers. The bra had been washed too many times. The knickers were new.

Her body looked fantastic to me. It was made more so, because it had all been hidden, all been disguised. She was curvaceous, with rounded lines and bumps. She was real. She just didn’t know it.

Rather idiotically, I kissed her feet. I don’t know what made me do it. She laughed. There was laughter in her eyes. I began to lick up her legs, up her thighs, pushed my tongue into the crux of her knickers. She shuddered. She had removed her bra. I knelt and kissed her breasts. She rang her fingers through my hair.

We spent a long time exploring. She was warm. She was comforting. I was between her legs. We were lying on our sides naked. Her legs wrapped round me. I thrust my hips in time to a gentle rhythm. The rhythm developed and varied pace only occasionally. I thought it was the right thing to do, the right way to do it. It felt right. It felt great. She didn’t want vigour. Not after the incident in the road. Not after her life up until this point.

CHAPTER SIX

GUILT?

He drove me home. It was dark. I had kissed him in his flat, before we left. But I didn’t kiss him in the car. He waited outside the house in his car. Paul had been watching from the window. He opened the front door. On the doorstep, I explained about the dentists and the car crash and how the young man had stayed with me and took me to a pub and bought me a drink and then brought me home. I left out the other bit.

Paul was worried. Then he looked at me. Then he looked at the car. We could only see a shape sitting at the wheel. Paul waved. The shape lifted a hand off the wheel and responded. Then he drove off. Paul fussed around me. It was gone 10 o’clock. I was strangely calm.

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know”

“You’ve been with him for over five hours and you didn’t ask his name?”

“Where’s he from?”

I shrugged.

I told him all about myself and he didn’t say anything about his life.

“Which pub did you go to”?

“One near the dentists”

“Why didn’t you ring?”

“No charge in my phone”

“I was worried sick,” He said. I rang Phil and Amber. Amber wasn’t home, but Phil went out looking for you. I’d better ring them. Let them know you’re safe.”

“There’s no answer. I’ll ring Phil’s mobile.

Phil? It’s Paul. She’s back. She’s been in an accident, but she’s all right. More shook up than anything else. No I haven’t heard from Amber. Couldn’t get hold of her. Don’t have her mobile.” OK. I’ll ring tomorrow. Bye!”

“Phil says he’s glad you’re alright. Have you got Amber’s mobile?”

“I think it’s in my phone”

“Oh! It doesn’t matter”.

He carried on. He made me a drink. He asked questions.

He didn’t seem suspicious, just concerned. He didn’t check if my phone had any battery. He didn’t seem to want Amber’s number.

A wave of guilt came over me. But I felt great.

“I need to take a bath,” I said.

“I’ll run you one”

Whilst he was upstairs I gazed around the living room. All the lights were on. Everything was in order. It was me that had been out of sequence. I was now strangely happy. I had a warm feeling between my thighs. My breasts were bursting. My cheeks were glowing. I wanted to look in a mirror, but we don’t have one. I’ll buy one tomorrow I thought. The curtains were open and I saw a woman in reflection of the window. It was me. I smiled and although I couldn’t see my face clearly, my whole body seemed to be smiling and singing.

Paul came downstairs.

“You look different! The shock I expect!”

“Paul! Hold me!”

He put his familiar arms around me. I lay my head in his neck.

“It’s OK!” He said. “You’ll forget about it after a good night’s sleep!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

WHERE TO LOCATE NUMBER THREE?

Where would I find number three? The first two had appeared when I stopped trying. I just had to wait. I was masturbating every night, sometimes twice a night.

Weeks went by. Nothing.

I got a promotion, a new car and a pay rise. I was having good luck. Work was what I did when I didn’t think about my project. Sometimes, I thought about my project when I was working. But I was doing well. I had to travel. That’s why they gave me a car. I looked for number three amongst my clients. But where my clients were women, they didn’t seem right. Often they were too young. Occasionally a receptionist in a company that I visited would look like she might fit the bill, looked like she matched my criteria. We would talk. I would try to engineer an opportunity. But she would remain a receptionist and did not become number three. She stayed firmly behind the desk. She stayed firmly in her role and out of my project. Friendly but not interested. I analysed the first two times but couldn’t see a pattern. I couldn’t get a clue.

I was invited by my boss to a special occasion. It was the company’s twentieth anniversary next month. He said I could bring a partner. I said there was no-one special. I think he thought I was gay.

In the office, I heard two guys in despatch talking. “You want to get some action, go and take a course. Hundreds of women, desperate, all hoping for some extra-curricular activity”

“Yeah, but what kind of courses do you go for? Do you go for the female-type classes, like pottery or something?”

“Good question. Dunno the answer”

I dropped into the college on the way home and picked up a leaflet. 101 classes, the leaflet announced. I read the front and back several times and couldn’t make up my mind. I looked out of the window of my flat and couldn’t make up my mind. It was seven o’clock on a Tuesday night. I drove back to the college.

The front of the college was new, but all the buildings were old. I parked and went into the reception area, still undecided. A girl I knew from one of my old jobs saw me and said Hello! Her boyfriend scowled. But I don’t think it was anything personal.

A slight thin woman with long grey hair tied in a ponytail rushed up to the reception desk.

“The life class model hasn’t shown up again. Have you got any more numbers in the book?”

The receptionist picked a notebook off a shelf and thumbed through the worn pages.

“Frank?” She inquired.

“I think he’s busy on Tuesdays”

“There’s a number here for a Stella who wanted to try, but she’s never usually in”.

“Well let’s try her anyway”

“Errr excuse me” I said. “I don’t mind modelling”.

“We’ll need you naked” said the art teacher. “Have you done it before?”

“Been naked? Yes, lots of times” She was unimpressed.

“Its £32 for the two hours and some of them will giggle.”

“OK” I said. “Where do I go?”

She showed me to an office that doubled as a changing room off the main studio. “Strip off and put on the robe and then come out. Please hurry if you don’t mind, we’re running late.”

I entered the studio. About ten or twelve easels in a semi circle all directed towards three plywood boxes, with sheets over them.

“Slip off your robe and sit however you feel comfortable”, she said. “You can sit on your robe if you like.”

Then she announced to the group. “We have a new model tonight, a virgin first-timer, so treat him gently. Melanie, will you switch on the lights and draw the curtains over the door and the main windows?”

The “artists” were a mixed group. Two well dressed middle-aged men looking very serious. There were two girls in their late teens giggling, whilst preparing their easels and arranging their pencils. One old lady, in her seventies, I guessed. Throughout the session, she constantly asked the lecturer for advice. There was an old man next to her, possibly her husband? He left his little hat on all evening. There was Melanie, a big lady within my target age range, wearing an earth-mother kaftan, with permed hair in ringlets. She smiled at me as she walked back to her easel. There was a well-dressed woman on her own, a loner it seemed, separate from the rest. One or two of the easels had no artists behind them and then there was the grey haired pony tailed lecturer.

“I’m Jenny” she said. “We’ll work until 8.45; rest for fifteen minutes and then continue until 10. Try not to move too much...but we’re not the Gestapo, if you get cramp just tell us”.

“Right, now everybody, as before, get some idea of form and then concentrate on making the feet work! The body’s weight may not be on the feet whilst sitting, but the feet are the fundament. Get the feet right and the rest will follow. You know you don’t have to worry about mistakes, just keep working the shape”

“Kelly! Try to fill the entire paper with form. He’s a good looking young man so let’s see you make him bigger”. The two girls burst out laughing!

Jenny ignored them and walked over to the old lady.

I am not sure if Kelly and her friend actually drew anything. They sucked on the end of their pencils, first innocently and then mock-suggestively looking directly at me.
“Can you get him to move his hands Jenny?” they said mischievously.

“He’s fine as he is girls!”

Jenny looked at me and raised her eyes to heaven in despair. She mouthed an apology at me.

“How are you doing Mel? Jenny wandered over and considered Melanie’s work.

I watched the well-dressed loner. I could not gauge her age. I wasn’t very good at that. My criteria were all a little vague. Melanie would fit. The loner would fit. I was attracted to the loner. Whenever I could, I caught her eye and smiled. She smiled back once, but I sensed it was out of politeness. She was, I thought, the reason why I was attracted to real women, to women of a certain age. She was the kind of woman I was hoping to sleep with when I started to undertake this project, this quest. But I wasn’t getting anywhere.

I looked over at Mel. There was something. Every time I smiled at her, she responded warmly, although with a little shyness. But it was not coquettish shyness. It was doubting shyness. I had recognised that there were different kinds of weight issues. Sometimes, a woman was more rounded than a girl because that was the way the body grew with their life. Some women fought it and remained nearly the same shape as teenagers. They were not in my criteria. They did not arouse me. Some women like the loner filled out beautifully. Everything was as a woman should be; breasts; hips; curves; warmth; thighs. Their faces were faces of experience. Childbirth, child rearing, sometimes struggle, sometimes victory, often their faces displayed disappointment. Later, I would learn to look at hands. Melanie was bigger all round, yet still all-woman in shape, but she did not seem to have my ideal woman attitude.

Jenny broke my reverie “Right, let’s take a 15 minute break to go and get teas and coffees and what-you-will from the refectory. I know we usually take 30, but we were late starting.” She turned to me. “Put the robe back on. You get a free tea or coffee as well. I’ll make us both one. Go into the office, I’ve just got to make a phone call”

“Coffee, please black, no sugar.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

NUMBER THREE

When you're strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you're strange
No one remembers your name
When you're strange

The Doors – When you’re strange

I remember clearly we were running late. I had left John on his own as usual when I take lectures. The model failed to show. As usual, I had to break stupid college rules and just take what was there, no pre-screening. The Principal said we should make do with still life when a model failed to show. But this would have been the third week in a row. I’d even phoned the day before to confirm.

He had good posture. He was young. He was willing and polite and he didn’t seem fazed. I would have liked to sketch him, but I had a rule that this was the students’ time.

I made him a coffee and phoned John to make sure he was all right. Then I phoned Malcolm to tell him I couldn’t make it. We were running late so I’d lost half an hour and we wouldn’t have time to get even a quick shag in. I had to be home for John by 11. I needed some relief as well. Desire was racing round my ‘yoni’. I wanted something to quell the spirit. Tonight the spirit was very strong. I’d have to get my rabbit out, once I’d got John to bed. Thank god for the rabbit and its battery-powered relief. I could feel my ache. I tried not to think about it. I thought of Kelly and Emma and their young bodies desired by everyone. I envied them. But I pitied them because they wasted their libidinous energy on giggling and boys who did not understand a woman’s needs. They would learn.

We went back to class and I helped Amelia and Charles. They both had a good eye for form and I liked their work. Kelly and Emma I tried not to ignore, but at least twice I saw one of them giving fellatio to their pencil and aiming it at the model. Mischief or desire? Who cares? I noted earlier that he was unmoved. Not like Frank, who got a little erection every time even though they weren’t interested. I don’t think they realised. God forbid, I’d be wiping semen off the ceiling if they’d noticed and tried to embarrass him. Actually, they probably did notice and were scared. And you see he passed the CRB check that the Principal was so keen on!

Bless poor Melanie, pitiful understanding of line and of composition, of shape and of form. No understanding whatsoever of mass. I can’t think why she came to life classes. She was taking no other art classes. I think she did intermediate French on Thursdays.

The two boys as ever produced good work. Solid concentrated achievements. They were getting better with every class and their work that night indicated that they seemed to relish this model.

And then there was Mrs P-W. As usual, I barely got one word out of her from start to finish. I have no idea why she refuses to use first names. Good composition as usual, but she lost the shape around the hands and the genitalia. I helped her get the penis in some sort of order. She nodded but said nothing.

I called time at ten to and gave them a quick ten minutes assessment of work while the model stayed, so that we could evaluate their work against the reality.

They all left quickly and very kindly the model, I think his name began was Chris, put on the robe and then helped me tidy. We walked back to my office. I felt my spirit returning waiting to be quenched. I shut the office door behind me and said. “By that clock it’s 10:01. The caretaker locks this room at 10.45”

His robe was open and I saw his lingam twitch with interest. My spirit overflowed. I took one step towards him and said, “We have 44 minutes!” He asked no questions, but his spirit rose physically to match the emotional spirit within me. I removed by underwear and draped it on his swelling muscle. He sat down on my chair and I straddled him. I worked, squeezing and releasing my muscles. He was looking at my face. The surprise took a few minutes to disappear.

I closed my eyes and I tried the visualisation technique with which Malcolm and I had been working. I was spinning the red circle in my mind to correspond with the rhythm of our movements, then changing the colours through the spectrum all the way back to red, and then burning white hot. As usual I tried to make the sphere explode at exactly the right moment. Faster and faster, I pounded down and he thrust upwards. As Malcolm said, it was the hunter trying to spear the Eternal Goddess. Malcolm’s Viagra helped. This boy needed no pharmaceuticals. I flowed like lava over him and clung through my release. Beautiful involuntary muscular contractions. My heartbeat fast pumping blood around me. I tried to feel and visualise every inch of my flesh. Blood was flowing through my cheeks. I was in elevation and in elation. I saw and felt the white heat of the sphere explode against my cervix. He’d come hard. I was out of breath but satisfied. It was 10:21 by the digital office clock. I rested and he remained deep within me. And then the magic spell was broken. Gingerly I lifted myself off the Spear of Destiny. It was good to see energy still left in the phallus. Not as big as John’s used to be or Malcolm’s was on good days.

“Thank you” he said.

“You’re welcome”. I felt I should have said more. It would have been ridiculous to explain everything to him and then on top of everything else the janitor was never late.

“If the reception is still attended then leave your details with them. They have to pay directly into your bank. If no one is there you’ll have to call back. Please put your name on the register if you want to sit again.”

He seemed confused.

I was calm and official. I recognised the disparity between my current demeanour and my previous desire, but that was for him to work out. “No guilt” Malcolm would say. ”Without guilt, no explanation was needed”.

CHAPTER NINE

CONFUSED

She let me out and I watched her as through the studio door now that the curtain was again pulled back. I had no idea how old she was. Was she in her forties or her fifties, or maybe even older? All her features were pointed. I thought her face looked po-shaped, but I didn’t really know what that meant. Maybe I’d heard the expression po-faced and it seemed to fit. Her skin was tight over her face but around her features there were lines of experience. Her cheeks were now flushed. She had low-slung little breasts dangling loose under a linen shirt. The shapes of her nipples were visible. What a strange woman. I wasn’t even sure she should count towards the project.... but then she qualified on every point I could envisage and probably one or two that I couldn’t.

Well three down, seven to go and I don’t think I’d seduced any so far. In fact if I was honest with myself every time I tried to seduce I failed. Opportunities arose and because I was on the lookout, I succeeded. The project was coming together without any effort on my part. I ought to put up a white board in my room, or keep a notebook.

She clearly had a partner. So far I had succeeded with two women who had “significant others”. Was this immoral? And what about the two possibilities in the life class, Melanie and the quiet one? I looked around outside the college reception, after I gave in my details, to see if either of them were still there. I didn’t put my name on the “register” of life models, although I was asked. Students were drifting away. It was the end of dusk the beginning of the night, on the far side of the car park; there was a new Mercedes with its lights on and a woman at the wheel. It looked like she was talking on the phone. From the distance, I thought it might be the Quiet one. I stood looking directly at her to see if I could be sure. I don’t know if she saw me, but the car started moving and drove out of the car park getting closer to me on the way to the exit. I was certain it was her. I waved a kind of acknowledgement, but either she didn’t see me or she ignored me.

This question of my role in the project was bugging me. I had expected to be the instigator, to direct the action from the start. But nothing could be further from the truth. The first one I had bumbled my way in, the second one I’d nearly killed and the third one.... well I had no idea what the third one was all about.

Every connection up to this point appeared to be part of someone else’s plan, I felt that I had to be more involved in the selection. So I tried. I was slapped in the face in a wine bar. A woman in a cafe asked me very loudly and pointedly to leave her alone, although I had only tried to open conversation with her and not really said anything inflammatory. I was ignored so many times I could easily have developed a complex, if I hadn’t had three successes.

There appeared to be no defining element common to each, which made it very difficult to look for opportunities. I found a few like the first one in wine bars and in restaurants when I was away for work. But there was no glimmer of a chance. I couldn’t see how I might find more women to almost run over, so that was out. And as I said, as for number three ...a complete mystery! I was about to give up trying when I met what turned out to be number four.

I had been going to a coffee bar near to my flat for a cup of tea, most weekends. I had no friends to meet with but I liked to stay in there for an hour on Saturdays. It felt like I had company. I went at different times of the weekend. Sometimes Sundays, mostly Saturdays, at the beginning or end of the day when it was less busy. The waitresses got to know me and most of the young ones smiled whenever they served me. There was one who was older than the other waitresses, although she was clearly not the manageress. She didn’t respond to me and I noticed that she didn’t respond to anyone. She was always busy, like a little dormouse. It was the end of the day one Saturday. There were a few shoppers running past the window, but I was the only one in the cafe. There were three people working, the manageress, a young girl and the “Mouse”, the timid little one. I was reading a newspaper, trying to look clever with a broadsheet rather than a tabloid.

The article I was pretending to read was about the Middle East. Politicians and insurrectionists with unfathomable causes were meeting to stake their claims to land that everyone wanted although there was nothing of value there. I spotted that the young girl was going home. The manageress was handing keys to the “Mouse”. The manageress then ran outside to kiss a big fellow who was clearly a bodybuilder. Just the two of us left. She came over to my table, wiping surfaces and removing debris. She looked tired. Her eyes were tired, her shoulders were tired. She’d had a tiring life. Her hands were red and sore. No wedding ring. I tried to picture her as a younger woman, whose spirit was not broken. I couldn’t really see it.

“Are you nearly finished?” she asked.

“What time do you close?”

“It’s OK you have another ten minutes”

“Have you had a busy day?”

“Oh! the usual.” She continued wiping tables. She stopped for a split second, as if surprised then carried on.

I couldn’t leave my project to chance. I had to try and take the initiative.

“I suppose you’re looking forward to getting home and relaxing?”

“Yes, I suppose.” Her wiping was slowing down now and she looked at me from about two tables away.

“Watching the tele or are you going out?

“I’m sorry? She said now stopping wiping altogether.

“Are you going out tonight or are you staying in?”

She stood up straight. Previously her shoulders sloped over, now she straightened. Her body was facing directly at me. It seemed like her body was accusing me of something, although the tone of her voice was not.

“I don’t go out” She said.

“Why not?” I put down the paper, so that she could see I was concentrating on her response.

“No-one to go out with” She paused. “Kids have gone to their dad’s and I’m on my own”. It was not a plea for sympathy. It was a statement of fact.

“Where would you go, if you could?”

She didn’t seem to understand the question.

“I don’t know, I don’t think about it. Every Saturday’s the same. Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Perhaps, I could take you out?

“Piss off” and she started back wiping.

“Seriously, I’m at a loose end. I don’t know anyone. It would be nice to have some company.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“I think so!”

“I could be your mother?”

“Could you?”

She looked at me intently. I made no sense to her whatsoever.

“Has Joanne put you up to this?

“Who’s Joanne?”

“I’m busy”. She immediately finished cleaning and headed back to the coffee counter.

I took my tray back to the counter. She was rattled and she rattled the cups and saucers.

“I am deadly serious, we could go to a movie, or a meal or a drink, or anything. Whatever you want.”

Deeply suspicious, she stopped rattling crockery.

She was totally confused.

I can pick you up at your house, or we can meet somewhere.

“I’ll meet you outside the library at eight” I said. “I’m Christian”

“Liz”.

-To be continued-