Scotch Mist

The young stag approached the hind from the rear and paused three yards behind her. James couldn't know but It was the stag's first rutting season and he was still unsure how to proceed. The hind took a couple of unconcerned steps away. The stag hesitated but then leaped forward and was on her. The deer were two hundred yards away, and the drizzle from the leaden Highland sky made it hard to see exactly what was going on. He thought the hind looked bored, and the stag when mounted reminded him of the kangaroos he'd seen in Brisbane that summer. The stag stopped thrusting but stayed mounted and nuzzled the hind's neck. No, he thought, it was more than a nuzzle. It was clearly a bite and the hind flinched. The stag dismounted and they wandered off in different directions. He lost sight of them in the heather.

 

James turned from the window and in three steps he was at the foot of the bed. It was an expensive hotel and he didn't quite understand why, though he liked the fluffy white bath robes. Liz had just showered and was wearing one of the robes as she lay on her stomach reading the hotel magazine. He watched as she reached out to switch on the bedside light.

 

"Jeez James, Scotland's gloomy."

 

"It's February Liz, I should have brought you in summer."

 

Silence. He leaned forward and parted her legs, then knelt between them.

 

"Frisky?"

 

"Just thinking."

 

"Whaddyer thinking?"

 

"Just thinking."

 

Actually he was thinking several things. He was thinking how her raven-black hair, still damp, contrasted with the virgin snow of the robe. He was thinking how he loved the smell of her skin, fresh with the scent of the hand-made lavender soap they'd bought in London. They'd had a good time in London. He was thinking how later she would take the bottle of vol de nuit from the dressing table and spray a mist, then walk through it, then go down to dinner and charm the hotel staff with her wit and beauty and Texan accent. She'd been born on a farm in Pennsylvania and still had the common touch. All the waiters loved her for it.

 

Accents. She could only understand twenty per cent of anything any Scot ever said to her. 

 

Vol de Nuit. Night flight. Like the flight that had brought her to him. 

 

But there was another thought, one he couldn't put into words, one he couldn't express. Ironic. For a writer.

 

Still kneeling, still clothed, he leaned forward and lifted the hem of the robe to expose her buttocks. He placed a hand on each cheek, almost as if he was trying to communicate, to transmit the thoughts he couldn't express in words through his fingertips. 

 

"Are you sure you're not frisky?"

 

"Still thinking. And it's horny in Scotland."

 

"Well if you won't tell me what you're thinking I can't help you."

 

She read for a few seconds more then appeared to make up her mind. She flung the magazine aside and pulled herself up to kneel facing him on the bed, trying to read his eyes.

 

"What's wrong James?" She'd never known him like this before and her face couldn't disguise her concern.

 

"I don't know, I'm trying to work it out."

 

It had started the night before. In an Edinburgh hotel. From their room they had a perfect view of the castle atop the mound, lights twinkling in the darkness. They'd made love with the curtains open and the window slightly ajar to the late night bustle of Princes Street. It was perfect. Too perfect. 

 

Liz jumped off the bed and went to the mini-bar. She took out three miniature single malts. She poured two for him and one for her.

 

"Want ice?"

 

"Just a little, don't drown it."

 

She lay on the bed with the two drinks. 

 

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on?"

 

He lay next to her and took his tumbler, avoiding her eyes. He hesitated.

 

"Liz. We have to part."

 

"What! What the hell are you talking about asshole? Fuck! Have you been drinking?"

 

"Liz, I love you too much."

 

"OK, you have been drinking. When did you slip those in? I never saw you. Was it when you went down to get the luggage from the car? Boy, that was fast work."

 

"Liz, I swear this is the first drink I've had today." He looked deep into his whisky glass. The jagged masculinity of the fresh ice had thawed to feminine softness.

 

"James, you really can be a complete prick at times. What's this about?"

 

He looked her in the eyes for the first time.

 

"Do you remember when you had young children?"

 

"Of course."

 

"Did you used to look at them when they were sleeping, or crawling, or taking their first steps? And did you feel a completely over-powering, all consuming, heart-crushing love? And did you think that if anything happened to them it would be way and utterly beyond unbearable? So unbearable there could never be any solace again. So unbearable that even your own death wouldn't make it go away? I'm not making much sense am I?" 

 

"You're making perfect sense, but I've no idea where you're going."

 

"Don't you see? Liz, that's why we have to part. That's how I feel about you, and how I'd feel if I lost you. I can't do it again. I'm not strong enough. I've been through it twice, I can't do it again. I can't."

 

Liz took a sip from her whisky. 

 

"But nothing's going to happen to me..."

 

"But what if it does!"

 

He stood up and went to the window, looking but not seeing the melancholy rain.

 

"James, I love you and we'll be together till we die."

 

"But that's it Liz! That's exactly it. We will die! One day one of us will die! And the one left will have to go through all that shit!"

 

They stayed in silence for a while, James with his head down, Liz pondering. She thought she knew how to snap him out of it. It had worked before.

 

"James, finish that drink, pour another double then come and fuck me. Or make love to me, it's up to you. Then we'll go to dinner and get wasted."

 

James looked up at Liz then sat on the bed by where she lay.

 

"I love you Liz."

 

He began to untie the belt of her robe.