Read by Sophie Cartman
The two couples, not often, but three or four times a year, would get together for a meal in a small restaurant or bistro café near the city centre. At that time of the early evening when the office workers have departed in their cars, or on their trains and buses, and the late night diners have not yet arrived, they would meet at whatever car-park was nearest. Traffic would ignore them, going in the opposite direction, eager for, or resigned to home. Buses lit up like chandeliers would pass them by. Pedestrians wrapped up in their thoughts against the chill would walk on. The scent of late flowers, overhanging the pavements and brushed against, wafted on the evening air.
The car-park would be empty, and quiet, and grey, for they were too busy with their lives to meet during the summer months. The men would shake hands. The women would hug and kiss. Then they would swap partners, and the men would hug and kiss the women, and the women would hug and kiss the men. They could feel the vibration of distant motors through their shoes.
She always hugged more tightly than he thought she would. Even though he had learned to expect it, he was taken by surprise, and he was always conscious of the feel of her bra strap across her back; and he always hugged more tightly than he thought she would expect. He would go in to kiss the air beside her cheek, but she would kiss his cheek, a brief wet warmth on his skin.
They would sit at small tables: boy, girl, boy, girl; opposite their own partner.
Over the meal they would catch up with each other’s news. The women would show holiday photographs on their phones. They would pass them around the table and as they did so her fingertips would touch his, and he would press his fingertips against hers, maintaining the contact while they both looked at whatever photograph was on the small screen. But they never looked, or even glanced at each other’s faces, into each other’s eyes.
As the drink flowed they would become noisier, chattering away, across each other, over each other, across the table, over the heaped plates of food, couple to couple, changing partners as they talked. The two men would discuss work. The women would discuss children. The women would discuss work. The men would discuss children. They would all discuss holidays they had taken; projects they were involved with; plans they were making. They were such different couples. Perhaps that was why they enjoyed each other’s company so much.
He knew there was not much love lost between them, the other couple. It did not leak out into the evening air. It did not waft on the evening air like the scent of flowers brushed against on the pavement. It did not pulse on the evening air like the vibration of distant motors. She seemed to him like a motor not yet running. She seemed to him like a flower not brushed against. She seemed to be full of untapped love. He thought she was waiting.
He imagined a dam-burst of love breaking from her. He wanted to undress her, gently, as if to leave undisturbed for as long as possible the rupturing of some membrane, a meniscus, holding back that torrent of love. He liked to believe that she wanted that. He liked to believe that that was what she was waiting for. She would let him be tender, unhurried. She would enable that, by her passivity, he thought.
That particular night had been different. He had not drunk after all. They had chosen a Muslim restaurant, which was unlicensed. The food had been wonderful, and they had drunk water flavoured with lemon and elderflowers. It had surprised them, how easy it was to do without the alcohol. The food, so rich and varied, so colourful, so tasty, had excited them as much as the drink would have done. Besides, they knew each other so well already. It wasn’t as if there was any ice between them that needed breaking. There were no awkward silences. They had all the pent up news of the summer to relate to one another. Seeing their reflection in the mirrored walls you would not have noticed any difference, save for the jugs of water on the table instead of empty wine bottles. They were heady with all the food they had eaten.
It was dark when they returned. Tall lamps threw their shadows to the tarmac and their cars blinked orange eyes in the darkness. Their own eyes glittered with enjoyment. They hugged and kissed on the car-park, a re-run of their greeting rituals. He could feel her breasts pressing against his chest. He tried to kiss her cheek, but their faces met clumsily, mouth to mouth, in the darkness. Their mouths were hungry, as if they had not eaten.
(c) Brindley Hallam Dennis, 2020
Brindley Hallam Dennis writes short stories, many of which have been published, performed, and prize-winning. He lives on the edge of England and blogs at www.Bhdandme.wordpress.com. Writing as Mike Smith he has published poetry, plays and essays, mostly on the short story form.
A Rose Bruford College graduate, Sophie Cartman studied American Theatre Arts. Theatre includes appearances at Soho, ADC, Arcola, The Crucible at Buxton Opera House and The Secret Life of Sissy Tancock at Hackney Empire. TV/Film/Radio credits: Monster 1983, Evil Never Dies, Suspicion on Discovery ID, A Tokyo Drama (BBC Radio 4) and Twirlywoos on CBeebies.
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