‘The Tower of London is a great thing to see every day,’ I comment. He nods. Affable but dazed the way men are after acrobatic sex that ends in rare mutual orgasms. ‘It reminds us of our mortality. We’re up here, feeling big but really we’re quite small.’ The trains run below me to and fro; determined, relentless. All of this – the bee-like tourists, the ancient palace, Southern Rail, give me permission somehow to risk everything. To throw my lot in with this man. To dare to see where it goes. Because those things go on regardless of the decisions I make. I am small and want to be bigger.
He gets out of bed, makes me a coffee, not bothering to dress. I can’t take my eyes off his smooth buttocks, his relaxed cock. He hands me a double espresso, no sugar. ‘I guessed you would take your coffee strong and black.’ Normally I drink sweetened cappuccinos. I took my coffee strong and black when I was a student. His barista skills have somehow stripped me back to that hopeful, experimental, promising person that I once was. I drink the coffee; tell him I have to go. Leave before he asks me to.
I travel back to the office, via tube. He stays between my thighs, wet and full. Long after I’m sat behind my desk, I feel him.
I do not imagine it will last any length of time. This thing we have. Whatever it is. His youth, looks, wealth will guarantee as much. Every time I am with him, I think it is the last and value it all the more for that. However, I find that we are together even when we are apart, the presence of him stays in my head, on my hips and tits, between my legs. Throbbing, pulsing, like life. Until the next time.
I’ve given him my telephone number and so now we speak often and message constantly. I lose hours typing flirty messages in WhatsApp. I practically orgasm when I see the word ‘typing…’ and I know he is across the channel but also right next to me. We only see each other once a month as he still lives and works in Amsterdam. He’s busy, inaccessible, important, impressive. I am very certain I am his London booty call. Nothing more. I imagine there are other women in other cities. Maybe one woman in particular. Sometimes, I even wonder if he is married. It is possible. I don’t ask. I tell myself I can’t be jealous. Such a destructive, hopeless, pointless emotion.
Yet, I am jealous. Eaten up with it.
I find myself googling him in the dead of night. Sifting through his social media accounts. Then – when my eyes are sore and tight with staring at every pixel, reading every comment, reading into every exclamation mark – I look at the accounts of his friends and family, hoping to see his familiar, suave, blond image on their pages. I do not request Friend status, I do not heart any of his posts. I remain invisible, untraceable. There are photos of him with other women. His arm slung casually around tanned shoulders, slim waists. It is impossible to tell if these women are lovers or friends. He is discreet, careful. I am mad to trust him.
It becomes wearing. I can’t get a decent night’s sleep. My priorities are warped, my responsibilities are neglected. I’m tired, tearful. Unreasonable.
And so, after six months I try to end it. I try to leave.
I force a row, behave brutally, spit out hurtful truths that every couple knows about each other, but they manage to suppress, to curtail, in the name of harmony. I pick at the scab. Make us bleed. I finish it. Or he does. It’s nuanced. Unclear who finally ends things as it happens so quickly. In just minutes I tear us apart, which suggests we are only paper thin. I give him an ultimatum, it is in temper and frustration and he probably knows I don’t mean it even as I issue it, but I choose a time when he’s under pressure at work, rushing between meetings. He hasn’t got time to debate or think.
‘Meeting up once a month is pointless. How can we have a relationship when you live in another country?’ He is confused because haven’t I always given the impression that I like the casual nature of what we have? ‘You are just stopping me having meaningful relationships elsewhere. You’re not thinking of me in this at all. You are spoilt and selfish.’ I pull the thread that stitches us together. The space, his absence makes us possible. My words wound, and I’m certain he’ll want to bleed out alone.
‘We can’t discuss this over the phone,’ he says stiffly.
‘But I want to.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I’m sick of doing everything your way.’
‘I wish you would stay calm, be rational, Kai.’
‘You are so cold. You are incapable of real feeling,’ I snap accusingly. I imagine his upper lip quivering. Not because he is close to crying – not the sort – he is angry with me for exposing him. For exposing us both. The telephone is a cruel way to end a relationship. He stays silent. ‘Haven’t you anything to say?’ I demand.
‘Let’s talk about it when I see you next.’
‘I want to talk about it now.’ Because I can’t let there be a next time. Every time leads to another next time.
‘It’s better face to face. It’s better if we wait,’ he insists, firmly.
‘Now!’ I all but stamp my feet. ‘Now or let’s just call it a day.’
He sighs. I hear his breath. Imagine I feel it. ‘Then we should call it a day.’
‘Fine.’ I hang up and relief whooshes through my body, almost knocks me over. I reel.
After the relief comes the
