365 Ways With Words

Butterfly Heart

In the river’s course scoured deep through summer torrents, beneath the canopy and beyond the screen of bamboo, upon the bend where the afternoon light settles before the sun falls below the crest of the mountains above, the scene is played. The butterfly rests, its wings open, quiet, alone, in Lepidoptera meditation. 

The existence of one life amongst a myriad of forms is nothing unusual, even one so bright. And in this present, in this capture of time and place, the butterfly is at once without need and without being needed; it feels the satisfaction of hourless eternity, the successful connections of a billion genetic computations, the generous confluence of a sympathetic location with benevolent season, and can only be content.

It neither trusts, nor is cautious. Without a grasp, the hand reaches to support this moment of significance. And without a worry, the butterfly is at ease within the palm and on the fingertips. She dances, she stops, she turns, she closes her wings then reopens: there is no fear in the communication, for an open soul receives without hindrance or demand.

This is enough for both butterfly and hand. The gentle occasion over, the hand replaces her again to rest on to the warm rock face, safe within the glow of a golden sunbeam. Separated, each is happy with the exchange of time and consideration, fully respectful of the other. Of such honoured connections, there are precious few. They are the devout unions of separate souls.

Walk My Way

                                        
                                        walk my way

                                            lady with the big boobs

                                        and

                                        fill my nasty head

                                            with your perversions

                                        so that I am

                                            freed in your arms

 

                                        walk my way

                                            tall dark strangerman

                                        in time

                                        to

                                        save me from my

                                            sick loneliness

                                        by attachment

                                            to your beauty

 

                                        walk my way

                                            friend without ‘complications’

                                        or other attachments

                                        and

                                            solo

                                        make me

                                            your only queen

 

                                        walk my way

                                            pretty girl

                                        and

                                            give me energy

                                        in

                                            your life

 

                                        walk my way

                                            the grown-up's suit and tie

                                        and

                                        packed wallet

                                            care ever

                                        for lil' old me

                                        because I need

                                            your value

 

                                        walk my way

                                            turn me into a family

                                        of

                                        love

                                        and

                                            new affection

                                        to replace

                                        the lost

                                            with you

 

                                        walk my way

                                            walk-walk

                                        quickly

                                            my

                                            way

                                        mine

                                        me

                                            me

Dreams and Misdemeanours

At first it was exciting; immensely enjoyable, forbidden, alluring. The dream recurred only occasionally and always left him pondering ‘why?’ At first he thought it wrong that he should dream of people in a sexual way; at that age sex is something oddly mysterious whilst being strangely funny and frighteningly repulsive at the same time, an activity that only older sexy people do. On Sunday morning, when just awake, he would lie still feeling a bit naughty and relishing all the juicy details of the dream state intimacy that he could remember, each moment a departure from familiar motherly closeness. He’d then push down his pyjama bottoms and drowsily quasi-masturbate. In church that morning he would spend anxious moments examining his guilt about these wanton liberal thoughts.

The childish dreams did not evolved until at about 15 or 16, an incandescent adolescent period, he climaxed in vivid, long-memorable dreams about sex with significant characters in his life—powerful women like the teachers at school, some of the more animated girls he went to school with and beautiful sparkly female presenters he relished on T.V. The intensity of these somnambulant visions began to expand to include anyone and almost anything. All sorts of women appeared; sometimes nice well-behaved ones like his pretty Sunday school teacher, as well as the hideously ugly or fascinatingly overweight ones like the really big check-out lady, sometimes disturbingly incestuous sex-crazed aunts and, which severely startled him, even his mother and grandmother, and the girls in the neighbourhood (including the two little children who lived across the street and would sometimes came to play in their garden—which, of course, made him suspect he was going to be a paedophile). Sometimes men appeared which, of course, caused him even greater distress because it meant that he was undoubtedly going to be homosexual! And then he would dream of sex with animals like the cat next door or people’s dogs he’d seen on a walk, something he had not the slightest intention of pursuing in waking life, but which brought him closest to what would have been an eternally-embarrassing parental confession because he knew it really would prove he was perverted. And just sometimes there would be a strange whirl of all of the above; an orgy of sexual abandonment happening all around him, sometimes with him at the centre and sometimes with him merely watching, a salivating bystander in a cavalcade of internal debauchery.

In his early adolescence most dreams were short-lived on account of his simultaneous spontaneous ejaculation and the horrible awakening to a sweaty gooey mess in his pyjama bottoms. At first, at about the age of 10 or 11, this occurred at even the first hint of sex—a dreamy smile or friendly caress. This caused him untold worries, because he knew that if next time he saw the people in his dream, like Mrs Geller the newly married Sunday school teacher, and they smiled softly or lightly hugged him, then he would just uncontrollably ejaculate right there and then.

But as he passed through puberty his dreams became a little more controlled—the characters became more complex, the sexual scenarios more involved, even lurid. If it had been particularly nice, he would organise his waking thoughts so that he could remember all the intimate focuses, as if it had been real sex. Then next time he saw the same girl or woman he would try to recall all those erotic details and half-hope that his instant hard-on would get noticed. After all, he reasoned, hadn’t they popped into my dream because they wanted to be there?

He only once told someone about his sexy dreams. Roberta was a wonderfully attractive girl in the same year at school. Sunny and well liked, she had returned his coy glances, so he considered it not inconceivable that once they got talking she might actually enjoy hearing him tell of his nightly preocupations. Besides, he was dying to find out her response. And at first, she did indeed listen attentively to his tale of undressing and going to bed with her, of feeling her hardened nipples brushing up and down his chest and then of him pushing her onto her back, popping on top of her accepting bodily embrace and… After a while he quite forgot himself, being concerned with the proper revelation of the special details. She listened with a transfixed expression on her face—no one had ever spoken to her like that before. And while her suspicions were aroused, she also pondered for a second or two about whether he was exotically interesting or just a mad pervert. Her eyelids fluttered uncontrollably, her visage changed from quizzical smile to dark frown. Then she decided, and with a sneer spat that he was disgustingly depraved, swept her hair back and stormed off back into school to instantly tell all her friends. They, of course, giggled and laughed every time he entered class, but were themselves in two minds—was he truly a sad deviant or some dark misunderstood figure full of forbidden sexual knowledge? He caught their sideways peeks, and they also became fuel for the fire of his further dreams, where severa or all of them either excitedly sneered or merely talked in excited tones about his bold revelations.

Then, as graduation approached his hormones began to relax a little. He ran through a succession of real girlfriends and experiences, some of which made all his fantasies reality: at 17 on holiday in Mexico at the end of school he found himself in bed with three girls—admittedly one had already passed out and was later sick all over his pillow. Later in life he would try to recall this experience, but it would forever remain strangely elusive: he and three girls, this time all of them tall blonde Australian stewardesses, who swept into his large Melbourne hotel suite. He tried to recreate the fabulous energy and enthusiasm had accompanied this fondly remembered experience, but something didn’t quite work out. They had words and one of the girls instantly left. He ended up moodily sleeping on the couch and left before breakfast: it remained a memory-bound legend.

During his late teen period most dreams were directed to be about people he knew. But later other characters began to appear—people unlike anyone he knew; neither did they remind him of anyone in particular. He was in his mid-twenties, a junior flight lieutenant in the Navy. His mind was now clear and firmly set on a career in the skies and perhaps beyond. But at night in his bunk his mind became more and more distracted by the secret nocturnal somnambulant visitations from strangers, all very keen to have sex with him. And they cropped up during quieter daytime moments, the unreal almost-hallucinatory occurrences transpiring in any arena and whilst doing anything; drinking by the pool on shore, systems checking in the cockpit, reading in the mess hall, in chapel, driving, or in an aisle of the ship’s stores. A little taken aback by the lack of control these situations presented, he tried to make these occurrences a little more personal, and actually chatted back to these visitations with what he thought was wit, charm and interest. The characters of his encounters, however, seemed completely disinterested in talk; some of them didn’t even seem to understand English. All they wanted was his sex, and they wanted it immediately! Sometimes, they would appear to secretly discuss him in hushed almost unheard tones, their sideway-knowing glances just like the girls in class, only this time they were kindly, and also strongly suggestive. Ans just as he felt obliged to accept their advances—all of them—some of the experiences began to feel decidedly impersonal, even abusive. Perhaps strangest and most worrying of all, he became aware that he was not alone; that others were also watching.

Caught!

“In place of green, try the blue. Shadow is not merely a toning down, it often completely changes the colour – the perception, even.”

He stared with disbelief as Mr Carter used his brush to add a blue dappling under the trees. But once he’d finished he was amazed at the effect. It was his first impressionistic experience.

“That’s amazing!” He was very pleased. His work now looked somehow more… mature.

The Art Room was nothing more than the top floor of Oakhurst, the beautiful old Lutyens house that had been converted into the school some years before. It had that familiar school art room smell—all acrylics and poster paints, slightly septic drains and cleaning fluids. Always a place of calm and reflection, the classroom became more than another teaching venue, it was the location of a growing dedication to inner discovery.

“5 minutes, ladies and gents. Can you clear up now, please?”

These were words of almost universal disappointment, even for an anticipated break time or end of school day. Art was fab. Available at any time, someone was always working away at something interesting after lessons or during frees. Portraiture was difficult, so most opted for still life—sheep skulls and fruit, chequered tablecloths and coffee pots. Each week newly acquired skills would add accomplishment to the merely observational, style to the perfunctory tasks of the curriculum, and permit a certain amount of freedom of expression. Some enjoyed taking this route further, others diverted into the realms of expression free from direct form and true abstraction, overcoming the inevitable embarrassment that first accompanies exposure of the soul until there developed a certain clarity, and something called ‘voice’ or ‘presence’ could be detected in the finished pieces. These were exciting times for the unveiling of the machinations of soul and mind. Lines and circles, angles and shapes became reflectors, colours became moods, the canvas itself a portal to the inner experiences of the artist.

“Have you thought about the field trip?”

He heard the question from the good teacher, but could not resist a glance over to the object of his squishy affections, on the opposite side of the room. A pair of female eyes returned the warmth: quite what would occur on that trip would only become apparent once the bus was parked and the beds were assigned. The mind filled with thoughts of dorm rooms and showers and group sex and the very extremes of adolescent sexual fantasy.

“Yes, my mum says I can go if I get improved grades in all subjects.”

Because it was always so busy, the art room never became the venue for the typical teenage shenanigans. That was something best left to walks back to the station, late afternoon rendezvous under the trees, or even a weekend date. Not having much money, mutual affections had to be enjoyed at a bargain basement rate of little or no cash. If you couldn’t do it at school itself, or on a park bench, or in an empty carriage of the non-stop Metropolitan Line, then it wasn’t going to happen.

“Can you return the form with a cheque then?”

Of course, there was a certain amount of imagination involved in finding niches for cross-pupil naughtiness. There were quiet places around the grounds away from watchful eyes where the usual five-minute grope could be extended to fifteen minutes passionate wet kissing. Behind the gym became a regular, although inclement weather made it ultimately unsatisfactory. There were fox tracks in the cherry and birch woodland the far side of the football pitch led to a small clearing, but it was obvious to all that a couple entering the woods were not going there to pick flowers or go bird watching. That left venues within the school buildings themselves; empty classrooms, music practice rooms and, at the right time, the cellar/common room under the main school itself.

“That’s the bell, boys and girls. Off you go.”

Mr Carter was himself already on the way to the staffroom for a break coffee. He was not on duty today, but even so he would sometimes take his outside and either sit alone or with one of the teachers or whichever student would appear and talk cordially about one thing or another. His father ran an ironmongers, supported an impressive ginger toupee, and grew vegetables on an allotment. On the wall of his kitchen hung a framed poem that had been fried, a quirk of previous artistic direction.

“Can I stay? I’d like to finish this.”

The answer was almost inevitably positive. Showing an interest was always to be rewarded with time, only the interest was not merely arty.

“Yes, but you must both clear up before the end of break.”

His voice led away down the creaky maze-like corridor system, past the swing doors that flapped under the little stairway up to the caretaker’s flat. Mr & Mrs Clooney were an oddjobman and dinner lady/clearner partnership who enjoyed living in a relatively small flat under the eaves that must once have functioned as staff quarters when the house had been privately owned. Mr Clooney was a dour, unhappy Scot, prone to months-long bouts of frowns and a stiff gait that no doubt described the presence of rheumatism. He it was that had a certain responsibility for arranging the drivers of the minibuses, the cleaning of classrooms and the constant work of maintaining the lawns and gardens. It is he, therefore, who would have arranged for Ted to conduct the cleaning of the cellar rooms one particular evening.

“Hi!” he peeked over at her concentrating face, gleefully aware of their time alone at last. She was happy to return his gooning glance for a second, but returned her eyes to the work on the easel before her. What did that mean? Was she really working? Perhaps she didn’t value their time together with as much excitement as he did. They continued for a few more minutes, blissfully alone, he all the time wondering what more to say, and she probably quite content with things as they were.

“How about I meet you tonight, after school?”

The door burst open as an early squidling rushed in to bag the best chair. She nodded, turned red and returned to paint.

It was normal for pupils to be hanging around school long after lessons had finished: some practicing music, some sat in discussion, some working, some reading and some just delaying their journey home. Some, however, saw this time as an opportunity to connect with their favourite person’s mouth, to swap sweet words and saliva and have arms dangle nonchalantly over shoulders precariously near to breasts. In general, however, nothing went much further; apart from the issues of privacy, there just wasn’t the opportunity—unless one was created.

“Come on. No-one’s down here.”

They slipped into the common room, now weirdly devoid of life. Usually the location of spontaneous juvenile guffawing before school, at breaks and lunches and even after 3.20pm, the animation that accompanied 20+ musician children resonated long after their departures. Leaving the lights off and using only the natural ambient orange glow of the city beyond, he led her by the hand to the second little room, which was little more of a locker room that housed benches and pegs for coats and bags. There they pitched their intimacy, on a slatted bench, all fingers and sighs as together they overcame her natural modesty, and took things decidedly unsteady for the better part of an hour. And then Ted the cleaner walked in on the two scared rabbits.

“What were you doing?”

The headmaster’s words were cautious, but firm. It could be that there was a perfectly reasonable justification, one beyond the expected fumbling and kissing. But how exactly was he to give explanation for himself? It had been nearly seven o’clock and the rest of the school was locked up for the night.

“We were talking. Just talking.”

He eyed the squirming spotty teenager with a pause. Could he really punish this?

“You are expected to go home straight after school.”

He’d got away with it, but now the word was out. They’d been caught; the architecture of their love-zone was common knowledge, no matter how he bluffed and joked. He didn’t need to hear the whispered conversations to know the object of their tattle-tattle—through bravado the newly acquired reputation did not thoroughly unnerve, but he felt it was, perhaps, unfairly won. At least there was always Art. And there was always the field trip.

Soufflé

                                        A soufflé rises; its crown brown

                                        Over-inflated French cock

                                        Too right in its soft ramekin ceramic-bound

                                        To emerge without delay blessed with egged virtue

                                        Sailing soaring in hot air for the pleasure of high hats and ovation

 

                                        Another rises; on a similar ley vein

                                        Pumped-up Parisian erection

                                        Soundless trumpet ringing clear

                                        Heart of kitchen blown in part for fable,

                                        In part domestic pretty Lawson per-square-inch demonstration

 

                                        And if they don’t work, it doesn’t matter

                                        Beat, fold, pour—what’s inedible after all?

                                        At needy course there is consolation enough

                                        In servicewear cleaned blank—

                                        And always give a smile

 

                                        Grow, then, in your confidence and hand

                                        Soufflés are admission to the pleasures of liquid flesh

                                        Doff the chef’s titfa, wipe palms upon the apron

                                        You are, they are, it is—always a job well done

                                        Satisfaction in the giver and receiver

Laughter– Part Four

Through the large window beside them the snow continued to fall. The endless scene may have thoroughly occupied Miguel’s attentions, but did not take his thoughts as much as did Michael Collins who, taken by her refreshing and open nature that morning, took the opportunity to enquire a little more about Floria.

“…and then you finish school and go to University? That’s fantastic!”

“I can’t wait!” She seemed to vibrate with anticipation.

He changed tack. “Tell me, then, what is there to do in Valladolid? I’ve never been.”

“Oh it’s a place for wine mostly – there is business, and a little industry.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, although the wine sounds interesting. I meant, for entertainment.”

“Not a lot. It’s pretty dead, if you ask me.”

“It’s a family place…” interrupted Miguel, who at once felt that he should not have said something quite so prudish. He forced a smile.

“Yes,” his sister continued in the same vein, “there is the square, where we walk, mostly, in the evening, or on Sundays.”

“So you live in the centre? That must be nice.”

“Our parents have a house in the country, that we use some weekends, but we live in an apartment.”

“That sounds like a very satisfying arrangement. I’d love to live in the country for the weekends. Is that where they are now?”

“They’re in the town. Dad runs a car showroom. Seat, mostly.”

Miguel was uncomfortable about her freely volunteering information.

“Anyway, we’re here for another day.”

Floria looked at Miguel and tilted her head to one side: why would he lie like that? Why was he behaving in such a way? Why was he so irritated? She shook her head.

“Really?” Michael Collins said, “but you said last night that you were leaving today, taking the bus back home, if its possible in this–” He leaned back and theatrically flicked his hand towards the window, brushing the back of Floria’s hair in the process. He offered a little laugh.

“Did I? Well… yes.” Miguel twisted his mouth – he felt at once betrayed and annoyed. His sister had not even attempted to back him up, even though it was clearly a falsity, and had not thought to see the logic of his obfuscation. He wished she were not so easily impressed. He reasoned if the situation had been reversed, wherein he was being buttered up by a glamorous older woman, then he’d have understood Floria’s unspoken communications quite clearly. “I must have been confused.”

“It was the drink last night that threw you.” Michael added. “That is, unless you really are staying another night.”

Floria nodded. “No, we haven’t got the money.”

Miguel again gave that look; the same perplexed twisting of the mouth. She really was saying way too much for his liking.

“Well, whether you have the money or not, I think you’re going to have to stay. There have been no cars arrive or leave all night. And that’s including the snowplough. I think we’re well and truly cut off!”

The Irishman broke into a broad smile and chuckled again, only not so forced this time. It was clearly funnier to him than it was to them. Floria looked towards Miguel. He returned his attention from Michael Collins’ pronouncement, towards his beloved sister, to then gaze outside, actively following the bigger flakes as they landed at the bottom of the window.

“I’m going upstairs. Are you coming, Flo?”

Barked as a command, she instantly reacted negatively. “No!”

“There’s something… I need to tell you.” He stood on the pause.

“No, Mig, I’m quite happy here. Besides, Mr Collins…”

At the mention of his name Michael tapped Floria on the arm. “It’s all right. You go. There’s clearly something of importance he needs to say. Only…” He tapped the case beside him.

“Oh yes, of course.” Floria reached out for the case.

“No!” said Miguel with a voice that made some of the other guests take notice. He softened, “No, thank you, Mr Collins, but we’re already loaded with our stuff – the skis and everything.”

“But we could take it, Mig. It’s only on the bus, after all.” She smiled, at first at her Irish neighbour, and then less so at her brother.

“Are you coming?”

They followed one of the hotel staff in near silence ascending by the stairs to their floor. Once in and the door was shut, he started.

“We can’t take that case, Floria. We don’t know that man.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous! He bought us dinner last night – dinner and drinks, if you remember."

“Yes, I remember. And I can’t help wonder why.”

“What do you mean? He’s been nice to us.”

“A bit too nice, don’t you think?”

“No. Not at all, no.”

“Then why’d he do it? Why pay for our drinks and food?”

“He’s lonely. He’s away from his wife. What did he said – that she lives in Madrid?”

“Yes, he said a lot of things, both right now and last night, but that doesn’t mean any of them are true.”

“Oh come on! He’s all right. Remember, he’s a foreigner, so he probably does things differently.”

“Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not!”

“Yes you are, and it’s because you fancy him, isn’t it?”

“It is not. I’m not…” She thought for a second. “And what if I do? I’m allowed to aren’t I?”

“No. You’re not.”

“What?” she put her hands on her hips – just like her mother.

“I said no.”

“NO? So you’re the older brother now and what you say goes, does it?”

“Yes! In this case, yes.”

“Miguel del Rey, you are a… a… fucking idiot!”

‘”No, you’ll be the fucking idiot if you see him again.”

“See him again? What the hell does that mean? You’re not my husband or something.”

He interrupted the argument with a sharp intake of breath. “Actually, I have to tell you; there’s something to show you. It’s about last night.” So saying, he gritted his teeth and walked over to the bed, their bed. He pulled back the duvet until all the bottom sheet was fully exposed. It was clear and clean.

“What, Mig?” She shook her head. “What are you doing?”

He stared at the clean sheet, courtesy of room service, and then looked at her. Disbelief at once flooded his mind.

“Am I supposed to see something?”

“You bled.”

“I did not. It’s not… my time.”

His voice dropped. “Over me.”

She grimaced. “What? What? You’re not making any sense.”

“I mean we did it last night.”

“Did what?”

He huffed. “We… had… We had… sex.”

“WHAT?” cried Floria, at once astonished that Miguel should say those words, in addition to being horrified at the very concept. What was he playing at? Was he really that jealous of Michael Collins – to invent something like this?

“Jesus CHRIST, Miguel! What are you saying?”

“There was blood there, on that side, where I was. And you were wearing my shirt, that I had on yesterday, and I didn’t have my boxers…”

Now there was anger in her voice. She picked up a finger: “If you are trying to make some sort of trouble for me for mum and dad, then I don’t know…

But he was still. His face was completely humourless. “No, but we did something we shouldn’t have.”

“And you’re doing something you shouldn’t.” She paused, finger mid-air. “You can’t make allegations like this. What do you think you’re saying? Hm? No, I won’t listen to it.” She made for the door.

“No, don't go back down there.”

He pulled at her sweater sleeve, but she wrenched it out of his hands.

“You know, you’re sick in the head, Miguel.” She tapped her temple, turned and tried to slam the door, but left the task undone after the spring mechanism in the hinge softened the final few centimetres.

She stood by the elevator fuming and breathing hard. They hadn’t had a row like that for years, and that had been about something stupid like toys. She pressed and re-pressed the button again, and the doors pinged open.

In his dazed state he also heard the ping and ran for the door. By the time he called out her name the chrome lift doors had closed.

She saw Mr Collins still sat at the same table, looking a little lost. He looked up and smiled, as much of relief as pleasant surprise at seeing the young Floria.

She called out, “It’s OK, Mr Collins. I’ll take your bag!” then pointed at the breakfast room’s door to the ladies. He nodded and took in a sigh. As she sat she glanced at her panty gusset. There was, indeed, a little red spot.

Laughter – Part 3

The slow elevator clattered and crashed as it took the young couple upstairs. It stopped on each floor, and on each floor they got out, saw that it was not their floor and fell back between the closing doors to ascend again.

They threw off their clothes and fell into bed, then arose again to visit the bathroom – in Floria’s case, twice. The bulb was dead, which was probably just as well. She had never before been this drunk and thought she might hurl, and probably would have had she been burned by light of any kind, but after a dark drink of water and a few long breaths the feeling subsided. The whole thing had, however, made her a little fitful in her sleep.

They had not been the last ones to return to the chalet, but the stillness of the place resounded in their ears, further accentuated by the complete absence of noise from the dark, snow-dampened landscape. Their heads, side-by-side upon the bed, faced in towards each other – a couple in all but status. His breath came over her in rhythmic waves, and as she sunk into oblivion her semi-conscious mind filled with rapid images of Michael Collins drinking Irish whiskey with her; such an adult thing to do, like smoking and swearing, only moreso. This, plus the inner girlish excitement of being away from home at last, broke a barrier in her that she had not felt tested since Paulo the Italian exchange student two years before had charmingly suggested they go out. His accent, straight hair, athletic build and buff skin had made him instantly devourable to the rest of the girls, who all made efforts to befriend him, but it was Floria he had selected, and to her eternal regret she had said no. And with the flywheel wildly spinning on this mulch of inner machinery, her face found Miguel’s and she began to kiss him.

He was up first. Straight in the shower, he had not so much been confused about having woken up naked and in a state of arousal as to having obviously had a wet dream. His come lay across his thigh. At least, that’s how it felt. Washing it off in the lightless gloom of the bathroom, he blushed with more than a hint of embarrassment. With his pounding head, however, he could remember nothing. He and Floria had always been intimate, but there had never been anything in their make up to suggest they were anything but the closest of sibling friends. This event, however, sewed a sticky seed of doubt that once cast would not be picked up and pocketed again. But he had been naked – he always slept with a t-shirt and boxers; even drunk, he would not have taken everything off. The worry sat ill with him, particularly because they were no longer used to each other’s nakedness any more. That sort of thing had stopped early into puberty.

By the time he had towelled down and stepped back into the large chalet bedroom, a cold snowy light had begun to glimmer through the window blinds. He glanced over at her form lying in an s-shape under the duvet. It couldn’t be that they had…

He tugged on some fresh clothes and settled in the armchair, his hand over his mouth. Had they done something terrible, that Grandpa’s baby Jesus would surely disapprove? He wanted to wake her to ask her, but also felt deeply ashamed to mention it. She zedded on, her deep breathing indicated by the slow rise and rapid fall of the white duvet.

It was another hour before she stirred, turning first one way, then another, putting out one arm and then rubbing her face into life. Coming round, she remembered where she was, and looked for Mig’s head beside her, then lifted her gaze to scan the room. By this point, Miguel was really unsure of himself. In those sixty minutes or so he had convinced himself that something had occurred between them, and that he was probably guilty of letting his unfettered libido loose aided and abetted by an excess of Irish alcohol. But she smiled a weak smile at him, then let her head crash back onto the pillow.

“What’s the time?”

“8:45”

“I’ve got such a head.”

He hummed a response between pursed lips.

She was not naked, but had a long t-shirt on – his, in fact. Quite how this had happened she could not fathom. Once this piece of information entered her head, she looked again at him. He was not sitting happy; a frown darkened his thoughts.

“What is it, Mig?” She was almost afraid to ask.

“I don’t know, Flo.”

She stopped. He hadn’t called her Flo since they were kids. Sensing the tension, and that he was not going to be communicative, she stepped out of bed to shower. As she did, he glanced at his side of the bed. Indeed, there was a hint of smeary red where he had lay – midway down the mattress. He smoothed over the duvet, making it straight. Now he was convinced, and it terrified him.

Wordless she dressed, wordless they took the elevator, and wordless they entered the breakfast room. It was packed. The snow still fell heavily, but with a rising wind it began to rest against the large window and the new fall appeared to be settling into drifts. Collecting chocolate, fruit, bread, cheese and meats, they sat at the end of a long table beside the view listening to the screaming of a little baby unsatisfied with his lot, and the heated discussion of a German family on the next table. The tabletop before them was sticky with residue from the previous occupants mess. They stared at the whiteout, thinking they had little chance of skiing today, and would have to stay put, with only each other’s company – normally a pleasant prospect, but taking on a different hue because of their over-heavy thoughts. As they stared out, the cable car began to move. They could see it rise up the vertiginous white cable, stop, move on, stop, and move on until it disappeared into the dirty sky beneath the mountainous massive it was attached to. This also aroused the interest of the Germans, one of whom went outside to ask at the station whether the situation would improve.

As they continued to wonder what was going on, a tall figure ambled on the snowy path towards the hostel. He was dragging a suitcase.

As he reached the hostel steps, he was overtaken by the rapidly returning German who swung open the glass doors into the restaurant and loudly announced that the weather was set to improve early afternoon and that the cable car service would begin at midday. In his wake stood Michael Collins, dusting off the snow from his puffed jacket. He scanned the room and quickly found the couple.

“Hi, there! How are you doing? I see you’ve recovered from last night. Mind if I sit down.”

So saying, he tapped Floria’s near-finished neighbour on the shoulder and asked politely if he could squeeze in.

Floria seemed pleased to see him. Miguel felt a squirm inside.

“Did you sleep well? We had a pretty good evening, I thought.”

They all nodded. Floria took a sip of chocolate.

“So, it looks like you might get some skiing in today, after all. It’ll still be bad up there, but fresh snow is good snow, eh?”

Miguel started, “Mr Collins, I’m not sure if we said thank you for the drinks, and the food and everything last night. If you let us have your details, your address or number, then we’ll gladly pay our share…”

Michael looked a little puzzled. “No-no, it was all on me, really.”

“But you’re too kind.” Floria said. She rested a hand on his cold arm.

Miguel continued, “Yes, too kind…”

“Not at all. My pleasure. You two were such excellent company. I would have been very bored there by myself. So, let’s not hear any more of it.”

The children habitually nodded at each other, and then glanced away in opposite directions, Miguel out of the window, Floria at Michael.

“So,” she began, “what brings you here?”

“I was just passing through, like I said.”

“No, I meant this morning.”

“Actually, I’d been meaning to ask you that;” Miguel interrupted, “I mean, you can’t exactly pass through from here anywhere. We’re at the end of the road.”

“It’s… it’s just an expression.” Michael’s eyes flashed a hint of hostility towards Miguel. “I’m travelling.”

This at once sounded ridiculous to Miguel – even more ridiculous than for him to say he was just passing through.

Floria helped him again, “I meant today.” She smiled.

He smiled back at her, and hesitated as the momentary connection took place. “I came to see you.” He smiled again, at both of them. “Of course, you may not remember what we talked about last night.”

They shook their heads, as if answering a question in class.

“That’s all right. We had a good night, that’s all you need to remember. For now. But you said you’d be able to help me out.” He cheerily caught both their eyes.

They were still nonplussed.

“It’s this old bag – the suitcase. I just have to get it to Madrid before the end of the year (it’s for my wife – her birthday, you see), but I’m not going back for a while – passing through, as I said. So, I asked if you would be good enough as to take it back with you for a friend to pick up, and you graciously agreed.”

“We did?” asked Miguel.

“You did. And so, here I am. And here's the case. So, what do you say?” He beamed another smile, as trustworthy as the last.

Cutch in Bed

“Rain again! I’m not going out now. I’ll phone later.”

He paused, pulled at the gap in the curtains so they were back together and straight and turned around, twisting his white naked buttocks in the process. She loved seeing him naked: a nice sight this early in the morning. She was relaxed, sleepy, with her man. Apart from the rain, the house and street were Sunday morning quiet.

He leaned over and whispered, “I’m making tea.”

She gently smiled, turned over and closed her eyes as his heavy heels boomp-boomp-boomped down the stairs. He had previously promised to leave at 7 for Merthyr to meet Ben and go with him up Pen Y Fan: a long-planned mates event for this Sunday. She was glad he'd chosen to stay, just the two of them together. She felt blissfully happy in her reverie hearing the light switch flick in the kitchen, the kettle get filled, the caddy lid close and the fridge door flap shut.

With the kettle still shurring, he made a sudden race up the stairs, turned left and sat for a hurried poo:  Plop! Plop-plop! Ker-plop! Ever a quick man, he was done and, after a couple of shaggy wipes she could hear him stand, flush and rinse his hands. Even this homely function was a comfort, at least until his indelicate odours permeated the bedroom.

She covered her nose with the duvet, and then called out, “You could've shut the bloody door!”

Three minutes later he rattled back up the stairs with the tray. It was normally just the two mugs dangling Typhoo tampon strings, and sometimes a bacon sandwich if he felt energetic, but today it was teacups and saucers, spoons and sugar bowl, her mam’s old set. She sat up and with a sniff and sleepy scrunch rubbed her face into life. She still had the smell of sex on her fingers.

“To what do we owe this honour?”

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “That’s what!”

Of course, what he meant was that she had been a very compliant sexual partner when they had gone to bed and again sometime in the night. They had finished a bottle of Cab Sauv, come straight upstairs, he had undressed her, she him, and then set to with all manner of very exciting oral sex. She’d even consented to their watching a bit of porn on the laptop as he slowly gave her long and deep thrusts from behind. That was the most deeply stimulating sex they’d both had in a few weeks, although the small hours ‘rude awakening’ as he liked to call it was equally as hot – a natural extension of their earlier lusting for each other.

She put her cup and saucer down on the side table and went for a wee. The bathroom still stank, so she had to hold her breath. Grimacing, she popped open the little top window to allow in some fresh: the air was cold and damp, an unseasonal chilliness that gave her goosebumps over her chest and shoulders.

She came back, put on yesterday’s t-shirt and sat in bed with her knees resting the saucer. They talked, slowly at first, about how drowsy she was, about the taste of the tea, about rain tapping on the window – they could hear it hammering away on the slates above their heads.

“You know, last night… Absolutely amazin’.” He leaned over so they bonked heads.

She smiled. “I know.” She smiled again, only not quite so eagerly. “It’s just…”

He inwardly sighed. Not again. There was always something. “It’s just – what?” He didn't really want to ask that question. Or hear the answer.

She paused, weighing whether to continue, but she wanted to say it. “Well, I don’t like it.”

“Don’t like wha–?” He tilted his head to one side. It was his way, the way to indicate ‘listening skills’, or so he’d read somewhere. He prepared for the criticism, the complaint, the niggle.

“Oh, you know; with the anal. I don’t like it. You know that.”

He remained quiet, not quite sure what to do with this information.

“It ‘urts, when you go in, that’s all.” She bit her lip.

“But you were alright last night. I was gentle. Didn’t ‘urt then, did it?”

She nodded. “A bit. Yes.”

He sipped his tea and put the cup and saucer down. “I can’t ‘elp it, see? I gets so… excited. You do it: you do it to me. We get crackin’ on, and I’m…”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that.” All humour left her face.

“Say wha–?”

“Crackin’: makes it feel like it’s… like it’s a game, or a sport.”

He was going to retort that it was in his mind –a bit– but wisely chose to hold that thought.

“It’s supposed to be about lovin’, Thomas Edwards, not crackin’ on.”

“But I do loves ya; you knows it.” His Newport accent always came out under pressure.

“Well show it then. Just don’t go around saying crackin’ on all the time when we talk about sex.”

“All the time? I don’t use it all the time. I only just used it then.”

“No, you use it a lot. Friday, down the pub you said it then. With Barry. And before, last Tuesday, when you spoke to Ben, you said it then.” She emphasised each one with a fingernail in the duvet.

“How the bloody hell can you remember what I say like tha–?” There was a frown on his face. A thought flashed through his mind – of walking all day in the rain with Ben.

“And while we’re at it…” She was well into second gear now and the revs were climbing.

He prepared for the next one.

“The porn. Do we have to? I mean, do you have to?”

“But you said it got you goin’. You said it was all right, that you liked it an’-all.”

“Well I don’t. All right? I don’t. You think I get off on other women’s tits and fannies – an’-all?”

“No, no – it’s not about that, is it?”

“Well, you do, don’t you? That‘s what it’s all about, innit? And I don’t like it. I really don’t. It’s just so… sordid.”

“Sordid? You never said that before.”

“I did. I always said it. I bloody always ‘ave…” Accusative flecks of spittle flew across to his face.

He turned in bed and faced her directly. “When? Bloody when? No wait, don’t answer tha– You’ve got an actual list of actual days and actual times somewhere.”

She slammed her tea down beside her and got out of bed. “Thomas fuckin’ Edwards, you’re a cock! An actual cock, right?”

With that she stormed off into the bathroom and slammed the door as best she could, but because he’d made such a tight fit of it when he’d hung the door last year the best that could be managed was a decidedly mute whoosh from the air escaping around the jambs.

How had that happened, he thought to himself, theatrically holding his arms in the air above his head? He’d done everything right – staying in, watching a movie, a bit of wine and chat, hot sex just like they’d done for the last three years since they were together, a cancellation of the day’s plans out and about with his mate, and even morning tea on cups and bloody saucers. He shook his head and reasoned, just like his da had once said, that he’d never fathom women.

As the bath filled she sat on the toilet crying, holding a tissue in her hand. How could he be so insensitive? How could he not see how much upset she was? If he really loved her he wouldn’t do these things again and again. If he really loved her he’d listen to her and respect her. She wanted to call her mam, her late mam, and cried even more. Why didn’t he change?

No Roses

The sweet perfumed leopard skin Foxy Babe leaves, ennui of another night's eventual quietude,

And with her any chance of a moment's mad rapidity

Silently, impatiently, he cycles home to that dreadful bed, up down, up down,

Without a welcome hand to hold, a cheek to kiss, a breast to fondle, and all the rest...

These mumbling moments are derisory; teeth-clenched, they are destined to condemn and sour

    – and then there's pizza

And then he's gone, the rampaging powered black leather Super Studmuffin, ammunition for yet another frigid night

Away, away, always, without the gift of that needful, gentle, physical touch

She glumly boards the bus minus the proximity that proves a lifetime of words

Warm breaths of earnest desire, passion in the minds, such urgency of the fingers...

She shrugs a slough of idle thoughts; they are the whim of fancy, of charming childish logic

    – and then there's chocolate

Together (by a cling-film moment) they are never one, a signal failure that has no straight measure

But on spirited winds these hearts yearn, on and on

Becalmed by workaday Monday mundanity, without any more than a daily smidgeon of self-indulgent sentiment

Poor me, poor you, poor us, is never said...

Divided, separated, alone; theirs is a song forever waiting in the wings

    – and then there's next time

It Started With a Shandy

Well, it all started with a shandy. I can remember it clearly: there I was, as happy as an eight-year old can be, at my aunt Carol's wedding, when my uncle Jim poured me a lemonade shandy. Cool and refreshing. So nice. Of course, as an eight-year old I could have had no idea –none at all– about where my life was going, or about the terrible path down which I'd go. All because of this innocent looking drink. I'll tell you.

I like shandy. It's fun. I took it like a coke or fanta, but it has a slightly bitter taste to it. I drank it a bit, now and again, when there was enough beer and lemonade in the house. Sometimes dad would shout. I cut it 50/50 most of the time. But then one day there was no lemonade. My dad suggested I add a drop of lime cordial. I did it, but the effect was different. You see, there I was sitting with the family and drinking a sort of lemony beer. It was great. Unfortunately, I'd developed a taste for it. In fact, little by little I began to cut out the lime. I'd go to the fridge at the end of the school day for a can or two of normal beer. Man, that was sweet, I can tell you now.

It wasn't long before I was also trying out other drinks – alcopops, Bacardi Breezers mostly, although I was quite happy to try others. Each taste was new. I'd scan the aisles at the supermarket for ones I hadn't tried before. When they noticed, and they were taken out of the shopping, I would find other ways to get them – even made my own, went round to friends' houses, took them without paying. By the time I'd finished primary school I had got onto mixing my own cocktails each day. Got quite good at it, too.

This was pretty much how things began for me. I reckon I was an alcoholic by the time I was 10. Also, it wasn't long before I was in school hanging out with the bigger girls and smoking. They liked me. I took to smoking with ease. There was something about it – made me look older, gave me a stylish sexuality and carried the promise of forbidden fruit. I quickly caught the attentions of older boys. I would let them kiss me for a cigarette. It wouldn't be long before I was getting into snogging, fondling and fingering. It was so very exciting. But I got caught. It was after school and I had stayed behind the gym with two boys, Mark Flaherty and Jason Wilde, who took it in turns to kiss and fondle me. The headmaster Mr Baker said I was a 'pernicious influence' and had to be removed. So, I swapped school but did it again there too. I learned how to give blowjobs for little favours – cigs, bottle of cider, money. That last one, money, really helped. I got to buy clothes and make-up and got noticed a lot going out. I even made it under the radar into the clubs from time to time where I could really cause a stir on the floor.

But it was there I met Alex, who wanted to take me home. I let him. I already knew he was a dealer, but didn't realise just how bad things would get. Pretty soon I'd moved out and was living in his flat – overlooking the river in real luxury. He would have parties and invite all sorts of crazy people over. Some of them were stars: celebrities off the telly and people in the public eye. Really famous, but I can't say who. I'd be killed. There'd be lines of coke, and ketamine, and even worse. I knew he was a junky, but didn't know quite how far it had got for him. I took smack too, and knew how to shoot up. Anyway, we traveled all over: America, Africa, even Australia! He had these connections, you see. And everywhere he went, he wanted me to come too. More than once we'd have breakfast in London, lunch in Paris and then fly somewhere else for dinner. New York, Amsterdam, Rome, Milan: he'd take me shopping and we'd sit drinking wine in restaurants. It was unbelievable!

But to keep all this going we had to keep business running. And I had to support him – answer the phone, arrange meetings, that sort of thing. He had his dealers, who kept their patches in order.  Sometimes they needed help when others tried to muscle in. On more than one occasion we'd be off in the Bentley to 'sort out' a problem – that usually meant packing some sort of gun. It was scary, I can tell you. But he knew what he was doing, even if it meant war. There were nights we only just got out alive. Afterwards we would laugh about it, count the money and make love. I never felt so alive.

But it all changed one morning when I found him dead. We were in a hotel in Mayfair, and he'd taken too much. Dealers should never shoot, so everyone says. I got depressed. Ended up in rehab. The bed next to me had Any Winehouse in it. We got on like a house on fire. She would tell me all sorts of little private things – things I can't reveal here. In fact, I swore I'd never tell, even if she died. They go to the grave with me.

And then she died. It wasn't long before I was looking for a way out. I found my way to India and looked for a guru, like the Beatles. I found one, on the banks of the river Ganges. I learned to meditate and read the scriptures. It was a wonderful time where I felt I was really getting back to the real me – who I was as a person. Oh yes, I thought, this is it. And I went with the guru up to the mountains and would sit together watching the sunrise. But then the war broke out – between India and the neighbouring country. So I had to leave. I cried, I don't mind telling you.

And then I found myself back here. With you. Oh there's so much more to tell, but like I said, it's all because of my uncle Jim giving me a shandy. And I don't mind if you buy me one too.