by Ana Simons
She throws me an inquisitive look. “You sure?”
“See anyone else here? And why would I lie to you?”
With a naughty smile playing on her lips, she tilts her head towards the quartz countertop. “You have a thing for women’s make-up now, huh?”
My throat clenches when I see it, Jo’s lipstick lying forgotten on the dark stone surface.
A howl of laughter bursts out of her mouth. “Oh my God, you’re hiding a terrible secret, aren’t you? The handsome Brian Anderson is into cross-dressing!” She drinks half of her glass and then sizes me up, clicking her tongue in a feigned expression of disappointment. “What a waste, you look amazing in a suit.”
Half nervous, half embarrassed, I get up and throw the damn thing into a drawer. “It’s not what you’re thinking...”
She lets her eyelids drift closed, enjoying the warm, soothing sensation. “It never is. In fact, I’m quite familiar with that line, if you want to know.”
I would, actually.
She’s still nervous, I can tell. In a quick movement, she takes a band from around her wrist and ties her hair up in a bun and then empties her glass.
I pour some more wine, which I’m planning to drink slowly, in hopes that out of politeness she’ll stay at least until I finish.
Without really expecting her to open up, I ask, “When did it all happen?”
Surprisingly, Olivia extends her arm, asking for her glass to be refilled. She has long, graceful hands, not very long nails, painted in deep red, which gives her a sexy yet sophisticated touch.
I like it.
“Almost six months ago. I called the whole thing off, you know, but I really regret it now.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I should have left him standing at the altar, that would have been the proper thing to do!” she says dryly, smothering a snort.
Then the little grin fades into a more serious, introspective expression. “He’s not a one-woman man, and deep down I always knew it. But I guess I kept thinking he would change. Or that I would change him.” She takes a sip. “I don’t know, but it should make us wonder: why do women always think they can fix men? Why do we fall for the same emotionally unstable guys, the ones with the most flaws, the most completely screwed up, lost cases?”
I shrug. No idea.
Olivia, however, seems to have an explanation. “So we can treat you as some sort of fixable project? I guess sometimes we don’t look at a guy for what he is, rather at his potential. As if he were a chunk of soft clay we could mould. We look at them and secretly wonder ‘Well, well, what can I make out of you?’ And then we call it love...” she concludes, clearly frustrated, as she lifts her legs, looking around for a towel.
I throw her the one I pull from the hanger above my head.
“Love is such a complex thing, isn’t it?” I ask, rhetorically, last year’s events circling through my head.
“You could say that. It always makes you behave like an idiot while it lasts and feel hopeless pain when it ends. Maybe it’s just an impossibility and we’re all crazy to keep trying.”
I let that sink in for a beat. “You’ve got a point there. Maybe we’re all a little weird…”
Olivia sends me a playful yet tender smile and adds, “We’re all a little weird. And life’s a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness – and call it love.”
“Wow. Didn’t know you were a poet!”
I tap on the floor to invite her to sit closer.
She crinkles her nose, confused.
“Come.” I beckon with a wave of my hand. “Methinks you’re going to love this foot rub!”
Her eyes light up.
Supporting her body weight on both arms, she slides towards me. I cup my hands around one foot and begin to rub it.
“Me, a poet? No, just quoting Robert Fulghum.” She seems more relaxed now, playing with her glass, watching the dark red swirl against the light.
“Never heard of him. Then again, reading isn’t really my thing.”
“That’s because you’ve never found the right book.” With eyes closed, she bends her head back, a trace of a smile gracing her face.
As I rotate her ankles, I find myself studying her again, the elegant contours of her face, her neck, her shoulders – a moment that is only interrupted when she lets out a shy moan, one that sends a warm tingling sensation down my spine.
I rotate and pull each toe gently. Another moan and stronger vibrations rush further down.
I stretch my arm and manage to get some lotion out of the cabinet, which I use to walk my thumbs back and forth over the sole of her foot and then to push deep.
This time a hoarse groan escapes her throat, “Oh God, yes!”
I have to blow a short breath. She’s writhing with pleasure and with each passing second, it’s getting more and more difficult to keep my rush of yearning under control.
I keep rubbing her heel, then move to her ankle, finally gliding my thumb all the way up her shin. My hands are tempted to move further up to her thighs and dance across the soft skin, but the thought is interrupted by an indistinct, breathless whisper.
“What?”
“Harder!” she breathes out, this time even louder.
Another shudder travels through my body.
Help me, God.
Another sharp intake of breath and I force myself to cool off.
She starts humming the music that comes from the living room. U2’s ‘One’. One of my all-time favourites.
“Brian?” Her eyes are still closed. “You know why you find love so complex?”
“Tell me.”
“Because you never found the right woman.” She finally holds her head straight and gives me a reassuring smile. “But one day you will. And love will be easy.”
I thank her with a smile and watch her close her eyes again, immersing herself in the music. Reflecting upon her words, I acknowledge, once again, how beautiful she is and has always been, to me.
Olivia momentarily opens one eye and catches me checking her out. Her lips quirk into a mischievous smile before she closes it again and begins to sing the chorus lines.
“Hey!” A few seconds later, she gives me a scolding stare.
“What?”
“Eyes up, boy!”
“Huh?”
“You know the way a man’s gaze roams over a woman’s body tells you how into sex he is?”
I almost choke on my wine.
I clear my throat, one, two, three times. Not because I really need to, but because I’m trying to gain time to find an excuse.
“I think you’re tipsy,” I tell her.
“Oh, shut up! You know when they say your eyes are the window to your soul? That isn’t mere poetry, sweetie! Your pupils are dilated because you’re looking at my…” She makes circular movements over her chest with her hand.
She’s right, I’ve been staring at her boobs. Last time I checked they looked different and… well, I’m impressed. I can’t deny that.
“And you’re right. I’m probably a bit drunk too.” She giggles and finishes her glass. “No more wine for me tonight! But do enlighten me, why are men so crazy about breasts?”
“I’m sure there’s some natural explanation. Because men are hardwired to search for potential mates? Some fertility-slash-childbearing thing?”
“Cut the crap and tell the truth: what’s the very first thing you look at in a woman?”
“Huh… her eyes?”
“You’re such a terrible liar, Brian Anderson!” Her eyes take on a mischievous glint. “Boobs, waist and hips. But mostly boobs. The question is, do you want to procreate with every woman whose boobs you look at?”
Course not.
“Surely you don’t! There must be something else. And besides, no other mammal cares about boobs, these play absolutely no role in foreplay and intercourse! So, please, do me a favour, and exp
lain it to me!”
I shake my head, amused. I don’t know. I like them. A lot. I like them so much, even this scientific chit-chat about them is turning me on.
She gets up and extends her hand to me. “Come on. Take me to a softer place. My bum’s freezing.”
*
“Oh, good Lord!” I can’t hold back the snort of laughter when she enters the living room.
“What now? Don’t you like the ensemble?”
“I do. What a sight to behold!”
She’s snatched my slippers from behind the bathroom door and tucked her feet into them. They’re goddamn ugly, terribly unfashionable, probably four sizes bigger than her feet, and she looks a bit silly.
But I like her attitude, I like the fact that she’s so at ease and pragmatic and not some stuck-up snob.
Sitting on the sofa, comfortably sipping my wine, I observe her as she scans the bookcase next to the fireplace. It’s crammed with books messily placed vertically and horizontally, and her head is continuously bending sideways and upwards trying to read the titles on the spine of each book, mostly design and architecture-related stuff.
“Have you been drawing lately?” she asks, her eyes fixed on some books on classic painting.
“Not really.”
Something else catches her attention. “Ah, my younger cousin loves comic books too!” she says in a playful tone when she meets a stack of graphic novels – the Sin City series on the top of the pile.
“Hey, lady, those aren’t comic books!”
“Yeah, right.” There’s a note of amusement in her condescending, ironic tone.
She keeps studying the rack, browsing her index finger through the CD collection.
“Those are called graphic novels!” I explain, sounding offended.
She’s still looking attentively at the aligned CDs and finally picks one out, though I don’t know which. For some strange reason, her smile is gone.
“I’ve just seen Captain Marvel there. For real, people call that a novel?” she asks dryly. “Maybe for boys and nerds who’re afraid to look at real tits!”
I laugh. “Is that so?”
Her eyes keep studying the opened CD case. “Or maybe they’re just meant for people who’re too lazy to read. Or for guys who’re afraid to grow up,” she adds in a harsh, bitter voice.
“You’re not serious, are you?”
Throwing me a defiant squint, “You’re telling me you like to read this crap, but pretend it isn’t a kids’ book by calling it something else?”
Is it my imagination or is she actually holding a grudge against me?
“Want to know a sad truth, Brian Anderson? You guys like this rubbish because deep down you never stopped being little boys, that’s what it is!”
I am so dumbfounded I don’t even quite know how to react.
“Just tell me, where are most guys spending their time these days? Ha, playing Flappy Bird, right?”
“Liv?”
She ignores me completely and for the first time, I wonder if something is amiss, if she suffers from some sort of borderline disorder or is downright crazy.
“Iron Man, Spiderman, Superman, Batman, X-Bloody-Men,” she spits, counting with her fingers. “All huge blockbusters. Now, you know who goes out to watch all this childish crap? That’s right, adult males.”
She’s definitely not okay.
“Olivia?” I hold her hand, trying to calm her down, but she brushes it off.
“You know, there’s a study that says men only grow up at the age of...?” She jabs a finger into my chest. I stare down at it, stunned. “Forty-three, imagine that! It surely explains a lot about what’s going on here, doesn’t it?”
“You done? What the hell is wrong with you?” I hold her hand firmly. “Firstly, I don’t go around telling women to shove their silly romance novels straight up their bums. Second, not that I bloody care what your opinion is, but graphic novels can be very serious too; take Maus, about the Holocaust. Third, I’ve already put up with enough shit for one day. Maybe you should leave now.”
She lowers her eyes and lets out a heavy exhale, her shoulders sagging. For a moment, no words are exchanged, there’s only this tense silence and our breaths intertwining.
“I’m so sorry.” She rubs her forehead. “God, my head’s swimming from the wine. I’m calling for a taxi, I need to go before I talk any more rubbish…”
“What was all that about?”
She cast her eyes downward. “I’m tired, I told you. I shouldn’t have–”
“Stop it!” I tilt her chin up and look down into her face. “What is really going on?”
She glances up, blinking back tears. “Nothing. I apologise.”
I frame her face with my hands. “Liv?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s not as easy as I thought it would be. To see you again. I wanted to deal with this in the most mature way, pretend we don’t have a story – after all, it’s been such a long time. I thought I could handle being around you, but I can’t.” She pauses for a few moments. “All I know is the last thing I wanted was to have some stupid argument with you after all these years… and…”
“Yes?”
“Please, let us forget what’s just happened. Let’s say a proper goodbye, and put–”
“Aren’t you too late for that? Eleven years, eleven fucking years too late?” My voice is thick and harsh.
She freezes and the CD case she’s still holding slips from her hands and falls to the ground.
My heart begins to thud so hard I can almost hear it. My mind is a blur as I draw myself even closer, to let my hot breath brush her lips and my eyes bore into hers.
“Aren’t you?” I ask again, louder.
Her face turns pale and she seems too choked up to utter a single word. My gaze falls to her mouth again, to her lips parting slightly as she draws in steadying breaths.
A violent shiver moves through me.
For some insane reason, I hold her head in my hands and place a hard kiss on her lips. It’s firm and deep, with an urgency and eagerness that make each breath come faster. She throws her hands around my neck, pulling me down, inviting me in. And it hits me hard. Like a tidal wave of wanting and desperate need.
Breathing my name into my mouth, she runs her fingers through my hair, grabbing fistfuls of it, clinging fiercely to me. I need to pull back for an instant, to suck in a breath, but then I wrap one arm around her waist and pull her even closer, as close as our bodies can get. And our tongues tangle again, tasting each other desperately, frantically, in a hot and consuming kiss that feels like the sum of most desires.
My hips push hard against hers as I brush my lips against her collarbone and then kiss the bare skin of her shoulder, my body revealing her effect on me. I close my eyes to inhale her scent. It’s intoxicating.
She pulls my hair and demands my mouth again. And I groan against her lips, my hand running down her back to caress her thighs. An inarticulate sound breaks from her throat and reverberates through me.
And I like it.
A lot.
My heart lurches into an excited pace as she pulls my shirt from my trousers. And another shiver runs down my body as she unbuttons it and kisses my chest, murmuring something against it, something I can’t understand.
“What, sweetheart?” I whisper against her lips, my hand tackling its way to the zip of her dress.
“I want you,” she speaks softly, but her voice is uneven, something like a smothered cry.
Pulling gently away, I slip my hand under her chin, tilting her head up so I can see her.
Her eyes are glistening, almost tearing up.
“Hey, you okay?”
Olivia brushes her fingertips over the stubble on my jaw, a faint smile flickering on her lips. “It’s nothing, it’s just that... I’m a bit edgy today, that’s all.”
A fortuitous glance and my eyes fall to the floor.
Damn, the CD she was holding before. A birthday present from the year after
we broke up. She came to visit me, but I pretended I wasn’t at home. After that, I neither bothered to look for her at her uncle’s nor to thank her in any other form.
“You know, having thanked me wouldn’t have harmed you,” she says, both of us looking at the album Westlife must have released that year. “I missed you. An awful lot.”
“Liv?” I stare into her eyes, my fingers threading through her hair. “You were the one who broke up with me, remember? No, you didn’t even do that. You just left me, in the dark, without having any idea whatsoever what was going on in your head, or why you didn’t want to see me anymore. Having at least said goodbye that night wouldn’t have harmed you either.”
“I know, but I’d never felt so hurt, so disappointed...” She wipes her eyes with her hand and then pauses, a heavy silence falling between us. “We were just two silly kids. Why are we even digging this up now?”
“Come here.” I take her hand and lead her to the sofa, where I gesture for her to lie down and rest her head on my lap. “I think it’s about time we finish this bit of unfinished business of ours.”
11 MOVING MOUNTAINS
I STRAIGHTEN MY BACK and cross my legs at the ankles to make myself more comfortable on the L-shaped sofa. Olivia is staring at the ceiling in a seemingly absent-minded way, moving the ring on her middle finger back and forth, playing with it. She’s trying to bring some order to her thoughts, I believe, so we remain silent for a little while, just listening to some music.
“What is it that’s troubling you? Why don’t you get it off your chest?” I eventually ask. Stroking her hair with one hand, I open the CD with the other to reread the short note written on a mistletoe-shaped sticker on the inside.
‘Happy Birthday! And... Merry Christmas! I’m staying here for a couple more days. Call me. Liv xoxo’
I give an inward chuckle. Seriously, parents who don’t plan properly and risk having their kids born on Christmas Eve should be sued for moral damages. It really ground my gears when people did this: acting as if killing two birds with one stone was okay for a kid.
But with Olivia it’s a different story; obviously, that’s not the real reason why I never called her back. I didn’t because I wasn’t yet over her, that’s the truth.