by Kerri Sharpe
My skirt dropped into position and I leant against the wall, panting. I could see the shape of him moving behind me, feel the brush of his movements, hear the shuffle of his feet. His breath was ragged like mine, and I felt its heat on my skin as he leant to print a kiss behind my ear.
‘Goodbye.’
And then he was gone.
‘No,’ I pleaded.
I didn’t see, hear or sense him go.
He simply wasn’t there any more.
It was just me, breathless and stunned, violently alone. I stood, tender, sticky and dishevelled, in a grubby alley off a gloomy street.
Confused and a little hurt, I bent to hitch up my knickers. Typical bloody man, I thought, failing to convince myself. Then my heart lurched because the ground by my feet was glowing with bright pearly light. My boots were in a lime-lit mist, a blaze of white smoke illuminating concrete and stone. Afraid, I staggered away, turning to look. Weeds were growing up the wall, actually moving, hyper-real weeds in brash aerosol colours. Their leafy stems wriggled, their garish flowers pulsed, the patch emitting a strange phosphorescence as if a piece of moon had landed.
I clamped my hand to my mouth, edging back to view more of the wall. It was impossible, all of it. Rising from the weeds, dark against the pale scarred stucco, was a life-size silhouette of a woman, legs apart, hands spread in surrender. Me.
I thought of those terrible shadows left on Japanese walls after the hottest flash. And even as I thought that, the image seemed to shift to become something more crystalline, atomised. Was it sprayed? It glimmered wetly but I didn’t dare touch it. I could see my skirt bunched around my hips; the shape of my boots; how my hair had got messy; the way my mouth must look in profile when I cry out in ecstasy.
Even now, I struggle to find words for it, and words are my trade. A simple dark shape and yet it felt so intricate. It had a delicate, evanescent quality, despite its solidity.
No, that won’t do, that won’t do at all. Nothing will fix it. Nothing will describe it.
I felt as if I were in the presence of an extraordinary vision.
I felt as if my life had changed.
I felt scared yet elated and I backed away faster, panic rising.
Was this what they meant by another side? With him . . .
Would it fade? Would it vanish like the walls?
Dear Janie, I thought. Dear Janie . . .
And then I didn’t know what to say. Because I didn’t know if she would listen.
And even if I screamed, I didn’t know if I’d be heard.
Kristina Lloyd is the author of the Black Lace novels Darker than Love, Asking for Trouble and Split.
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Epub ISBN: 9780753525265
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Black Lace books contain sexual fantasies. In real life, always practise safe sex.
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