by Ana Simons
Hopefully, she isn’t.
She nudges me with her elbow again, throwing me a tentative smile that eventually breaks in a chuckle. “Hey, neighbour, may I borrow some salt?”
I take a moment to process the question. “Borrow what?”
Like a valve relieving its pressure, she blows some air out of her mouth, and a couple of strands fly up. “Twenty-six bones, thirty-three joints and nineteen muscles need my urgent help!”
My reflected image looks down at hers confused, my frown demanding clarification.
“My feet. Just trying to prevent a not so splendid high-heel hangover. So, if you don’t mind, we’ll have that drink in your bathroom.”
I grin inwardly, first picturing all the different things I could do with her in that room, I won’t deny it. But then it dawns on me that the easy-going, down-to-earth girl I’ve known my entire life is still here, acting as if there’s never been a gap in our lives.
“Hmm, a drink in my tub. Good idea! Excellent idea!”
She notes the sly innuendo and fakes her best scolding look, a hand landing on her hip defiantly.
Unable to disguise the mischievous smile on my face, I give her ribs a quick tickle, teasing her. “Red, white or beer, sweetie?”
“You’ve got some Port?”
Third floor. The lift finally announces the arrival with a signal and a soft bump.
*
“Ooh, this just feels soo good!” She breathes out in a sort of orgasmic moan and I almost lose my balance.
After setting some background music playing in the living room, I enter my bathroom, two glasses in one hand, a bottle of Port wine in the other. Olivia is sitting on the small wall that supports the tub, the skirt of her dress pulled up to the knees revealing her slender legs, both feet dipped into eight inches of salty water.
After pouring the wine, I clink my glass with hers and put the glass and bottle down. I take off my tie and roll up my sleeves before I sit on the ceramic floor, definitely amused at the whole scene.
“Living alone here?” she asks, seemingly absent, as she continues her smothered sighs, emitted as she lengthens her back and performs some feet stretching and twisting movements.
I hum in confirmation.
“Girlfriend?”
I shake my head and sip my wine.
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 and asks, “So you have a thing for women’s make-up now?”
My throat clenches when I see it, Jo’s lipstick lying forgotten on the dark stone. Shit!
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, really. You look amazing in a suit.”
Even before she finishes making her playful assumptions, I have already managed to get up and throw the damn thing into some 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 up her hair up in a ponytail and then empties her glass.
I sit down again, pour some more wine 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 remains silent for a while, her expression introspective. “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?”
No idea, I don’t know, I let her know with a shrug.
Olivia, however, seems to have an explanation. “So we can treat you as some sort of fixable project! Honestly, most times we don’t look at a guy for what he is, rather at his potential, as if he was a chunk of soft clay that 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... such bullshit!” she concludes, clearly frustrated, before she takes another sip and lifts her legs, looking around for a towel.
I throw her the one I pull from the hanger above my head.
“Love is a complex thing, isn’t it?” I ask, rhetorically, last year’s events circling through my head.
Meanwhile, she sits down too, right in front of me, and begins to dry her feet.
I catch her eyes with my gaze. “Love, what is that in the end? Maybe that’s not even possible. I mean, you can love your child and your parents—there’s a bond there that cannot be broken—but some significant other?” She hums in agreement and I continue, “I suppose sometimes people confuse attraction and desire with love, and one day, sooner rather than later, you grow tired, it’s all gone, vanished into thin air… Maybe Rob’s right and it’s all just like fish and chips!”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Everyone likes them a lot, but if they eat them at every meal, every bloody day, everyone knows what will happen... But despite all this, that’s what really puzzles me, people do get married and promise before everyone it will be forever, they commit to having fish and chips every frigging day of their lives! But of course, in a blink of an eye, they’re at each other’s throats, as if what they once had meant absolutely nothing. It’s weird, I don’t know. People are all weird, I guess.”
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.”
“All those years and I didn’t know you had a poetic side! Come here.” I tap on the floor and invite her to sit closer.
She crinkles her nose, confused.
“Come. Methinks you’re going to love this foot rub!” I beckon with a wave of my hand and her eyes light up again.
Supporting her body weight on both arms, she slides towards me. I cup my hands around one foot and begin rubbing it.
“Me, poetic? No! Just quoting Robert Fulghum.”
“Never heard of. Then again, reading isn’t really my thing.”
She seems more relaxed now, playing with her glass, watching the dark red liquid swirl against the light. “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 contour 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. Then 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.
“Oh God, yes…” This time a hoarse groan escapes her throat.
I blow a short breath. Frankly, it seems she’s writhing with ple
asure. With each passing second, it’s getting more and more difficult to keep this 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 her soft skin, but the thought is interrupted by an indistinct breathless whisper.
“What?”
“Harder!” she breathes out, this time louder, and another pleasurable shudder travels through my body.
Help me, God.
What if I pull her in a bold move and have her straddling me?
Why would you want to get slapped?
After another sharp intake of breath, I close my eyes, and for a moment I stay like that. Letting it all sink in, forcing 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 don’t believe in love? Because you never found the right woman, that’s why.” She finally holds her head straight and gives me a reassuring smile. “But one day you will.”
I thank her with a smile, and watch her close her eyes again, immerse 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.
A few seconds later, she gives me a scolding stare. “Hey!”
“What?”
“Eyes up, boy!”
“Huh?”
“You know the way a man’s gaze roams over a woman’s body tells you how much 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!”
“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.
My heart rate kicks up. She’s right, I’ve been staring at her boobs. Last time I checked these were fairly different and right now they’re messing with my brain big time.
“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… the 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? 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 explain it to me!”
I shake my head, amused. I don’t know. I like them. A lot. I like them so much that even this scientific chit chat about them is turning me on.
She suddenly gets up and extends her hand to me. “Come. Take me to a warmer and softer place. My butt’s freezing.”
*
“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 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 either vertically or 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.
“No, not really.”
Something else catches her attention. “Ah, my younger cousin loves comic books too!” She says with narrowed eyes and 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. They aren’t...” 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 as if 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. “Sure. I’ve just seen Captain Marvel here. You call it a novel? Maybe for boys and nerds who’re afraid to look at real tits!”
“Is that so?” I laugh.
“Or maybe they’re just meant for people who’re too lazy to read. Or for guys who never grew up and still like children’s books.” Her eyes keep studying the opened CD case and there’s such bitterness in her tone, I don’t know anymore if she’s bantering or not.
“You’re not serious, are you?”
Wagging one of the books, she throws me a defiant little squint. “So, you’re telling me you read this crap, but pretend it isn’t a kids’ book by calling it something else?”
Bloody hell, what is this now? 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 down there 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? Ah-ah! Playing Flappy Bird, right?”
“Olivia?”
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 if she’s downright crazy.
“Just check this out: Iron Man, Spiderman, Superman, Batman, X-Bloody-Men. All huge blockbusters. Now, you know who goes out to watch all this childish crap? That’s right, adult males.”
She’s barely taken a breath, she’s definitely not okay.
“Olivia?” I hold her hand, trying to calm her down, but she brushes it off.
“And did you know there’s a study that claims men only grow up at...?” She jabs a finger into my chest and I stare down at it, stunned. “Want to take a wild guess? At forty-three, imagine that! It surely explains a lot about what is going on here, doesn’t it?”
Okay, enough is enough. Firstly, I don’t go around telling women to shove their silly, sappy romance novels straight up their bums. Second, not that I bloody care what her opinion is, but comic novels can be very serious too; take Safe Area Gorazde, about the Bosnian War, or Maus, about the Holocaust. Third, I’ve already put up with enough shit for one day. She should leave now.
“Are you done? What the hell was all that?” I snap, holding her arms firmly, fighting the urge to shake her.
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.
“Olivia?”
“I’m so sorry. 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’s just happened here?”
She keeps her gaze down and shakes her head silently. “I’m tired, I told you.”
>
I tilt her chin up and look down into her face. “No. 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’d be. To see you again. I wanted to deal with this in the most natural, mature way, pretend we don’t have a story—after all it’s been such 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?”
“I’m sorry, let us forget all this. 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 and she freezes, the CD she was still holding slipping from her hands and falling 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, and a violent shiver moves through me.
Oh, screw it!
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, taste each other desperately, frantically, in a hot and consuming kiss that feels like the sum of most desires.