Free Falling

by Ana Simons

  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 intently 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’d never felt so hurt, so disappointed...” She wipes her eyes with her hand and then pauses, a heavy silence falling between us. “Come on, we were just 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 third 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 x’

  I give an inward bitter chuckle. Seriously, parents who don’t plan properly and risk having their kids born on Christmas Day 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. Bunch of insensitive smartasses. But of course, with Olivia it’s a different story; that’s not the reason why I never called her back. I didn’t because I wasn’t yet over her, that’s the truth.

  Olivia doesn’t reply immediately, instead, she looks up with a serious and pensive expression on her face. Then she reaches for a pillow, which she puts on my lap and fluffs a bit before she rests her head down again. “Oh Brian, look at you. You’re probably the last guy on earth who would understand what I’m going through...”

  “Why don’t you try me?”

  She turns and lies on her side, wrapping her arms around herself. “Really? Can you tell me why apparently all men think marriage is for suckers?”

  I pull a blanket off the back of the sofa. “Let’s cover up all this hotness. I really don’t want to look at it. I feel like a poor kid whose candy has been taken away.”

  She responds with an eye-roll, followed by a muffled little giggle. Then she wraps herself in the fleece covering, snuggling into it.

  I pretend I’m not affected as much as I actually am, and try to act in a light-hearted manner. “I am almost jealous of this damn thing.” I adjust the blanket around her shoulders.

  “Don’t be silly!”

  “It’s not all of us, Liv. I’m the only one who hasn’t taken the plunge, everyone else has. And as far as I know, none of them had a gun pointed at their head.”

  She turns around again and flashes me an inquisitive look. “How come you don’t want to meet someone who makes you feel she’s the one? That your life would be so much better if she were part of it?”

  I know that feeling. Too damn well. A long time ago, Olivia was the first thing I thought of when I woke up, and the last thing when I fell asleep. She was my entire world, for her I would have moved mountains.

  I know, I was just a kid, but at the time I took it seriously and felt totally devastated when she put an end to it. I felt my world had collapsed. And I continued to feel like that during the following two years, or maybe more, I don’t recall anymore. That was probably the moment I started to develop my selective memory skills.

  “No, I’m afraid I’m not there yet. Settling down is a scary thought, the idea of spending my life with the same person up until the day I kick the bucket is frightening as hell. You’re right, I’m not exactly a good example.” I reach for her hand and lace my fingers with hers.

  “But why? Why couldn’t I make that prick commit? First, he had gotten out of a bad relationship, then it was bad timing, then he was not ready, not in the right place yet...”

  “Does Mr Prick have a name?”

  “You know, Filipe never actually proposed, that bastard. Eventually, I got fed up with all that bullshit-talk and told him I wouldn’t date him for the seventh year. He always knew I’d want to start a family at some point, I wasn’t going to waste my time anymore on a coward who was unwilling to commit. Either we moved in together or he could get himself a one-way ticket to Prickville.”

  “You cornered him?” I swallow a chuckle, restless fingers threading through her hair again.

  “I did. That dickhead had his back against the wall and finally agreed to it. ‘Okay then, we should settle on a date,’ he told me. Just like that. After an argument in the meds room. As romantic as a clyster shoved up your bum!” She sighs in frustration. “That’s really every girl’s dream...”

  My finger slides down to draw circles on her forehead, further down to trace the corners of her mouth. I brush her lips, wanting to kiss them again. But her mind is miles away, so I don’t think she even notices it. Instead, she shoots me another quizzical look and insists I give her some answers.

  “Why? Why is it such a scary thing, to commit?”

  “I don’t know. What if I pick the wrong person? What if she changes into something I hate? What if she’s not the one, but the one is still out there waiting for me? I truly don’t know... it’s complicated.”

  She frowns and looks at me with narrowed eyes, a deep stare that penetrates into mine. “So you just keep it simple? With what? One-night stands? With hook-up friends or something? What do you do the next morning? You slip away with as little fuss as possible?”

  This conversation is becoming really awkward. I feel I’m being psyched and, even worse, this is not something I’d discuss with a woman, much less with an ex-girlfriend I haven’t seen in centuries.

  I don’t reply. I guess she assumes my silence as a yes.

  “But don’t you get tired of it? Of no-strings-attached flings? Don’t you get bored with all the useless small-talk? When you know beforehand
you won’t ever be with that person? I bet the sex isn’t even great. It can’t be: people have to know each other well, otherwise they screw that up too!”

  I just shrug and smile. She’s actually right. One thing is doing it with someone you really care about, a very different situation is ending up in the bedroom with some girl after the club has closed. The latter is only about sex, the former is about much more than that. But then again, what am I supposed to tell her?

  “But isn’t it such a meaningless experience? Sex without love?”

  Well, I’ll be damned if that wasn’t what was about to happen a little while ago. Was it?

  Anyway, Woody Allen explained it wonderfully, and I’m not even a great fan of the man: ‘sex without love is indeed a meaningless experience, but as far as meaningless experiences go, it’s a pretty damn good one’.

  Can’t really explain it, but instinctively I lift the pillow and bend to kiss her on the forehead. “I’m sorry about what happened, that it didn’t work out. But it will, someday, with some other guy. With someone who actually deserves you.”

  She smiles. A soft, tender smile. Then she holds my hand against her face and kisses my knuckles.

  For a moment, the feel of her soft skin tugs me back in time and a warm, electrifying sensation rushes through my body. For a split second, I am the nineteen-year-old me who’d already called off the search and would do anything to make her pain go away.

  Except, I’m not that guy anymore. But she is my friend, and regardless of what might have happened, she always will be.

  “So, you want a quality guy, right?”

  “I’m not getting any younger here!” She winks, an amused smile escaping her lips as she snuggles her body into mine.

  My pulse quickens all over again. Fighting to contain the confusing emotions running riot inside me, I have to suck in a silent deep breath before I drape one arm across her shoulders and pull her even closer.

  “Okay, let me tell you about guys who’re only playing the field, the kind you don’t want to waste your time with. The bastards you should keep at a safe distance. Want to listen to my crap?”

  “If it’s free.”

  “First rule of thumb: ditch weekenders. You immediately want to dump the guy who forgets about you during the week and only calls when he needs someone for his weekend chill-out programme. Got that?”

  “Taking a mental note.” A yawn escapes her mouth. “Sorry...”

  “Close your eyes. Just listen.”

  She assents.

  I bury my hands in her hair again and keep pressing my fingers and moving them in circles. “Number two. You don’t want to be around the scumbag who’s only making plans with you for the next weekend, and not for the next year. Same thing if he doesn’t hang out with you on a Sunday afternoon. You deserve more than a guy who just wants to meet up at a pub on a Friday evening and shag right after.”

  “Who are you describing, Brian Anderson?”

  I ignore the sardonic smirk that quirks her mouth. She may think she does, but she doesn’t know the entire truth.

  “You want to spend your time with a guy who remembers all the things you told him about yourself. Those who just want to have fun, trust me on this, they’ll have to think hard to remember your last name.” My fingers move to rub her temples with soft, smooth strokes. “And you should stay away from the blithering idiot who doesn’t call you his ‘girlfriend’ and who wants to keep things casual. This is also the kind who will never give you his Wi-Fi password.”

  She hums, faintly.

  “A guy who really cares for you wants to know all about you, about your baggage and will do his best to make you happy. He will call you, text you, he’ll go after you, he’ll find a way to let you know how important you are to him. The kind you want to avoid just wants to have fun, has no clue of your life and doesn’t want to know either. That’s none of his business for all he cares!”

  Olivia’s breathing is long and heavy now. I slide my thumb along the edge of her jaw, studying and tracing the delicate contours of her face. Is she sleeping?

  “And you don’t want a know-it-all either, who’s never vulnerable around you, who’s not willing to show you his weaknesses, what troubles him. If he wants you around only for the fun part and nothing more, then he won’t ever take you seriously. Understood?”

  She doesn’t reply. She’s fallen asleep.

  And we haven’t even had the chance to talk about us...

  I wiggle from behind her head, careful not to wake her, adjust the pillow and tuck her under the blanket. After turning off the ceiling light, I give myself another moment to observe her, her beautiful face shadowed in the flimsy brightness of the table lamp.

  It’s almost two in the morning. I’m tired too, but it’s no use, it’s stronger than me: I can’t leave her and go to bed. Instead, I sit on the edge of the sofa and watch her sleep, so quiet and peaceful with her hair spread across the pillow, and follow the movement as she takes each breath, listen to her unintentional sighs. As I slip a loose strand back from her face, the realisation that in a few hours she won’t be around anymore dawns on me, leaving me restless and confused. My stomach knots at the thought.

  Next thing I know, I’m heading to my office to grab a sketchbook and a handful of pencils. I rarely do this anymore, but I want to perpetuate this moment, to preserve this memory of her.

  Back in the living room, I sit on the couch near the light and study her features for a while, mentally defining each line, each position.

  I start off with a few rough strokes, sketching the shape of her face. Pressing the carbon pencil into the paper, I begin to define her jaw and hairline, then draw her closed eyelids—she looks so graceful, like one of those classical angels, really—and her eyebrows. Then her nose, her freckled nose. Her mouth, her full beautiful lips. I rub some bits, make her lips more accurate, more perfect.

  I study her hair, the way it flows across her forehead, and then bring it to the paper, with its slight waves tumbling over her neck, over her shoulder. Finally, a few shades to give it a shape and some final touches.

  Not bad, I conclude, as I hold the paper back to assess it, my gaze shifting from the drawn lines to the woman sleeping on my sofa–

  Huh?

  Someone has just rung the doorbell. You’ve got to be kidding me! At this late hour?

  It was only a brief ring, thankfully. I immediately check on Olivia. She turns over, but apparently, the dinging sound didn’t wake her up. I immediately rush to the intercom before another ring brings her back from her sleep.

  What the hell...?

  12 Honesty

  In all seriousness, they should raise a statue to the guy who finally cracks the code to the female mind. Women are indeed a complete mystery, even Stephen Hawking said so, and everyone knows the guy is a genius. We might as well be realistic, when the man who knows all about black holes and quantum mechanics doesn’t get it, the rest of us are pretty much doomed.

  Take honesty, for example. Everyone says it’s an important virtue, one that reveals strength of character, right? Women are always saying they value it, that they appreciate an honest man, don’t they?

  So how come I can’t tell my mother her new hair colour is a disaster, that it’s so orange it reminds me of a frigging traffic cone?

  And how come when Sue asked me if her ass looked big in that tight dress today, I couldn’t drop a truth bomb but gave her a flat resounding NO instead? Simple. She’s my sister, I love her, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, that’s why.

  But still, it makes no sense to me.

  For crap’s sake, why do women keep on asking us the obvious but then go apeshit if we don’t tell them what they want to hear? How can they demand honesty, if they can’t handle the truth? Because—and everyone knows this—if we tell them the ugly truth, we’re downright insensitive bastards.

  Or an ass, a prick, imbecile, dickhead or any other equally unflattering equivalent.

  Dam
mit, all these words are still rumbling around my head!

  It’s three in the morning and, apparently, I’ve survived this miserable, sodding day. I’m finally in my bed, still in one piece, which is almost surprising, to say the least. Olivia is still sleeping on the sofa, admirably oblivious to the bungled mess of epic proportions that almost happened.

  It was Josephine who was on my doorstep. When I came down, and even before I opened the glass front door, the taxi that had brought her was already turning the corner and driving away. What a nightmare! One of those WTF moments you hope never happens to you. Shit was definitely going down.

  “Jo, what are you doing here this late?” I asked softly.

  “I would have told you I was coming, but then I thought I could surprise you instead. I’m sorry if I got a bit carried away this afternoon.”

  I nodded, speechless. Oh, you surprised me, all right.

  “I drove by, saw the lights on and thought it’d be nice if you offered me a drink.”

  “It’s kind of late. Besides, I was about to go to bed.”

  With a sort of begging pout, she insisted, “Just one. Then I’ll go… unless you want me to stay, of course.” She gave me a flirty wink as she tried to push open the front door.

  I blocked her. “Hmm-hmm. No, Jo. You should go now.”

  A mix of frustration and anger clouded her features, darkened her eyes. “What the hell, Brian? You’re sending me away?”

  “I am.”

  And then she totally snapped. She cussed me out and called me every name in the book. Loud and clear. She was seriously mad at me, thoroughly pissed off because I didn’t call her back. Because I only call when I want to shag her, therefore I must be a bastard. Of the worst kind.

  Actually, she’s the one who usually calls me, but I didn’t give myself the trouble of defending myself.

  I tried to calm her down, always looking up, fearing that dreadful instant neighbours start to shout back and switch on lights. Or even worse, call the police. And for a while, I even thought total disaster was about to happen, when she sat down on the entrance steps, insisting she wouldn’t leave until the woman inside my apartment got out. Because she should know too, how much of a cynical asshole I am.