In Her Words

by J. S Ellis

  27th February

  Evening,

  Diary,

  You wouldn’t believe what happened today. Even I’m still having a hard time grasping all of this!

  I checked the mail before I went up to the apartment. I dumped the mail on the kitchen table and switched on the kettle. I opened the letters, which were mostly bills and junk mail. Did I want my eyebrows tattooed? My carpets cleaned? There was also an envelope addressed to me, without a stamp or return address. I swallowed the lump in my throat, wondering if it was another of those notes. I studied the words. This one wasn’t typed, but written in neat handwriting.

  Meet me tomorrow at noon.

  M x

  Underneath was an address and a mobile number. I got up from the chair, removed the kettle from the cooker, and poured myself a glass of whiskey. I stared at the note again until the words began to smudge. What is it with him? There I was thinking Michael wouldn’t take a second look at me, and now he’s asking me to see him at his flat! I shouldn’t have gone to ask for his help regarding that night. I should have let it all pass as one of those crazy nights that go unremembered.

  Shall I tell Richard? Tell him what exactly? That a sexy, young saxophonist is hitting on me? I’d be shooting myself in the foot. I don’t want conflicts between Richard and me, but leave it as it is, a secret. The thing about secrets is they are dangerous, and they can be seductive. I allowed Michael into my consciousness. He’s undiscovered, unfamiliar, and the unknown. When the Devil presents himself to you, he’s alluring and beautiful. He seduces you and tempts you into the wilderness. Puts you in a state of trance where you hardly recognize yourself or the world around you. Lures you into his trap and before you know it, you have sinned.

  I touched the note as if there was a trace of him on it, shaking my head in disbelief. I opened the pedal bin with my foot, and threw the note inside. While preparing the evening meal, I slammed pots and pans, and slipping into a terrified murmured, oh no, no, no, what am I doing? What am I thinking? Trying to convince myself that, somehow, I am blameless.

  Couldn’t I be? There is the address of another man in the bin! Shall I remove it? It’s unlikely Richard will go through the rubbish.

  I’ve done nothing wrong. I admit, I find Michael positively beautiful, and I’ve flirted a bit, but I’m sure he gets it a lot from both women and men. He’s a talented musician. It’s his job to create a certain allure, but luring me into seeing him in his apartment? The danger of being with him in a room alone! How suffocating the whole experience would be. I have a fairy tale image in my head of the goblin leading the princess to his lair.

  I stopped cooking and caught my reflection in the living room window, surprised how flushed I appeared. The streets were empty except a few people walking by. Does Richard have plans tomorrow? He told me something, but I can’t remember. Everything he says is a blur. I’m sure he has to go golfing. Michael has conquered my eyes. Why have I allowed him into my imagination? I have a healthy marriage, not ideal or a perfect one, but I accept it for what it is. I get lonely, but I’m not alone. I have Richard. I get bored too sometimes because of the routine, but that’s marriage. I never thought of it as a sport. If I did, I would have thrown in the towel a long time ago.

  Did Michael sense something, or give him the impression I’m trapped in an unhappy marriage? Even so, the logical thing to do is not get involved with another man's wife. I took vows that Michael is breaking. I can’t say I’m a fabulous wife, or Richard is a fantastic husband, but we’ve managed all these years. He’s older than I am, and uses his authority and superiority which makes me feel inferior to him, but I don’t dwell on the petty stuff. I’ve learned to ignore him.

  I inspected my wedding ring, which I’ve never removed since Richard slipped it on my finger. My life commitment, forever. But forever is such a long time. How did I get myself into this mess? Oh no, no, no, what I am going to do?

  I moved closer to the window. I saw a figure in a black coat and a hat across the street, looking up at my window. A chill ran through me. It was Michael’s friend, Sam. What the hell was he doing here? What was he doing that for?

  28th February

  Midnight.

  Diary,

  Richard is snoring in the bedroom, so I’ve come out to the kitchen to write this. I’m still not over why Sam was looking at my window last night. I’m still a bit freaked out! Was he just passing by and saw me at the window. Did he even know it was me?

  By seven this morning, I was already out of bed. I hardly slept at all. I laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling in the dark. My brain refused to sleep. As I made breakfast, I felt a serenity in me I haven’t felt in years. Richard woke up, and we ate breakfast together. I drifted into my inner thoughts. Of course, I wasn’t going to see Michael, why should I? He has nothing to offer except chaos. I’m not going to make a mess of my life. He’s so young, and this is ridiculous and foolish. Somehow, I was trying to convince myself it wasn’t. Richard placed his hand on my thigh.

  ‘You are quiet, this morning. Are you feeling alright?’

  No! ‘Yes, darling, I’m fine.’

  ‘You seem miles away.’ He said, spreading Marmite on his toast.

  I reached for the spoon. The thought of food made me want to throw up.

  ‘I’m thinking about a problem at work?’

  ‘Leave work where it belongs.’ Richards said. Taking a bite of his toast and washing it down with tea.

  I placed my hand on his. ‘Would you like to go somewhere?’

  ‘I have golf this morning.’

  After Richard went golfing, I took my laptop to the kitchen table along with a set of clients’ accounts and sunk myself into work. I poured myself a large glass of gin and tonic, my first one of the day. I cleared the table and threw away my rough workings of T accounts in the bin.

  I took a long bath with Maria Callas playing in the background, emptying my mind. I put on a black long-sleeved skater dress, but as I inspected myself in the mirror, it seemed too provocative. I didn’t want to send the wrong message, so I changed into a different dress that wasn’t so short. I applied too much makeup which made me look like a tart, so I removed it and started again. My hands trembled as I drew on my eyeliner. I drank a glass of wine and took several drags of my cig to steady my nerves.

  I went outside and hailed a taxi. I must have been out of my mind. The cabbie kept looking at me through the rear view mirror. I bet he knew what I was up to, or maybe not. I probably looked like a corporate woman heading for a meeting with a client.

  I almost told the cabbie to turn around, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. Mama by Phil Collins was playing on the radio. Here I was on my way to meet a kid, who had seen me at my worst, if not at my most degrading. It wasn’t too late to change my mind. However, I didn’t change my mind when I paid and tipped the cabbie. I didn’t change my mind when I scanned the block of flats and rang the bell. I didn’t change my mind as I plodded along the corridor adjusting the hem of my dress.

  When I arrived, Michael was leaning against the doorframe, waiting for me looking flawless in black, with long earrings dangling from his ears. I like how well dressed he is, unlike those boys who wear jeans under their buttocks - they make me want to pull them up for them. He led the way. It was too late to change my mind now.

  He shut the door. I smiled, and he smiled back. With the back of my hand, I ran it across his cheek feeling the softness of his skin. A sexual wave built in my groin, I moved close enough that my lips almost brush against his. I was intoxicated by his beauty, his talent, his strangeness. It was so forbidden and sexy. The flat was small and gloomy, people shouted from outside, cars rumbled past.

  Three saxophones sat on the grey velvet sofa, one gold, one silver, and one red. I wondered what the difference was between them. I don’t know anything about saxophones. I scanned the room. There were two purple cushions on the floor, and red and blue scarves on the coffee table, books piled on top of
each other, amps, large speakers and a beatbox stacked in the corner, various comic books and paraphernalia, and a poster of Marilyn Monroe on the wall along with a hand fan and Japanese artwork. Has he been to Japan? There was another poster of A Clockwork Orange on the other wall. I wonder which version he liked the best. The book, or movie? There were several photos glued to the wall. His flat was intriguing in the same way a foreign country is fascinating when you first visit it.

  ‘You look nice,’ he said.

  ‘Just nice? I said. Laughing. I handed him my coat, and he placed it on the sofa.

  ‘You’ve got killer legs,’ he said, gazing down at them. Was he visualizing how he would fit between them, perhaps?

  I laughed.

  ‘So, what can I get you? I have a beer, wine...’ he said, walking towards the kitchen. I followed him. I expected to find dirty dishes and pizza boxes, but it was clean. I leaned against the doorframe as he opened the fridge, ‘or maybe I shouldn’t offer you any booze.’

  ‘I’m not going to get drunk.’ I said offended.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on you.’

  ‘I want both on me.’

  ‘As yours are on me.’

  We stared at each other.

  ‘That’s a nice touch leaving the note in my mailbox, inviting me to come here. Did you consider my husband might have opened the mail and read it?’

  ‘Does your husband open your mail?’

  ‘No...’

  ‘Then you had nothing to worry about.’

  I felt jittery. Had I really, nearly kissed him a few minutes before?

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Mailing me the note.’

  ‘No, I was careful.’

  ‘Can I smoke?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  I nearly ran to the window to get away from him. Being so close to him was strange. I shouldn’t have gone there. I can’t trust myself around him. He handed me the beer, I took a sip, and he kept watching me as if I was doing something remarkable.

  ‘What?’

  Michael looked away. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You are thinking of something,’ I said.

  ‘It’s strange...’

  ‘Strange?’

  ‘I thought you were going to chicken out...’ he paused, ‘you look like you can make men kiss the ground you walk on.’

  I puffed on my cigarette. ‘Make men kiss the ground I walk on, huh?’

  He frowned. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—‘

  ‘No please, I’m enjoying this, go on.’ I encouraged.

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what I mean.... I’ve seen the way men look at you.’

  ‘Have you now? As you were looking?’

  He blushed. ‘By looking, I don’t mean it creepily. I do look at you... it’s just that...’ he shrugged, ‘you are nice to look at.’

  ‘Is it ok if I call you, Mike?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The room fell silent. I noticed music from the apartment next-door and waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. He sipped on his beer contemplating, perhaps realizing this was a bad idea and was having second thoughts.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing...’

  ‘I am an older woman, not a girl, say what you have to say.’

  ‘You’re not that old.’

  I threw the cigarette out of the window ‘I said older, not old.’

  ‘How old are you? ’I think he felt uncomfortable and added quickly, ‘you don’t have to tell me.’

  ‘Thirty-seven.’

  This hung in the air. Michael opened the blinds and gazed out. I watched him as he looked out with an intensity you see in children caught in the wonder of the moment.

  ‘But you are aware,’ he said, without looking at me.

  I jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘Aware of what?’

  ‘Of the effect you have on men.’

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I couldn’t move. I wondered what was going to happen. Was he going to possess me? Did he know I was already seduced? Did he see how dazzled I was by him? How I couldn’t think of much else. Did he know how hooked I was and how I hated myself for it? I despised myself for being there. Each time I looked at him, I felt a mix of panic and excitement. I was enchanted, enslaved, and at his mercy.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’

  ‘You’re not. Why did you want to see me?’ I asked.

  ‘I enjoy your company.’

  ‘But it’s not just the company, is it? Tell me, what is it? Do I excite you, because I am older? Because I’m all over the place? Which one is it?’

  He glared at me. ‘You had a choice not to come. I didn’t put a gun to your head and force you, you came willingly.’

  ‘True... I enjoy your company too, although, I hardly know you,’ I said.

  He arched his eyebrow. ‘More than your husband’s?’

  ‘I enjoy his company too.’

  ‘But you’re here.’

  ‘Indeed...’

  ‘You could have gone anywhere with any man,’ he said, leaning against the sofa.

  ‘I can’t say... I’ve never done anything like this before. And you’re a boy.’

  He seemed hurt by this statement, ‘I’m not a boy.’

  ‘Oh, so you think you’re a man?’

  ‘Everything about you is dramatic.’

  ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘How many dramatic women have you met in your life?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘You’ve been with lots of women?’

  He looked at me in horror. ‘I’m only twenty-one.’

  ‘You be surprised how many boys your age have been around.’

  ‘Would you like it if I had been with lots of women?’

  ‘I like what makes you, you.’

  ‘But you wanted me to be older, didn’t you?’

  I pulled a face, ‘No, I didn’t want anything.’

  He lowered his eyes.

  ‘Have you ever been with an older woman?’ I asked.

  ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘Curious I guess.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  I was intrigued. ‘You’ve been with an older woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  What I wanted to ask was, was she beautiful?

  ‘About thirty,’ he said, holding my gaze. ‘Do I make you curious?’

  I paced around the room. My heels clicked on the wooden floor. I stopped opposite the shelf full of LPs, by artists that ranged from Black Sabbath to Adele. It was refreshing for someone so young to own LPs. Nowadays it’s either iTunes or Spotify for music and Kindles instead of actual books. You have to go through someone's playlist to find out what music they listen to or what books they read. It’s not sentimental at all. It’s better to hold an actual CD or a book in your hand than downloading it. There was a record player made of pine and acrylic. It looked expensive. I scanned the photos on the wall. One was with his friends sitting on a leather sofa. They looked candid and happy. There was a photo of him posing by the wall and another playing sax on stage. A stand of earrings caught my eye. I placed my index finger on a silver skeleton earring.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, dipping at him over my shoulder.

  ‘Is it because of the way I look?’

  ‘You look different, but no, there’s nothing wrong with the way you look.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, running his hand through his hair. His bracelets jiggled.

  I sat on the sofa. On the coffee table were stacks of books. Biographies. The one on top was of Little Richard. There was also an ashtray with a few spliffs in it, and a lighter and rolling paper beside it.

  I ran my finger along one of the saxophones beside me. ‘Why in all the instruments in the world you picked the sax?’

  ‘It’s not
the only instrument I play,’ he said.

  ‘What else do you play?’

  ‘Flute, guitar, bass, piano, drums. Do you play anything?’

  ‘I took guitar lessons when I was little. I played until I was sixteen, and then, I don’t know... I stopped.’

  ‘Would you like to give it a shot? I have a guitar.’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ I said horrified.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Not today.’

  I didn’t want to admit. I wasn’t good at playing the guitar, in fact, I sucked. He stopped and inspected himself in the mirror. The narcissistic behavior was off-putting. He didn’t have to be so full of himself. I stood up and lit another cigarette.

  ‘Don’t worry, you look great,’ I said, sarcastically.

  ‘I just like the way I look,’ he said.

  Boy, he’s arrogant! He was doing so well, why did he have to spoil it? The conversation shifted from movies to books, and then to music. He opened a bottle of wine and poured me a glass. I gulped it down as he watched me, wide-eyed. He sat on the sofa. I sat on the floor by his legs as if he was the king and I was his slave. I didn’t know what time it was, and I didn’t care. I thought of Richard golfing while I was in Camden, a place he wouldn’t be caught dead in.

  ‘You haven’t told me,’ I said.

  ‘I haven’t told you what?’ Michael asked sharply.

  ‘Where do you get the inspiration to write music like that?’

  ‘From making love,’ he said quietly, staring at me.

  I smiled.

  ‘Are you sad?’ Michael asked.

  His question threw me off guard. ‘What makes you think I’m sad?’

  ‘The drinking, something must trigger it...’ he shook his head, ‘I’m sorry it’s none of my business.’

  ‘I don’t drink much,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t drink much? You’re like a sponge. Did something happen to you... sorry.’

  ‘Yes,’ I paused, ‘and then my husband had a heart attack. I had to look after him. I knew what I was getting myself into when I married him, the age difference I mean. When you spend so much time living with someone, it's natural, it becomes a routine. You end up becoming more like a brother and sister.’

  ‘But it doesn’t have to be like that.’