I was feeling really good. Molly had recommended a piece of my writing in elust 93 and nothing new was going wrong at home. But my hands were really uncomfortable, as if I'd punched something. Quick trip to the doctors..tendinitis...so no typing. With a new blog this felt like a bit of a disaster, but I figured I was best to do as told. Really I know I should have written a post to explain, but with such a new blog I didn't know what to say.
But my hands didn't get better. They ached. Then the swelling began. There are lots of new ideas spilling round in my head about the complete helplessness of having your hands turn against you. Not just useless, but painful.
It looks like arthritis. Checks are being done and for now the flare up is under control enough to type.
Tonight's post is a gentle one to ease me back in. This couple have been with me for a long time, and when I need to get writing I turn to them. I turn to him when I need shelter. Turn to her when I want to celebrate the power of touch to put things back together. They are dancing...neither quite sure of the steps. Trying hard to keep this about their physical desires and needs and not about their rather battered hearts. But then I habitually write romance....so...
The glow from the streetlights couldn’t hide how pale and tired she was. He wanted to bring her in to his arms, but instead he stepped back to allow her into his home. She’d started talking, something about traffic, and had thrown her sports bag and yoga mat casually against the wall. She was all over the place tonight.
Silence fell as she perched on the end of his sofa. He wished this room looked less like the drawing room of an elderly maiden aunt, but before this, whatever this was, it had only been used when his mother or Shannon’s came to visit. He’d always thought it would turn into a cosy space to relax when they knocked through… and he was as off kilter as she was this evening. He took a deep breath and let it escape slowly, deliberately, blowing out till he felt his stomach muscles tighten and holding back on the reflex to breathe took effort.
Her eyes darted nervously from his chair to the window, his knees to the table, before settling on the tea tray. The ritual. He poured for her, and then for himself. Lemon and ginger this evening. He wanted her hydrated and calm before they went upstairs. When she became still and silent like this, it wasn’t the peace he wanted for her, it was a rigidity. Deliberately freezing as though that would render her invisible.
They didn’t speak as they sipped their drinks. He watched her, read her and didn’t need words to know this had been one shitty week. Did she even notice him, he wondered. Everything they did in these sessions was designed to keep the focus on her and for that, his routine began a clear hour before she was due to arrive. There was nothing domestic to distract, no post by the door, no smell of his evening meal. He was showered and dressed for her and he took that time to shed the day, to shed the outside and be ready for her.
No-one held her but him. He suspected very few even physically touched her in the course of her week. Not even Sam. Not with any deliberate intention to give her pleasure, anyway. It was a monogamous relationship of sorts, as no-one touched him either. Just her. And just here. Only with the pressure of her body against his. And he pretended that the awareness of that didn’t cut and sting.
He listened to each creaking tread as she followed him to the back bedroom, wishing he was leading her to bed. To lay her body over his as a living blanket, her scent mingling with his, her soft breasts and stomach cushions of warmth against his leanness. To wrap his arms around her and feel her sleep.
“I don’t think I can do this.” The words rushed out like vomit. He ignored them and pulled the blinds closed, shutting out the strange red night of the town. He started the slow tick of the metronome, set at the pace of his heartbeat, the rhythm of their time.
She dropped to her knees on the sports mat, the only furniture in the room.