Through the keyhole

‘And that’s home’, I swept my hand through the air, gesturing towards the village. ‘There is nowhere as beautiful as this in the whole city.’ I looked back to her face, a porcelain foreground to the disordered terraces and chimneystacks of Kentish Town. As I caught the fleck of approval in her eyes, I felt warm pride. It was the first time I had shown her somewhere that mattered. We had walked for several minutes up the steep hill. Now, she seemed slightly dazed – perhaps even giddy. I liked this; it spiked the holiday-air with recklessness.

Tramping further up the hill, I started to realise how relaxed she made me feel. My measured, but calm, manner was a cover to allow me to study her. Her movement was not graceful, but it was friendly. Her whole body was a familiar animal – it’s motion elegant in its intricacy. Muscles that tensed and relaxed were murmurs rippling through a gorgeous machine.
As we approached the village, I pointed out local sights, each with an attached story.
‘I sat and ate pizza with Tom on this bench. At sunset the view is unbeatable. You can see across the whole city. It’s kind of like all of the buildings are on fire. The glass ones reflect the bright pink setting sun. It really is quite dazzling.’
‘The signpost points to the left saying “The North”, and to the right “The village”. It’s quite an insular view of the world.’

A few minutes later, just beyond the signpost, we touched, at a table, outside a pub, her hand teasing my arm and mine grazing her leg. The frisson of touch was like cold steel sparking against concrete. The fingers knew that later it would be hot steel into butter.

I suppose if I were sensible I would have suggested that we ate dinner somewhere. It would have stopped the alcohol affecting us. Sometimes though, I don’t want to be sensible. I know I should be, but the chance to rebel, to do what seems wrong is one that I can’t often resist.

Much later, after several pint glasses of beer and a warming sambuca shot, we made our way to her lodgings. The holiday was complete as she was housesitting in a superbly extravagant mansion. More out of gallantry than common sense, I walked with her. She assured me that her partner would be waiting for her. The fire would be contained.

The walk was long enough to forget the pub atmosphere and to leave it wanting a replacement. Familiarity and practicality allowed us to hold hands - crossing a road, she stumbled on the curb – I caught her, but realised that we had both probably drank more than was wise.

Several minutes later we stood in a darkened porch outside a darkened house, our lips soft and warm and united: he was out. As our lips opened, possibilities and temptations opened in my mind. She pushed the key into hole and turned. The lock clunked open. She pulled me through the doorway. Now we could not stop kissing. Her hair tumbled against her tumbling clothes. Our bodies sought surfaces to push against.
‘Up!’ she breathed into my ear, then a gesture to clarify. I chased her up several flights of stairs to a roof terrace filled with warm air and an expensive view.

Outside and breathless, her body immediately found railings as I pushed into her. To the side of her breast a dozen skyscrapers glowed across the cityscape. Occasionally my nose obscured the view.

Afterwards, as her chest burned red and my groin ached for more and my tongue searched my lips for her taste; he came home.
As a family we sat, in the lounge: mother, father, lover. We talked about the weather and about property prices. We drank pink grapefruit juice. He was drunk but attempting to be polite. He spoke as people do when they don’t really know someone, or how they should act with them. I spoke as one does when trying to not seem guilty of anything.

Later I made my excuses and left. On the N134 nightbus (Archway, Tufnell Park, Kentish Town), I smiled, as soda smiles when it has been opened and the carbon dioxide has fizzed out. The heat inside had found release and cooled. And as long as it rose and peaked and cooled there would never be a problem.

Months later, through a lack of foresight I deliberately cooled the passion – hoping to freeze it. For ten weeks it simmered painfully until it turned to bitterness and hatred and misunderstanding.

Never contain the fire unless you know it can be extinguished.