Close
I am lying in bed. I am alone and I am listening to you. Through my curtains the morning sun kisses pink on my bedroom walls and casts the room in a rose tinted hue. My breathing is shallow and the cotton sheets caress my naked skin as my chest rises. My hands rest by my sides, my fingers spread wide like starfish on the blue sheets. I try to slow my heart beat as much as possible, to submerge into the depths of a meditative state, so I won’t be distracted. So I can be closer to you.
She lets out a long, low moan and through the wall opposite me I imagine that I can see you both. She is wearing one of your T-shirts, black with a faded ACDC logo. The remains of yesterday’s mascara shadows her eyes and her hair is crumpled. She is younger than you and I, but I can forgive you. We all have to succumb to our physical urges sometimes.
She leans back against the headboard and bites her lip. You tilt her face towards you and kiss her, then pull off her T-shirt. In the half light her ghost white breasts are lined with dark veins, like the roots of a tree embedded deep within the earth. Her eyes are closed and a faint smile plays on her lips. Your hands stroke her stomach, her naval and travel further down. She gasps to let you know that she wants you, just like I want you. Like I’ve wanted you ever since you moved in next door.
I move closer and watch, perched on the edge of the bed at an angle so I can capture you both. Her eyes, still closed, roll in their sockets. I wonder where her mind is taking her, why doesn’t she drink you in as I am doing now? I imagine you kissing me instead of her, your fingertips leaving prints that burn the surface of my skin. Your breath warm in my ear. But she keeps her eyes closed to you.
Frustrated with her detachment I visualize myself pacing around your bedroom. On the floor, as if they have no rightful place in your home, her clothes are piled in a corner. A tight top that accentuates her curves when worn and heels to make her appear your equal. But appearances can be deceiving. A stream of sunlight catches the dust and the air glitters like gold. Your books line the walls, a rainbow of paperbacks exhibiting your years of reading. I imagine you like Kundera, Murakami and Coupland like me, and a cool sadness settles over me like snow when I think about all the conversations we’re missing, having never actually spoken to each other. I think about the films that we’d enjoy, the places where we’d take our walks and the meals we could cook together, if only you knew I was here.
On the bed her cries become more climatic, demanding both our attention. Suddenly she gasps, her mouth wide as if in shock. You wrap your arms around her, kiss that part of skin between her ear and her neck and wait for her to settle down. She whimpers and then crumples and curls up to you for a cuddle.
I am in my bed again. I am alone and your silence hums around me, like electricity in the air after a storm. In a moment you will kiss her, then you walk naked into the bathroom and take a shower. She will lie in bed, much like I am now, and listen to your movements. Maybe tomorrow, when she is at college, I will say hello. Maybe tomorrow I will make a point of finding out your name. But for now it is enough to know that we have been intimate, you and I. For now it is enough to know we have been close, even if you didn’t know it.
Harboring a long love affair with literature, Aimee Wilkinson writes short stories, radio scripts and is currently working on her debut novel, Blackbird. She is part of the Derby based New Writing and Spoken Word collective, Hello Hubmarine which aims to promote new writing in all its different shapes, forms and sizes and manifests itself through workshops, quality publications and live events. She is also an experienced workshop leader and a great advocator of all things creative. She blogs here on all things literary: Aimee Wilkinson.
