Sunday suN

I just suppose I�d assumed she would always be single. Odd how you crystallise your image of someone so completely around one or two facts. She was single, she always was and always would be, sure as the sun sets and the tide rises. I know that ultimately the attached-status is an academic point, she would always be off limits to the likes of me. It just made it easier when I assumed she was off limits to everyone, like some shining vestal virgin, the untouchable woman, making it all the more alluring of course you understand. And then even when your head tells you this, your heart never listens, or perhaps it was my just my libido, but no matter how many times I reminded myself that I could never have her my heart wanted to whisper otherwise, to draw me out on a string of false hopes and misread signs, and whilst she was still single there was always that chance, that faint glimmer at the end of a long day, a little brighter once the bottom of the whiskey glass stares back at you. Oh well, another fantasy to go up in smoke.

Seeing them like that last night did shock me, almost a kick to the stomach, it must have shown on my face, and I quickly turned away, slogged some more of my drink back and carried on comforting Craig, suddenly craving that same concern and care for myself. But I�m tough as old boots, at least my liver is, and my skin�s thicker than leather, and the last thing I�d do is let anybody know I cared, least of all about her. So instead I�ll come home to a house too big for just one and I�ll talk to my little cat, the latest in a succession of tabbies that I chose to name after some of the most unpleasant characters I�ve met. I like to do that, keeps the job with me, no barrier dropping allowed, even when laid in bed.

It�s still hurting now actually if I admit it to myself, which after the volume I�ve knocked back tonight is too easy. It�s too easy to let myself feel tonight. I have succumbed to that siren song of self pity, just another futile crush on a straight women, story of my life, so why the hell could I never learn. I can still see the image of that dance in my mind, frozen in some kind of cruel photo-on-the-mantelpiece picture. But it�s not that image which sticks in my head, not the two old friends turned familiar lovers, swaying innocently on that floor in a darkened club, it was something baser, underpinning it all, underpinning all of us I suppose. I must have been looking for it, I don�t think anyone else noticed, or they were too polite to say, but it was the subtle movement of her hips against him. That�s what has stuck with me, except it�s morphed, grown, like some hideous monster in the first horror film you ever saw. No longer is it just that ghost of a touch, or his hand lingering briefly on her breast, or the earnest look in his eyes, no, now when I close my eyes I can see her head thrown back in ecstasy, a thin sheen or sweat glistening her lithe body, or worse perhaps I have this image of them stood in front of wide patio doors, slung open in the dying summer nights as they watch the sun fall on their world, and as she shivers gently he wraps his arms around her, enveloping that just too thin body in safe arms. And I hate it.

I should stop thinking like this, I know I should, but I really don�t have control of my head, nor my hands really I realise as I try to pour more whiskey into my glass. I was alright last night, but her jibe this morning riled me. �How�s you love life Ma�am?�. Yes, well we both know the answer to that one, it was my own fault I suppose, I shouldn�t have pushed her, shouldn�t have tried to goad her, bait her. She was never going to tell me what I wanted to hear but it was the look of sheer malicious joy on her face that ripped through me. She�d done that twice in as many days and she doesn�t realise how, just happy to finally find a weak spot of mine that she could exploit. It is my own fault, all these months I�ve been pushing her to snap I should have realised it would be at me. Created your own demons yet again, Gina I tell myself and raise the whiskey bottle to my mouth.

As I pad upstairs to bed, shunning another uncomfortable night on the sofa for the succour of the bed clothes, even if they are frosty and empty, I realise I still want her. I want to know that evil streak in her I think as I deftly remove my shirt. I think about exploiting it as my trousers and underwear follow suit. Play with it as I reach under the pillow for my nightgown and book. I contemplate teasing her as I don the flannelette material and dream to tantalise her, and my last thought as I slip into restless sleep is that, I want her here, in my bed, wet and flushed in the early morning Sunday sun.

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