Dark Tide

Chapter 7

Funny how nobody tells you
how beautiful someone looks
in that moment before the door
closes behind them,
And how the specks of dust dance
in the narrow shaft of light from
the gap between the curtains,
As you try to inhale the lingering scent
and devour the footprints
imprinted on the carpet and
on your soul.

She is aware of the intermittent beeping notification of a phone, creeping into her sleep, the way that Emily's cat in London used to creep under the duvet to try to wake them. It's not her phone, and her mind slips back into a deep slumber several times before she remembers. Then she hears him sigh and groan slightly in response to a notification, and she senses movement next to her, and then the sound of his phone being dropped to the wooden floor, and his sighs again. She has remembered now and is savouring the sensory snippets of him being here, rather than opening her eyes and risking it all evaporating into some sort of madness or delusional dream.

The sound of him seems so real, and the lingering scent of his perfume, tinged with something more musky and sexual tugs at her senses. Then she feels his fingers on her cheek, her forehead, her nose and her lips, and she realises that she must have rolled to face him as she slept. Opening her heavy lids, almost cautiously, her eyes meet his, and she blinks, and he follows suit, and then he giggles.

"Hey," he whispers, "we both slept. For ages," and his fingers sweep her hair away from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear.

"...time is it?" she mumbles, her voice sounding distant and her throat feeling dry.

"4pm," he tells her. And her eyes widen in surprise, and she cannot fathom what has enabled her to rest like this, so unbroken and trustingly, in his arms for most of a daytime. "I may have sort of missed a meeting..." he adds, and her stomach lurches, as she pulls herself to sitting.

"No, no," she says, her hand slapping down onto the duvet, "You can't... I won't let..."

But his eyes sparkle and he grins, reaching up to pull her back down next to him. "It's fine," he cuts her off, "I've messaged. They are coming here instead," and when her eyes widen in horror. "I mean my apartment," he giggles, and then kisses her lips: briefly and quickly at first, and then pressing his lips back to hers again, lingeringly. She hears his sigh, and his breath fills her mouth, past her parted lips. Then he pulls back and meets her gaze, and she wants to look away, but cannot.

"I do have to go," he whispers, frowning, as if trying to think of a scheme to stay, but she knows he can't.

"I know," she sighs, "I..." but she cannot find words which will not make her well up with tears, or just sound either clingy or cold.

Then the whole protective bubble around them seems to distort and change shape, as he scurries around the room, finding his clothes and dressing himself. She sits up, her chin rested on her forearms which hug her knees, and the duvet pulled up to her neck.

He sits down again next to her, tapping at his phone, and then hands it to her. "Type in your number," he tells her, and she catches his eye, raising her eyebrows in caution at him. He doesn't need to speak. His huge doe-eyes plead with her, and against her judgement, she finds herself keying in the digits, and returning his phone as another message buzzes in.

"Oh fuck," he mouths, and then when she tries to shuffle to the edge of the bed, he holds her shoulders in his grip, "No, stay," he tells her, "I can let myself out. You just... just..." and he seems lost for words. They are both avoiding any sort of leaving or staying wishes, she knows that. They cannot form those words. Then she reaches up, cups his face in her hand, and kisses him lightly on his cheek, as his phone buzzes again.