Trying to Throw my Arms Around the World

Simple pleasures

Simple pleasures

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Joan asked and for the tenth time in five minutes she amazed me. “I’m not a complete Nazi, you know.” I sat opposite from her, her soft navy jumper gliding over her shoulder muscles, the thin fabric setting them off in the most sensual way as she shuffled in her seat. “I believe in simple pleasures.”

“Red, please.” A hint of mascara brought out the inky dark flecks in her grey-green eyes. A few minutes into our date and this toned-down version of Joan wouldn’t have to ask me twice, because, by then, I couldn’t help but wonder how that fitness bravado would translate in the bedroom − it had to be spectacular.

“Don’t worry, we’ll work it off tomorrow.” She fixed her eyes on me and broke into a wide smile that somehow didn’t seem to fit her face, as if it wasn’t made for smiling. “If not sooner.” She licked her upper lip for a split second and with that simple but suggestive gesture started off an evening of expert innuendo. After abstaining for six weeks, I didn’t stand a chance.

“Do you need me to make some sort of special vegan request for the dinner tomorrow?”

“Have I already passed the test?”

“As if I would ever put someone with your muscle mass to the test.”

“I wouldn’t want you to lower your standards.”

“I believe they’ve just been upped considerably.”

“I do have excellent stamina.”

“Maybe I should work you out some time.”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

Later, over desert, we sealed the deal.

“I came to the UK for love. I moved here nine years ago, when I was twenty-five.” She was thirty-four? When someone has no body fat, only taut smooth skin, it’s really hard to define their age, especially when they have the energy level of a seventeen-year-old. “Janet and I split up two years ago. The first and, so far, only failure of my life.”

“And you stayed?”

“Yes. I felt I could teach you Brits a thing or two about health and fitness.”

“Rightfully so.” After one glass of wine we’d switched to still water. (“Much better for you than soda, trust me.”) “What happened between you and Janet?”

“Life, I guess.” A sudden shadow clouded the sparkle in her eyes. “We grew apart. Worked too hard. Found we wanted different things. Nothing too dramatic. We’re still the best of friends.”

“Yeah? How does that work?”

“We love and respect each other and we know the other better than anyone else. It makes perfect sense.”

“Doesn’t it hurt to see her?”

“It did in the beginning, of course. But we talked a lot. Communication was always very important to us.”

“So, basically, you’re one of those over-processing vegan cliché lesbians.”

“Why don’t we get out of here and I show you what I’m really like?”

“And there I was thinking you’d never go for that pick-up line.”

“I have too much self-confidence to be offended by remarks about my chosen lifestyle. On the contrary.”

“And you like to have the last word.”

“That goes without saying.”

We went to her flat which was located above her gym − that place of torture. It was one of those stark black-and-white linear affairs with handle-less drawers and sliding doors. An apartment with no hiding space for people with nasty habits like drinking brandy, indulging in dyke drama and a prominent layer of body fat resting under their skin.

“Wow,” I said. “I fear I may not be sleek enough for this interior.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll work on that.” She took off her shoes and put them away in a shiny white specially-designed cabinet. “The bedroom is through there.” She pointed to a slick black-lacquered door. “Go on. I just need to fetch some equipment.”

To be continued…