Blind Carnival

Cards on The Table

'His flat was closer, and they tumbled in, jerking off coats, his hands on the sides of her face, hers on the button of his trousers. He stroked her cheekbones with his thumbs, his lips skillful and demanding. Then he pulled at his tie, and she pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders.'

Except that's not what happens.

According to the laws of the genre how they get to either of their flats doesn't really matter. Most readers just want the characters to finally 'get to it,' so it's usually he pulled her into a passionate kiss - forty miles away from the nearest bed - and then their bodies fell into the sweet trap of his silken sheets. By the way, silk sheets are horrible for shagging. Olivia had once bought a set specifically to check. And she and Bea tried rolling and jumping on them. Not good.

No one wants to read about the awkward moment when you finally detangle from his grabby hands and have to find the keys in your handbag. Given, in Olivia's case, he's standing there panting, delectable as it gets, but still, reality is never smooth.

And then she somehow needs to get into the car, drive for ten minutes, and preferably not kill them both. Allan died in a car accident. Driving for her is the emotional equivalent of sticking her head into a freezer.

She concentrates on the road. He clears his throat.

"What do you write?" he asks. "My mother mentioned you're a writer."

She looks at him sideways. He's calmer now. Also, he has none of his previous put together, moderately stylish look any more. His hair's sticking out funny, and his tie's askew.

"I write trashy erotic novels. The paperback stuff with a ripped bloke and a maiden with a generous bosom on the cover."

He hums and settles on the seat more comfortably.

"'He pulled her into a searing kiss, and the universe opened her its secrets' type of thing?" he draws out.

She gives him another quick look.

He's smiling again. The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes are adorable. Is it his perpetual condition - being mildly amused by everything that's going on around him?

"Are you one of my readers?"

"I reckon my Mum is. I was bored once and flipped through one of her favourites. Rather unnerving material."

"Unnerving?"

"Yeah. If that's what women expect from men, then you lot have to be in a constant state of disappointment."

She sighs. She has this conversation with herself more often than she cares to admit.

"I don't think women realistically expect that from men. Most of the stuff in there would either hurt or be itchy afterwards, if you tried to translate it into real life. Like shower sex, for example."

He looks sincerely interested.

"What about it?"

Are the two of them actually having this conversation?!

"Water gets into your mouth if you open it there," she says. "If you're using soap, it's plain dangerous, because one of you will most likely slip. If you don't, then there's... friction."

She feels a blush creep onto her cheeks.

"Hm..." He seems to be actually considering it. "Right there, by the way. That's my building."

So, the two of them are now standing in the lift; and it's a bit awkward but not painfully so. They walked through the hall decorously, said 'hello' to a nice elderly concierge, who looked clearly surprised to see John bringing a girl home - and here they are. John opens the door into his flat and flips the switch.