David Anderson's Blog - Posts Tagged "choices"
Burned Out Flames
His eyes settle on her across the busy room. Jesus Christ, is it really her? It must be, the resemblance is too uncanny. His eyes follow her and she must sense it as she turns and looks directly at him. A flicker of recognition then a beaming smile. Fifteen years and she's barely changed. Still as striking as she was before. She moves through the crowd and comes to him.
'Is it really you?' she asks.
'It is,' he responds. 'Is it really you?'
She giggles. He remembers the sound well. It thrills him, transports him back through time.
'You come here often?' he jokes and she laughs again.
She places a hand on his arm and a shudder runs through his body. He is filled with a familiar sense of longing. 'Fancy seeing you here,' she says.
'Can I get you something to drink?' She looks back at her friends, considers, then turns back to him and nods coyly. 'What you having?'
He buys her the cocktail she asks for, still the same as she drank way back when. Some things never change. They talk about inconsequential things: work, homeownership, friendship groups, holidays. Her friends come over and tell her they are leaving. She waves them away, tells them she's staying, that she'll catch them up.
Is he in with a shot here? He's getting good vibes. This is old territory – he knows the lay of the land, or did, anyway – he should be able to read the signs. But time has passed, have there been monumental shifts in her since then? Does he even want to tread old ground? Look how it ended last time – he can recall the hurt like it was yesterday. The wounds may have healed but what if the skin is thin, fragile, ready to tear open again at the first opportunity?
The chatter begins to rewind the years, leaving the vicinity of inconsequential, moving into the meaningful. As the drinks flow they move onto the taboo subject of their few months together as a couple. They laugh and joke about them but, thinking back, he honestly can't remember if they were the happiest of his life or the most painful. Time, the great despoiler, does that to your memories.
The seconds tick by, driving the more dominant hands of the clock ever onwards. Is she interested or isn't she? Lingering touches, lasting eye contact, laughing at his dire jokes. Then again, she could just be sparing some time for an old flame. Shouldn't she be playing with her hair if she was really keen?
His mind hones in on something. We're broken, aren't we? Words spoken before they parted ways and she wandered off with someone else. Well, does tonight mean they are fixed?
The bar begins to empty as people move on to clubs or head for home. He doesn't have forever to pose the question that is nagging at him. Pointless fighting the inevitable though, he knows himself too well. Lock up the doubts and get on with it. Eventually he builds up the courage to ask. 'Do you want to come back to my place?'
She seems to mull it over for a second before responding. 'Yeah, okay,' she says. 'Sure.'
***
There is silence in the taxi as it accelerates towards their destination. The outside beyond the windscreen is suddenly hostile and perturbing, the taxi a protective cavern in the darkness. The lights beyond the windows zip by like the intervening years, trailing endless lines through the night.
The lack of conversation disturbs him. Is she having second thoughts? Are they making a terrible mistake here? Her hand falls to his knee and stays there and all doubts are dispelled. His body is suddenly taut with pleasantly unbearable tension, an electricity has triggered every nerve. Her resting hand sends tremors through him like the presence of some supernatural entity.
They pull up at his house and he pays the driver, handing over a big tip, a reminder of his generosity and all-round good guy status. She leads the way up his drive and waits patiently at the door as he fishes in his pocket for his keys. He unlocks it and lets her in.
Once inside he struggles for something to say. How to approach a situation that falls just beyond the normal?
'Fancy a coffee?' Even as the words leave his mouth he feels stupid. What an imbecilic thing to say.
She raises a wry eyebrow. 'It's a little late for caffeine, isn't it?'
She comes over to him, takes his hand, leads him upstairs. His heart hammers in his chest, his mind is a whirring confusion of anticipation, fear, and random fragments of their ancient history. He is like a teenager all over again.
She asks which room is his and he points the way. She pushes open the door, falls onto the bed and pulls him down with her. She presses her lips against his and his synapses fire, reviving memories that have long lay dormant, restoring their colour, sharpening their dulled edges, restoring their intensity, making them vivid. The feel and taste of her are familiar. He can resist no longer. His hands begin to wander. So do hers.
***
He wakes to bright morning sunshine and a momentary shock as he notices the figure lying next to him. Then it all comes rushing back. The ecstasy of last night is quickly overwhelmed by a melancholy sense of regret. What the fuck was I thinking, he silently asks himself.
He watches her sleep for a while, battling conflicting emotions. Do you know how much you meant to me, he wonders. Do you care at all that you fucked everything up? After some time she stirs, turns slowly to face him. There's a quick something in her eyes that tells him she feels the same misgivings as he does. 'Morning,' she whispers.
'Morning,' he replies.
She sits up, throws her legs over the side of the bed. Her body is the same as ever, the curves as memorable as any landscape he has ever seen. She is fending off the ravages of time far better than he. She stands and his eyes are drawn by her every movement. She picks up her underwear and jeans, starts to pull them on. Mesmerising.
He notices the wedding ring on her finger as she continues to dress, muses over it briefly. Perhaps the husband is estranged. Perhaps dead. Or maybe things haven't changed one iota in all the years that have passed.
'Won't you stay a while?' he asks, hoping she won't.
'I should get going,' she says without hesitation. 'Busy day ahead, you know?'
He throws on last night's clothing as she hurriedly tries to fix her hair. When she's ready he walks her downstairs, opens the front door for her. She turns to him, rests her hands lightly on his shoulders, raises herself up on tiptoes, and plants kisses on both his cheeks. Demure now.
'I had a lovely time,' she tells him. A faint smile and then she turns to leave. She doesn't look back as she walks away. There she goes, he thinks, strutting out of my life again. How fleeting every encounter between them, how utterly futile.
He shuts the door, locks it, then trudges into the living room and drops onto the couch. He picks up the remote and flicks on the TV.
'Is it really you?' she asks.
'It is,' he responds. 'Is it really you?'
She giggles. He remembers the sound well. It thrills him, transports him back through time.
'You come here often?' he jokes and she laughs again.
She places a hand on his arm and a shudder runs through his body. He is filled with a familiar sense of longing. 'Fancy seeing you here,' she says.
'Can I get you something to drink?' She looks back at her friends, considers, then turns back to him and nods coyly. 'What you having?'
He buys her the cocktail she asks for, still the same as she drank way back when. Some things never change. They talk about inconsequential things: work, homeownership, friendship groups, holidays. Her friends come over and tell her they are leaving. She waves them away, tells them she's staying, that she'll catch them up.
Is he in with a shot here? He's getting good vibes. This is old territory – he knows the lay of the land, or did, anyway – he should be able to read the signs. But time has passed, have there been monumental shifts in her since then? Does he even want to tread old ground? Look how it ended last time – he can recall the hurt like it was yesterday. The wounds may have healed but what if the skin is thin, fragile, ready to tear open again at the first opportunity?
The chatter begins to rewind the years, leaving the vicinity of inconsequential, moving into the meaningful. As the drinks flow they move onto the taboo subject of their few months together as a couple. They laugh and joke about them but, thinking back, he honestly can't remember if they were the happiest of his life or the most painful. Time, the great despoiler, does that to your memories.
The seconds tick by, driving the more dominant hands of the clock ever onwards. Is she interested or isn't she? Lingering touches, lasting eye contact, laughing at his dire jokes. Then again, she could just be sparing some time for an old flame. Shouldn't she be playing with her hair if she was really keen?
His mind hones in on something. We're broken, aren't we? Words spoken before they parted ways and she wandered off with someone else. Well, does tonight mean they are fixed?
The bar begins to empty as people move on to clubs or head for home. He doesn't have forever to pose the question that is nagging at him. Pointless fighting the inevitable though, he knows himself too well. Lock up the doubts and get on with it. Eventually he builds up the courage to ask. 'Do you want to come back to my place?'
She seems to mull it over for a second before responding. 'Yeah, okay,' she says. 'Sure.'
***
There is silence in the taxi as it accelerates towards their destination. The outside beyond the windscreen is suddenly hostile and perturbing, the taxi a protective cavern in the darkness. The lights beyond the windows zip by like the intervening years, trailing endless lines through the night.
The lack of conversation disturbs him. Is she having second thoughts? Are they making a terrible mistake here? Her hand falls to his knee and stays there and all doubts are dispelled. His body is suddenly taut with pleasantly unbearable tension, an electricity has triggered every nerve. Her resting hand sends tremors through him like the presence of some supernatural entity.
They pull up at his house and he pays the driver, handing over a big tip, a reminder of his generosity and all-round good guy status. She leads the way up his drive and waits patiently at the door as he fishes in his pocket for his keys. He unlocks it and lets her in.
Once inside he struggles for something to say. How to approach a situation that falls just beyond the normal?
'Fancy a coffee?' Even as the words leave his mouth he feels stupid. What an imbecilic thing to say.
She raises a wry eyebrow. 'It's a little late for caffeine, isn't it?'
She comes over to him, takes his hand, leads him upstairs. His heart hammers in his chest, his mind is a whirring confusion of anticipation, fear, and random fragments of their ancient history. He is like a teenager all over again.
She asks which room is his and he points the way. She pushes open the door, falls onto the bed and pulls him down with her. She presses her lips against his and his synapses fire, reviving memories that have long lay dormant, restoring their colour, sharpening their dulled edges, restoring their intensity, making them vivid. The feel and taste of her are familiar. He can resist no longer. His hands begin to wander. So do hers.
***
He wakes to bright morning sunshine and a momentary shock as he notices the figure lying next to him. Then it all comes rushing back. The ecstasy of last night is quickly overwhelmed by a melancholy sense of regret. What the fuck was I thinking, he silently asks himself.
He watches her sleep for a while, battling conflicting emotions. Do you know how much you meant to me, he wonders. Do you care at all that you fucked everything up? After some time she stirs, turns slowly to face him. There's a quick something in her eyes that tells him she feels the same misgivings as he does. 'Morning,' she whispers.
'Morning,' he replies.
She sits up, throws her legs over the side of the bed. Her body is the same as ever, the curves as memorable as any landscape he has ever seen. She is fending off the ravages of time far better than he. She stands and his eyes are drawn by her every movement. She picks up her underwear and jeans, starts to pull them on. Mesmerising.
He notices the wedding ring on her finger as she continues to dress, muses over it briefly. Perhaps the husband is estranged. Perhaps dead. Or maybe things haven't changed one iota in all the years that have passed.
'Won't you stay a while?' he asks, hoping she won't.
'I should get going,' she says without hesitation. 'Busy day ahead, you know?'
He throws on last night's clothing as she hurriedly tries to fix her hair. When she's ready he walks her downstairs, opens the front door for her. She turns to him, rests her hands lightly on his shoulders, raises herself up on tiptoes, and plants kisses on both his cheeks. Demure now.
'I had a lovely time,' she tells him. A faint smile and then she turns to leave. She doesn't look back as she walks away. There she goes, he thinks, strutting out of my life again. How fleeting every encounter between them, how utterly futile.
He shuts the door, locks it, then trudges into the living room and drops onto the couch. He picks up the remote and flicks on the TV.
