from the novel “Bitter Honey”

/, Literature, Blesok no. 51/from the novel “Bitter Honey”

from the novel “Bitter Honey”

When we again met for lunch after a few days, he didn’t even mention our little dirty weekend. He was courteous and funny, but without any liberties you might expect from a passionate kisser from a romantic trip a few days earlier. I liked that. He must’ve taken note of my reservation that night; and he behaved as you would expect from a guy like him. With understanding. He was the epitome of tact. By the way he also mentioned that he had a new book of short stories by Janice Galloway that had just come out. I asked him about it. He said it was good, and when I didn’t stop he promised he’d bring it with him when we next met. We went on for some time, talking about the night before at The Tap (I had gone there for a drink with Catriona and Veronica), and he laughed at my description of Veronica’s argument with a woman who didn’t approve of Veronica putting on All I Wanna Do by Sheryl Crow four times in one hour. Finally he mentioned he had a CD of hers at home. I confessed I had very few CDs at home, (they’re expensive, for fuck’s sake, who has that kind of money, only Scottish health officers, and so on). Could he tape it for me? Of course he could. Jason modestly mentioned his own CD collection was fairly large. He was quiet for some time, then suddenly said: I finish at five. Would you like to come over to my place for coffee? You could pick some more music for taping.
I probably gave him a funny look because he immediately added: Helen’s away, she’s away to Edinburgh for two days. She has some business at Napier and wants to catch up with some friends. It’s just a coffee, if you’ve nothing better to do.
Why the hell shouldn’t I come over for coffee? I knew him well enough to know that there was no danger of violent harassment from his side; we were friends, after all. I knew he wouldn’t do anything I wouldn’t want him to. And besides, I was the one holding the cards, wasn’t I? He’d shown his hand, I hadn’t mine. So: a coffee and some music. Then I could also borrow some music. Even you couldn’t say there was anything wrong with that.
Back at work I was wondering if I should buy a little something for his daughter. He’d probably pick her up from nursery school after work, and a little gift would be a proper start to a new friendship. I was wondering what she was like: was she more like the plump, dark Helen or more like Jason with his sleek fair hair and round coupon? But I had no time for shopping and, as it turned out, it was for the better. We didn’t stop at the nursery; little Mairi was at her Granny’s, with Helen’s mother in Ayr, said Jason. OK then. When we came to his place and I looked around, I realised – with a speck of completely unnecessary surprise – that a flat in Merchant City doesn’t necessarily entail luxury. It was small and murky but very neat, and the furniture was slightly ostentatious. You could recognise Helen’s hand in it. Jason showed me an almost full CD rack which must’ve had room for at least a hundred discs. Then he went to the kitchen to make the coffee. I stood by the rack and browsed through the titles. After a while I decided I’d make my picks later; my head was still bursting from work that afternoon. A crazy time at the bank, these audits.
I put on a Laura Nyro record and stared out the window. It was raining outby. The rain was gushing from the dark grey skies, washing the gloomy façades of the tall, rotting buildings across the street. I thought how you must be having an altogether different time now, down there in the south; the temperature probably never falls below thirty degrees there at this time of year. You complained about the terrible heat in your recent e-mails.
When Jason returned, he placed the tray with two mugs and a plate of biscuits on the table. There was also a mug of milk and a sugar bowl. I turned towards him, then walked to the table and sat down. Laura Nyro was singing about a bloke who doesn’t like her when she cries. Jason sat next to me and smiled.
What happened next? I don’t know, truly. I know we talked about something but I’ve no idea what. It’s so long ago. I don’t even know if I remembered the next day. Probably not.
Anyway, we talked for some time. We also drank some coffee. Finally, Jason put his mug on the table and, when he turned to me, I suddenly realized I had his tongue in my mouth again. I was sure it was him who made the first step; he must’ve leaned towards me and kissed me. But, weird, I don’t even really remember his tongue in my mouth, just mine in his. It tasted of coffee and also of something else, whisky perhaps. Maybe he’d had a dram back in the kitchen. For courage. Too bad he hadn’t offered me one. I could’ve used it.
After a while I slipped away and said I had to go to the toilet. Jason looked somewhat confused, as if he didn’t quite know what came next – was I going to flee out the door or what? When I stepped into the corridor he was still looking at me. Then – I could see through the open living room door when I entered the bathroom – he reached for his coffee and stared ahead.
In the bathroom I stared at the mirror. What the hell do you think you’re doing? I asked. What do you think you’re doing? You’re kissing a married man in his home. A man who’s quite nice and understanding but who you’re definitely not in love with. I hadn’t thought for a moment I was in love with him. He just wasn’t my type. Did I think of you then? No. You just weren’t there at the time. I sat on the bowl and took a pee. I took a tissue – they had loud yellow toilet paper, who’d have thought – and wiped myself. Then I stared at the pale green bidet next to the toilet bowl.
Blank-headed I sat on the bidet and washed myself. I thought of nothing. I used the towel hanging nearby. It was probably Helen’s. It was pink and very soft. I pulled up my panties and black tights, then flushed the toilet. I looked at myself in the mirror once more. I looked just like I did on any other day.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, Jason was in the corridor. He looked nervous; he stood there like he didn’t quite know what he was doing, guarding the bathroom or something. I didn’t know what was going to happen next. He put his hand on the back of my head and kissed me. I didn’t draw back. I kissed him back. He placed his hand on my breasts.
The next thing I remember was the couch in the living room. I was sitting on his lap and he was pulling my shirt off, at the same time trying to reach under my skirt. He didn’t quite know how to handle the tights. I felt a weird excitement raging in me such as I hadn’t felt in a while. I was touching him too, touching him all over. Well, did I think of anything then? Yes, I thought this was impossible, this would lead nowhere. I just wasn’t capable of sleeping with somebody like that, with a married man – that’s something forbidden, something people disapprove of, something my parents would disapprove of, my friends, even you. I knew this couldn’t go on; something just had to get in the way and stop us. I’m not someone who does things like that. I thought about what was going to get in the way and when. I was thinking about that even as I was naked and he was desperately struggling to get his trousers off. I was watching him undress, his slightly plump white body and his neat blond hair. He tried to mount me right there on the couch. It didn’t work, it was too narrow and awkward. We kissed and stroked each other, my heart pumping. It was impossible. Impossible.

AuthorAndrej E. Skubic
2018-08-21T17:23:11+00:00 November 27th, 2006|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 51|0 Comments