Plenty

He is like a cat, lying there on the bed, eyes half closed, or are they half open? He is stretched out, feigning relaxation; the muscles beneath his skin are coiled; he is ready to pounce or to flee the instant she makes a wrong move.

They are top to tail, curled like commas on the bed. The white space of the sheet lies between them. Yin and Yang. Polar opposites. Attracting and repelling simultaneously.

She uncurls and stretches her body. Her spine elongates, her legs and arms unfurl like the fronds of a fern. She stretches and yawns and now it is she who is the cat. She flops over onto her back, stretching out beside him with still that white sheet sea between them; rippled and peaked in waves caused by the gravity of their opposing bodies.

“Kate,” he says. “Kate.”

She lies with eyes closed, one arm now placed across her forehead, bent at the elbow.

“What?” she replies.

“You’re leaving today, right?”

She smiles, but doesn’t answer. He touches her ankle. She knocks his hand away by shifting her leg. He touches her ankle again. She repeats the previous movement. Da capo; da capo; da capo, until finally she sits up and shifts position, the better to fight with him.

Breathless and naked, they push against each other, half-laughing, half-serious in their intent to emerge triumphant.

Breathless and naked, he pins her down against the bed, his arms locked straight, his hands gripping her wrists, his hair falling down around his face like cloth of gold.

“You’re leaving today, right?” he repeats, and she smiles again.

“Don’t worry,” she says.

He releases her and falls back down onto his back beside her.

“I’m not worried,” he says.

“Then why ask?”

“Dunno.”

They lie side by side, silent, listening. The usual sounds come into the room, muffled by the pane of glass in the window. Distant sirens. Car horns. Voices rising and falling like mini arias in the street opera that goes on daily outside this room, outside this apartment. She listens to him trying not to breathe, trying to seem like he is relaxed. Still the white sea of bedsheet. Still the cat-curled muscles waiting.

She sits up; sits on the edge of the bed. She pulls clothes from the tangled pile on the floor; the monument to passion’s impatience. She begins to dress, and all the while he lies still and frozen on the bed.

She pulls on underwear, then jeans and shirt. Last she pulls her boots on.

In the kitchen she fills the kettle with water and lights the gas under it. She unpacks the dishwasher; stows crockery and cutlery in cupboards and drawers. She makes tea and goes to sit by the window so she can smoke. Her fingers absently rub and shine the leaves of the plant that grows so spindly from its pot. Smoke from the tip of her cigarette drifts out through the gap around the airconditioning unit and she drops ash into the round ceramic dish that serves as an ashtray.

His papers and lighter are on the table. She picks up the book he’s reading and flicks through the pages. A drunk, marking time in the Postal Service, working towards the day that he becomes a writer. She reads for a while.

The light changes outside the window. Someone throws some kind of packaging from an upper window; it’s made from the same material that they wrap runners in after marathons. It floats down past the window behind her, but she is lost in the book and doesn’t see it.

“I thought you said you were leaving.”

He floats in the doorway, suspending his bodyweight by jamming his arms inside the frame and pushing outwards. He can’t keep up the pressure and lands back on his feet.

She doesn’t look up from the book.

“It’s still today, isn’t it? I’ve got a few hours yet.”

He walks into the kitchen, over to the refrigerator. He opens the door and stares inside. She allows herself a glance across the room and sees his face illuminated by the light inside the fridge. She sees the curve of his cheek and his hair tucked behind his ear. She has no feelings for him, but she appreciates his beauty. He feels her looking at him; she can tell by the minute movement of his ear and the slight stiffening of his cheek and jaw. He feels her looking, but he maintains position, affecting disinterest.

She puts the book down on the table. The front cover curls up and out and she places her hands over it, trying to force it flat, but it has been read and bent back too many times to be anything other than buckled.

Like cats, they are; the pair of them. Curled close for warmth, seeking out pleasure on their terms. It works; far better than any previous attempt at symbiosis she has made. No obligation or responsibility.

She kids herself.

He closes the door to the refrigerator and comes to sit at the table, empty-handed.

“Is there any coffee?”

“I don’t know. It’s not my kitchen.”

He rubs his eyes and yawns.

She picks up the book again, but does not open it; she merely holds it between her hands, as though it’s a hymnal or prayer book; something she ought to revere, but doesn’t know why.

“Post Office,” he says.

“You should read more,” she tells him.

“I read enough. I read plenty.”

She places the book down on the table again, one hand pressing firmly on its cover.

“I should go.”

He doesn’t respond. He sits back in the wooden chair, his legs stretched out underneath the table, his arms folded across his abdomen. His head is tilted downwards, his chin tucked into his neck. He stares at where her hand is still pressing down firmly on the front of the book.

“It’s a good job books don’t have nerve endings,” he says.

His eyes have lost focus, and she knows that he’s thinking of something else. He’s lost somewhere in a private universe.

“Where’ve you gone?” she asks softly.

He shakes his head; he keeps his eyes unfocused.

“Nowhere,” he replies. “I’m still here.”

His eyes snap back into focus and he looks up at her, smiling his brilliant smile.

“I’m still here, and so are you.”

She laughs.

“I know. I thought you’d forgotten.”

“You shouldn’t have spoken just then. You drew my attention back to you.”

“Are you hungry?” she asks him. “I could cook, if you like.”

“There’s nothing in the fridge.”

His voice is flat. He isn’t interested in prolonging her tenure in this kitchen. He needs her to leave. He doesn’t need to give her a reason, but she finds herself wanting to know why.

He’s like Teflon™. Nothing ever sticks to him. It’s his own patented design for maintaining a healthy distance. The strip of bedsheet sea; his avoidance of all intimacy; his refusal of responsibility. He kisses better, though, than anyone she has ever known. And this convenience-store, disposable arrangement suits her well.

She’s not going to leave until she’s ready. She made that decision even before he asked.

He gets up, suddenly, and paces through the apartment. A display of catlike frustration. Stare out the invader, stand your ground; but she is the tougher cat; she knows this ground better than he does; she forces him to concede territory by not being bothered.

He can’t stand authenticity.

She lights another cigarette and smokes it half way down. She thinks for a moment about leaving, but there is still plenty of time.

© J R Hargreaves November 2006