The Flavours of Love (17 page)

Unable to speak, I found another way to communicate what I was thinking. It wasn’t a coherent thought, something I’d formulated and considered, it was an urge. I stood on tiptoes and pressed my mouth against his for a long moment. He immediately jerked his head away.

Like modelling clay in the hands of an expert, the thought was quickly taking shape, becoming more certain and clear in my mind, but I couldn’t voice it; the words wouldn’t find their way out of my throat, through my mouth, into the world. But I could speak without
words. I could tell him I wanted – needed – him to stay without saying a thing.

I did it again: I pushed my mouth onto his, wanting a reaction. Again he pulled back, but didn’t jerk away his head this time, simply moved it. The lines of his face, partially hidden by the darkness of the room, struggled with something. Probably confusion. I was confused, too. Confused, uncertain, scared.

Terrified
.

Terrified of his reaction beyond confusion. Would he scream at me that I had lost my mind? I wanted him to, because I had. Would he push me away and leave as fast as he could, making it clear he’d never come back here again? I longed for him to react like that, too. Or, would he do what I needed him to? Would he lock the door, would he then extend his trembling arm and uncertainly slide his fingers into the dark curls at the nape of my neck and pull me towards him as he lowered his head and returned the kiss?

I’d cried.

I’d cried and cried, when I was alone, when I had nothing else to fill my time, fill my mind, I cried and cried to try to set myself free. Yet, I remained where I had been. I was still chained to this precipice of pain, high up above the world I used to live in, no way to climb down, no chance of releasing myself. I was chained here, like Prometheus in Greek legend, who every day was cursed to experience the same horror of watching his liver pecked out – I was fated to experience the same horror of having my heart plucked out when I remembered every morning Joel was gone. I had cried and cried to liberate myself and I was still trapped. Maybe there was another way.

I trembled too as I reached out to open his trousers. My fingers felt large, clumsy, as I tried to release the buttons of his jeans from their holes. Still kissing me, his fingers came down and moved mine aside to open his flies. He reached for the bottom of my T-shirt and we broke apart for him to pull it up over my head. I tugged his T-shirt up as far as I could before he took over and removed it himself. The T-shirt ruffled the dark brown strands of his messy hair. We came together
again and I audibly gasped. Skin against skin. My body, which had felt cold and barely alive, suddenly felt reanimated, wanted,
loved
at the touch of skin against mine.

We half-fell, half-climbed onto the bed; my clumsy, paddle-like fingers urgently trying to pull his jeans over his hips. I wanted more skin-to-skin contact, I wanted all of me to be reminded of what it was like to feel alive again. I’d been living all this time but this made me
feel
alive, my body actually experiencing something.

Fynn used both hands to pull my lower half garments to my thighs and then he was off the bed, standing back to finish taking off his trousers and underpants, while I wriggled and dragged my way out of my grey joggers and black knickers.

The heat of his body, his skin, which pulsed with reminders of what it meant to be alive, was back on mine, and I held him close as his kisses grew firmer. I dug my fingers into his back, into his bum, urging him on, encouraging him to push inside me, to show me in another way what it felt like to be alive.

We moved together, each thrust a delicious blend of pain and indescribable pleasure, each arch of my back an incredible mixture of profound agony and ecstasy. I dug my fingers into his back, whimpering against his lips, encouraging him to move faster, harder, bringing us closer to orgasm; to the sweet emptying feeling of freedom and release.

I wanted emptiness, to purge my body of all the locked-in feelings of grief I’d been force-fed. I wanted to feel my body again, to be in control of it, of something in this world of anarchy I’d been thrown into. My body, what happened to it, was the only thing I had any authority over, and doing this meant I was in total control, I was in charge of what happened. Fynn began to move even faster, harder until I froze as I reached the peak of the build-up, then my body shuddered as waves of pure, undiluted bliss rippled through me. Fynn continued to move fast and hard until he broke away from our kiss, buried his head in my neck and, groaning, he orgasmed with several short thrusts.

Neither of us moved for several seconds and the room felt unnaturally stilted after what we’d done.

Eventually, he placed his hands on either side of me on the bed and lifted himself up until we were apart. His dark blue eyes stared down at me and I stared back up at him. Like an image appearing on developer-submerged photo paper, regret began to take over Fynn’s face: faint at first, merely a shimmer, then a slow, stain-like progression that became more defined and solid until it was clear and real. His breathing matched mine: deep but fast; the physical expression of our confusion.

He waited for me to speak. I waited for him to speak. One of us had to say something. After more silence he lifted himself completely off me, and collapsed back onto the bed, unintentionally wedging himself between my body and the foot of the ornate wooden bedstead. Like mine, his breathing slowed as we both stared up at the ceiling. The silence rolled on, neither of us willing to name what we had done by speaking of it. I turned to him but did not try to catch his eye. It was safe here, it was my side of the bed, the side by the door, and it was at the very foot of the bed, which was usually piled up with clothes I hadn’t hung up, or hadn’t chucked into the laundry basket, so we weren’t anywhere near where Joel and I had been this intimate, or even had slept beside each other – there was no danger of blotting out Joel by what I’d just done here.

I curled into Fynn’s body, relishing the feel of his skin against mine again. That had been the best part, the warm reminder of what being alive was about. I moved my arm across his body, resting my head on his shoulder, and I closed my eyes. I let go. I wasn’t pretending he was Joel. Not now, and not back when we did what we did. I was being in the moment.

And I was doing something that I’d begun to crave: I was having sex. I was ashamed to admit it, but in the midst of it all, I missed sex. It’d been very few weeks, not many days, hardly a blip in the number of hours I was going to have to spend without Joel, but I still missed this. Joel had always been willing, and I’d unintentionally taken that
for granted. Having a good sex life with the man I loved had become as usual to me as having a glass of wine – there whenever I wanted it.

Now a lot of the other stuff had been dealt with and what I was staring into was the abyss of a new existence without him, I realised this physicality of life was something I missed. I wanted sex. And I couldn’t tell anyone that because they wouldn’t understand. They’d think it awful of me to even be considering such a thing after losing the love of my life.
I
thought it awful of me to be craving such a thing after losing the love of my life, but my body had wanted this, it’d needed this. It’d been yearning for skin-to-skin contact, it’d been longing for the ability to move against another person, it’d been dying to be released.

Fynn’s arms cautiously encircled me, as if worried about holding me, then more confidently they came together, tightening until he enveloped me in a secure embrace. With Fynn’s arms around me, with the constant beat of his heart against my body, I let go of this reality and drifted away into sleep.

*

Hours later, I woke up to find Fynn standing on the other side of the room, rolling his grey T-shirt down his once-taut torso. Now he was thinner, his body diminished by the loss of his best friend. He glanced up, saw I was awake and managed an awkward, selfconscious half-smile that was doused in remorse and shame, as he finished buttoning up his jeans. He headed towards the door in bare feet, the sinews of his toes sinking into the deep pile of the carpet. I thought I might speak then: might utter a ‘bye’, or ‘I’m sorry’, or even, ‘thank you’. Anything. But nothing would come out, there was nothing to say that would mean anything.

As he pulled the door shut after him, he raised his hand briefly in a half-hearted wave.
Don’t come back
, I said in my head at him as he negotiated the creaky floorboards and stairs to the front door.
We can never do that again
.

*

In the present, I’ve decided on carrot, ginger and apple soup. I’ll oven-bake some herb-crusted strips of chicken and I’ll nip out while it cooks to get some crusty bread. And olive oil. I’ll have to fry the onion and spices in butter, though.

I’ve peeled the carrots in silence even though Fynn is standing right beside me. Now I am cutting up the carrots in the same noiseless atmosphere, with him so close I can feel the heat from his body.

Joel spent many hours teaching me how to slice carrots properly. I was meant to plant the tip of my blade into the chopping board, then to move the carrot along while bringing the knife up and down. ‘Almost like you’re feeding James Bond through a guillotine,’ he’d said. ‘Up and down, chop, chop, chop.’

The next night, at one o’clock, Fynn sent me

•

in an otherwise blank text. I opened the door to him and we were hushed but quick as we moved upstairs. The kids knew Fynn came over at all hours, they knew we sat in my bedroom talking at all hours, they were used to finding him sleeping on the sofa downstairs, but this was different, for this it felt necessary to sneak around.

The bed was off limits, this time the floor. No words, no speaking. The door secured, clothes cast aside, mouths locked onto each other, movements fluid and natural, the powerful, freeing release at the end. And then calmness that allowed me to sleep. Curled up in his arms, drained for a little while of all the horror and sadness and pain. He left without speaking at five. As he left, I knew it couldn’t happen again.

On the fifteenth night, when we’d done it every preceding night since that first one, everything changed. Fynn ignored me urging him to get on with it, instead, after a few long, deep kisses, he held himself above me for a few seconds, capturing my gaze with his. I understood immediately what he was going to do and the fear of that bolted through me.

He broke eye contact and lowered his head to tenderly place a kiss at the base of my throat. Slowly, adoringly, he kissed a soft path from my throat to my navel, setting me alight with every gentle touch of his lips against my skin. As he reached my belly button, he retraced his trail of kisses up my body again until he reached my chest. His gaze flicked briefly up to my face before he took my left nipple in his mouth, sucking and licking it until my nipple was pleasurably, painfully erect.

Instead of stopping him, as I knew I should, I writhed beneath him, encouraged him, as he moved to the right nipple, and worked on that until it was as hard and sensitive as the left. As I gasped silently, relishing the sensations I thought I’d never feel again, he kissed another gentle path down my body, moving lower and lower until his mouth was between my legs. Another inaudible sharp intake of breath from me as he gripped my hips. He held me in place and his tongue immediately began to explore me. Each touch flooded me with what felt like a mini-orgasm, each movement against him drenched me with an exquisite agony until I could feel the approaching rush of bliss that would come with the final release. As it rose through me, he pulled back, took the orgasm away, and instead brought his face level to mine and pushed into me. At the same time he cupped my face with his hand and his thumb stroked across my cheek in time with every slow, precise thrust into me while his gaze held mine.

He was creating intimacy. We’d been intimate, but this was intimacy; closeness and desire – an emotional manifestation of what we were doing. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want intimacy, nor for him to fall in love with me, which was where doing it like this could lead. I wasn’t capable of falling in love with him. I was already in love. The man I loved had left me, yes, but that didn’t stop me from loving him; from knowing in the deepest recesses of my heart that it was all a big mistake and he’d somehow find his way back to me. My body and mind craved release and relief, but not love. With my memories of Joel, I had no shortage of that kind of love.

Fynn and I continued to move as one, our bodies in perfect time,
our eyes visually locked until we came together; our orgasms shuddering smooth, gentle ripples of euphoria through us and into each other.

Afterwards, he was even more gentle: kissed the top of my head, briefly nuzzled his face against mine, and fell asleep stroking my shoulder. Once his breathing regulated, told me he was drifting in DreamLand, I opened my eyes. Listening to him sleep, I stared into the dark. I had to say something. Before he went home, I had to tell him we couldn’t do it again. Not if it was going to be filled with intimacy.

He affectionately stroked my cheek before he left and I didn’t find the courage to say anything before he walked out.

Come back
, I silently called at him.
I want to do it again
.

*

Fynn leans against the worktop, right beside me, his arms folded across his broad chest. He’s watching my every move as he waits for me to start this conversation that I never want to have. Even if I did want to have it, where would I start? Frustrated with him, angry at myself, I slam the carrot I have picked up from the colander down on the wooden chopping board. The
thwack
it makes reverberates around the room. Fynn doesn’t react, doesn’t even flinch. He’s going to wait for as long as it takes.

‘It’s Uncle Fynn,’ Phoebe said as she returned to the table after answering the door. After three days of ignoring his middle-of-the-night ‘.’ texts, Fynn hadn’t contacted me at all in two weeks. I missed him. I ached for him to be back in my life. Everything felt off-kilter without him, but I knew if I didn’t take a step back, we’d end up somewhere even more painful.