Sunlight red in my eyes, like a flame to a photograph, first rainbow then brown, burning away the colours, but quick! Before the image goes, what is it? A lake, yes, in a forest. The water’s silver, bright!, but I know it’s warm, like a bath, a bed, a hug, a sofa, a womb. Beckoning it beckons me, my PJs falling away as I walk, nearly there, nearly there, but then, then I fall, fingers outreaching. I touch the water. Why fall? A crooked root in the leaves. All?

All.

Awake now, open eyes, bright!, scrunch into warmy pillow. What’s that against my ankle? His leg, all hairy and bony. Still asleep? In this light? Not facing it like I am though. Cotton all blurry in my eye, seeming to stretch out for miles before it reaches him. Is he dreaming? So peaceful. He always looks so serious when awake, even when he’s not, but now he looks carefree, like a little boy. Little cherub. Was that a frown? I’ll kiss him. Oh, his hands are in the way, stuck out in front of him, one on top of the other, like he’s praying, or pleading. They’re warm. I can reach his neck now. There; where he’s tender, between his Adam’s apple and his tendons. Felt the cartilage of it against my lips, and his stubble against my nose. Hope he shaves today, otherwise he’s all scratchy when we kiss. He hasn’t moved. Is he dreaming? Wonder why he sleeps like that; foetal position: I like to stretch out. Oh, he wrapped around me in the night, I wonder if he remembers. Don’t think he woke up, but he certainly woke me. Thought I was being crushed! One arm around my neck and the other across my chest. Had to prise him off. Perhaps he was in a dream.

Wonder what he’s dreaming now, if he is. The way his head’s against the pillow makes me think of that day in the Student Union bar. When was that? February I think; five months ago now. He had his head against the back of the sofa then, just like that, though he hadn’t been there long (I knew he hadn’t been there long because his mug was nearly full and still steaming). He’d invited me so I’d come. I was only five minutes late but already he was reading; he’s always reading. What was it? Something I would never read. And then I thought he didn’t want me there, because he didn’t look up from his book, right up until I was nearly in front of him, though he knew I was there because he’d waved to me when I came in. But then I sat down next to him on the sofa and he put a bookmark in and I supposed he’d only been reading to the end of the page and not deliberately ignoring me.

Well we talked and we drank tea and most of the time he was looking forward, at the people coming and going I suppose, but every so often he’d ask me a question or he’d answer one, and he’d twist his head round to look at me, and the sun fell across his face through the window as it’s doing now and there was the warm smell of incense on the air. I was looking at him the whole time of course, my head lolled against the back of the sofa and my leg drawn up on the cushion, kind of twirling my hair around my finger because I was nervous. I can’t remember what we talked about, but then he asked me if I’d met Jake. I hadn’t so I said no, and he asked if I wanted to, so I said sure, why not.

Then Sam said that Jake was looking for a girlfriend, knowing that I was single, and I’d like him if I met him. I did like him, well enough, but not like I liked Sam. But he didn’t realise at the time, being a boy, being always in his books, striding around so seriously, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me. It hurt me. It hurt me. I thought he wasn’t interested in me and that was his way of telling me, and then I’d said I’d meet Jake so I couldn’t suddenly back out, then Sam would ask why, and I’d have to say because he was trying to set us up, and Sam would ask why not, and I’d have to tell him; give the game away. I couldn’t do that: too nervous of what he’d say, how he’d change towards me. He should’ve just known really, without my saying anything, would’ve saved some trouble. Still, together now, aren’t we? Oh, why’s he still sleeping! he’s had as long as I have, and without being woken. Perhaps another kiss, on the lips, will wake him, sleeping beautiful.
Move my hand to his waist, got a brush of. There, now he’s waking too.

“Mrnah,” he says, drawing in his shoulders, friction as his hairy leg brushes mine. Smile; he’s still dreamish.

“What were you dreaming?” I ask.

“Mrah?”

Skin tightens on his waist as he shrugs. I shake gently his ribs: encourage.

“My name was Santiago, like in, like in.”

His voice is crackly then he trails into a yawn.

“Hemingway.” (like that makes a difference to me) “I was fishing on a beach, I caught a fish, started to eat it – ”

“Raw?”

“Yeah, then a bone’s in my throat and I fall onto the sand and I look up and there’s a, a lighthouse on a cliff and I’m in its shadow, ’cause the sun’s,” he yawns again, “the sun’s behind it and then I was scared. That’s it.”

“Aw.”

I pull closer, palm against his back, kiss closemouthed his lips, feel brush against my legs the tip of his. He pulls away to cough, twists round for his bedside glass. He lies back on his other side. His shoulder-blades push against the white cotton of his t-shirt. I pull myself close again so my breasts press flat against his back and I push my knees into the backs of his so there’s no space between us. I kiss the back of his neck, where his hair is fine and feels fuzzy like that white fluff some plants have. The black hairs under his belly-button are like that too and I slip my fingers under his shirt to stroke them. I kiss his neck again. Almost, now, almost ready, since the bath, if he’ll just.

“I need the toilet,” he says, getting out of bed.

I feel a breeze on my arm. Why’s he got his back to me as he puts on his dressing gown? I know what he’s hiding, felt it just now, and last night when I leaned back. Hrmpf. Perhaps we’re not ready, perhaps it’s just my. When was it last? Three weeks already? Must be. Well, that’s more reason to then, if I have to wait another week, it always makes me so. But it’ll be our first time so want it to feel right. Last night would have been good, but he was tired. I was too, but not so tired. He never does sleep well though, says he’s not used to sharing, as if I was, but you get used to it, and I like someone else there, him, a warm body.

Again, he should know without me saying, and make it feel right, ’cause if I ask then I feel like I’m begging, can’t do that, have to let it happen. Oh, he’s back. Perhaps he’ll come back to bed, no, he’s going to stand by the window. What’s he looking at? He knows what’s out there, same as ever; the concrete and the dandelions, the barbecue with rusty legs, the old shed behind it. With that light against him he looks more like an angel now than a cherub. What’s he looking at? Must be some way of telling him I think I’m ready without actually telling him. Like before, should have been some way of telling him, but then, no, I never did tell him, I had to show him, that afternoon when we read together. He’s turning. I’m waiting.

“Looks like a nice day,” he says.

“Yeah?”

I suppose he doesn’t really go for it in the morning, only at night, but I wouldn’t mind, all snug and sleepy under the duvet.

“We should go to the park later.”

Park nice.

“Okay.”

“You want some breakfast?”

“Sure.”

“Want me to bring it to you?”

“No, I’ll come.”

He drops his dressing gown on the chair, I see for a moment his boxers hanging loose before he pulls up his jeans. Hrmpf, rather stay in bed, but not alone. Least the air’s not cold. Take his gown though, in case anyone else’s up. It’s furry and smells of him. Music is that? Coming from Jake’s room. Could hear it last night in the bathroom too. Sam says he’s always listening to music, or doing something noisy, singing to himself if there’s nothing else, though he can’t sing, says he thinks it’s because he had brothers so he isn’t used to the silence. Sam likes the quiet though, gets annoyed sometimes. He asked me before what it was like having a sister, if it made me always need noise. I said I wasn’t sure, that I didn’t mind it but I didn’t need it. Then he said sometimes Jake felt like a brother to him, because they’re forced together by sharing the same house and sometimes they get on really well and sometimes they fight. It must be hard to know what brothers and sisters are like if you don’t have them, like me thinking what it would’ve been like without Claire, but I imagine it gets lonely, especially for Sam, parents divorced, his mum not around much.

Oh, the floorboards in here are cold, except where the sun’s been. Tiles in the kitchen cold too, water sloshing against the sides of the kettle.

“You want cereal?” he asks.

Nod. Can I help? Tea, yes. He likes the mug with the tiger on, I’ll have. Oh, not in the cupboard, dirty, or in someone’s room, the stripy one then. Teabags, there. Hold him now, press against him again from behind. Water in the kettle: a lake. Why’d I think of that? The dream, yes, that was it: a lake flat like a mirror. Now it begins to boil: the bath last night. Splash. Oh, his hands moving across me, gliding with the soap, stopping where my breast begins, something about that spot makes me. I almost couldn’t take it, had to lean back and kiss him, felt him pressing against the base of my spine all hard, that turned me on more. Almost could’ve turned round there and then, if there’d been more space, felt almost right, thought we might’ve afterwards.

Sam. His back’s against my cheek, cotton like the pillow. Kiss your neck again if I could reach easily, without going on tippy-toes, feel your ribs under my fingers. Suppose it’s not the same for boys there though: only sensitive in one place. Most of them anyway. Something different about Sam, way he doesn’t react always to that. Click of the kettle. He’s pouring now, but I won’t let go, not yet. He might’ve taken advantage last night when I exposed myself like that, might’ve slipped his hand down, been all fingers and forgetting about the rest of me, but not he; he carried on massaging me, soaping me all over. Not had a bath like that before, not even shared one since I was a kid, Claire in there with me, waving plastic ducks in front of me so I wouldn’t cry when Mum washed my hair.

Through to the next room mug and bowl in hand, cold milk sloshing with chocolate rings, turning pure white to marbled brown. Sam’s turning on the TV, what’s on at this time? Weekday so, Trisha I suppose, or some other talk-show. Nintendo 64 next to the screen, gathering dust as the TV whines and flashes on. Sam plays it sometimes, but Jake owns it. Talk-shows, thought so, horse racing and an old movie too. Don’t get Channel 5 so well round here. Why’s he standing up there to do it? Oh, no batteries in the remote.

“Any preference?” he asks.

Weetos in my mouth, I shake my head. He leaves Trisha on, comes to sit next to me. The sofa sinks where he sits and the tie-dye cover stretches. Who’s this now? Some love triangle: he cheated on her and got her pregnant but wants the first one? Hope I never end up on this show, no, why would I? Have to want to go on. English ones aren’t so good as the American ones, not funny like Jerry Springer. Maybe just because of the yokel accents. Perhaps they think the same about. Whose that coming downstairs, through the door? Jake. Best not look at him, he makes it too awkward. Snuggle down into dressing gown, make it tight around me, look at Sam. Sam’s looking at him. Couldn’t imagine them as brothers: too dissimilar. Neither’s speaking, just a quick nod from each at the other. Jake, he’s not looking at me, he’s going through to the kitchen. Sam’s looking at me though. Smile. He’s not always like that, Sam says, just when. I don’t think he finished but he was going to say when I was around.

Well I never led him on. We hung out. What did we do? We watched movies, he cooked for me once. I didn’t ask him to, he said, “you wanna stay for dinner?” and I said “sure,” being hungry, thinking he’d pull a pizza out the freezer, perhaps some garlic bread, then he goes and starts making some pasta dish with cheese sauce and chopped bacon, garlic bread too, and he opens a bottle of wine which, “sure, I’ll have a glass,” since he’d already opened it. I didn’t flirt; we were friends, and it was a way to spend time with Sam, since he was there with us more often than not. Did he begin to suspect then that I was in love with him? Perhaps, he said he liked it when I came over and then he said I was like a sister to him, which was an odd thing to say, but he says things like that sometimes, probably ’cause of the books he reads, maybe.

Sometimes, when Sam wasn’t there, Jake would reach for my hand as we watched a movie and I’d pull away. Well what do you say? “No, don’t do that, I don’t like you like that?” It’s just a hand, and he’d never say anything, or properly ask me out, then I could’ve said, “no,” or “I like you, but really I’m in love with Sam.” Awkward that one time when he reached once and I folded my arms, then he reached again, my hand tucked under my elbow, and started stroking my fingers. Didn’t do it long at least, but afterwards, looking at the screen, could still feel his eyes on me, wanting me to turn. Perhaps he’d have tried to kiss me then if I had, and then I could have rejected him straight, rather than just hinting. Oh, he’s coming back with tea and biscuits, biscuits for breakfast?, look at the TV. Sam’s looking at him though. They say nothing. Now he leaves, alone again, Sam, I.

It hurts him, I think, but he doesn’t say it. I wonder if they talk about me ever. Do I want them to? Depends what they say. “Got a good view of Abby’s tits in the bath last night, rubbing them down with soap.” Ugh. No, Sam’s not like that. I hope he does talk about me in a good way though. Hope he thinks about me. Do you think about me? His brow’s furrowed, he’s still thinking about Jake. Lean over and kiss him. Quick, not passionate, loving. Comfortable. He tastes of tea and milk. No, hope he doesn’t talk about me with Jake actually, Jake hates me enough already, doesn’t need to hear more from Sam. Hmm, last Weeto always so hard to get, have to chase it round the bowl with the spoon. There.

“I should get dressed,” I say now, white-brown milk emptied of Weetos.

“Yes,” he says, “then we could go to the park.”

“Mm hmm,” I say, “and take a picnic?”

“Sure, if you want, but we’ll have to go buy some stuff for it.”

~ ~ ~

Read Part Two

Tags: dreams, female perspective, Fiction, James Joyce, modernist style, original fiction, picnic, Raymond Carver, Relationships, sensation, short story, stream-of-conciousness

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