Queue long in the supermarket, was lunchtime though, and it’s sunny. Supermarkets always so much busier when it’s sunny, don’t people eat when it’s cloudy? Felt bad letting Sam pay for everything, but he insisted, he’s sweet like that. How much was it though? Twenty-something, most of that was the Malibu. I said “get the cheap one,” but “no,” he said, “the cheap one’s nasty.” What else? French sticks, yes, and olives and Greek cheese, well he likes those more than I do, beef jerky too, I’ve never had it so I don’t know, but he likes that, said he hadn’t had it since he went to America with his dad years ago. Think he misses his dad sometimes, especially the way things often are between him and Jake, and the other house-mate never around, always out or working or sleeping, I’ve only spoken to him about twice. Still, he’s got me. Squeeze his arm, there. He’s smiling at me. It always seems to be sunny when I’m with you.

Yes, there’s the park, at the end of this road. The food’s in Sam’s backpack, the blanket and the Malibu are in mine. Not a blanket: the cover from the sofa in the living room. Jake was sitting on it when we got in, playing Nintendo games, but when we started making the picnic in the kitchen next door, talking and laughing, he disappeared. There were no blankets: we stole the cover. Mm. This is happiness, this, the park, the picnic in our backpacks. What else? Coca Cola to mix with the Malibu, and plastic cups to mix it in, cheese and pineapple on sticks, picked up a whole pineapple at first, that’s what gave me the idea, then saw a tin of chunks and remembered the last time I tried to carve a pineapple, that was back, when?, November, me and the girls not long moved in, like a fruity murder scene Lou had said, so I left it in the bread aisle. It looked ridiculous, all leafy and ridgy in amongst the Hovis and the Warburtons, had to laugh, and then one of the staff was looking at me so I ran away.

Oh, in the shade of this leafy tree: a chill breeze. Always sunny with Sam except here, makes me think of autumn, reminds me of those days when Sam seemed an eternity away, the girls and I walking to those parties with bare legs, or with legs as good as bare in black tights, our glittering dresses sparkling in the street-lights, thinking about Sam, looking for him in the crowd, wondering where he was if I didn’t see him, if he’d found someone else before I’d had my chance. Silly, I suppose, to fall in love so quickly, so determinedly, though I’d only known him since September, but I couldn’t help it, even in the clubs, when guys used to flirt with us, and Lou would go off with them and grind up against them on the dance-floor, and Frances, though she got picked less often, even she found a boyfriend, for a while, amongst the flashing lights and the loud music, and they asked why I hadn’t, but I didn’t dare tell them about Sam, because I wanted it so much, I was scared that saying it would make it not happen. He seemed so far away.

But then there was that afternoon in the Student Union bar, and though he hurt me without knowing, he brought me closer to him, because then I came round his house, to see Jake of course, but it was still his house. And it was that one afternoon when I was round and Jake went out, he had a lecture or something and said he’d be back in a couple of hours, and I could wait there for him if I wanted. He must’ve thought something was going to happen between us, always reaching for my hand like that, but I never lead him on. I never.

Sam was in, so of course I said I’d stay and I’d wait for Jake. Sam was reading on the sofa downstairs at the time, what was it then?, something big, Proust, I think. He said it was a classic, but then he says that about everything he reads. So I got the book I had with me out of my bag and it was Harry Potter and sat with it in the arm chair. We read together and I kept looking at him and then I asked what he was reading. “Proust,” he said, and then “Remembrance of Things Past.” “Oh,” I said. He told me it was French, and that it was a classic. Then we both read a bit more, and then I said “swap.” He said “what,” and I said again “swap, let’s swap books.” He thought about it a moment, then “okay,” he said. I started reading the first pages of Remembrance of Things Past and Proust was going on and on about going to bed early and then not being able to sleep and all the things he heard and the things he thought about, and I suppose it was interesting, in a way, but not if the whole book was like that, and the sentences were all so long you had to read them twice.

“You really like this stuff?” I asked. He said he did. I told him I thought he was just showing off. He smiled at that and said maybe he was. I still wonder sometimes if he really enjoys reading, or if he just does it because he feels he has to, because it’s good for him somehow. I asked then, “so what did you think of my book?” sitting on the sofa now so we could swap back. “Well it’s a kids’ story isn’t it?” he said. “What’s wrong with that?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said, “it was alright, easy-going anyway, perhaps I’ll read it when I’m done with this.” He tapped Proust with his fingers and I thought I saw a slight shake in his hand. He wasn’t looking at me. Then he looked up and he saw me and it felt like he was seeing me for the first time. We kissed and then. And then we had to keep it from Jake for a little while and break it to him gently.

Sam told it to him a few days later, and then they didn’t speak for about a week I think. The first time I came round after that, and Jake saw me, he stared me down all accusative. I had to look away, and then Sam glared at him, “back off,” he said with his eyes, or “don’t.” I felt bad for Jake, of course, I thought he was okay, perhaps if Sam wasn’t there, if things had been. No, maybe I just feel sorry for him; it hurts, that. Perhaps I should introduce Frances and he, maybe that would work. Oh, another shady tree: it’s warm now, but it’ll be cold later, maybe should’ve worn tights, brought a cardie, no, we won’t be out that long, and you’ll keep me warm, won’t you? Even in autumn we’ll walk through this park again, my arm around yours like now, and you’ll still keep me warm.

“Over there, by the lake?” Sam says, pointing.

I nod.

~ ~ ~

Feel the grass on my elbows through the sofa-cover, tummy full with food, sun on me, I am happy. And drowsy again, like this morning. The Malibu is warm, the Coca Cola too, though we put them in the shade to keep cool, still, another glass, to sip. The lake looks nice, dreamy.

“Do you want to go for a swim later?” I say, jokey.

I smile. I look at him, we’ve been quiet, he’s not smiling. For a moment I’m back in the Student Union bar, coming towards him and he’s not looking up from his book.

“What’s wrong?”

Now he looks, hollow smile.

“I liked the pineapple chunks with the cheese on the sticks,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve had them before.”

Mum used to make them at my childhood birthday parties, but that’s not what he’s thinking about.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks away, what’s he looking at now? Not me; some ducks.

“Is this love?” He says.

“What?” Off-guard, didn’t expect that.

“This: going to the park together, watching TV, sharing baths. Is this what love is?”

“What else would it be?”

Not now drowsy, not now dreamy and happy. I sit up.

“Don’t you love me?”

Rum and cola in my stomach all sickly now. I wait, I wait. Speak.

“Why haven’t we had sex yet?” He says like the question is choking him and he has to spit it out.

He looks down and starts playing with some grass.

“Is that what this is about?” I ask.

I can fix that, I want to, ready now, ready now, wasn’t before, but last night, this morning, ready now, haven’t left it too long without, haven’t made him lose interest, can fix it, ready now.

“No, not really,” he says

“What then?” Breathe in, not a little girl any more, just words, he’ll tell me, we’ll fix it.

He shrugs, looks away like he’s trying to read the lake.

“I think I might go home for a few days next week some time,” he says suddenly, “I miss watching films with my dad and my nan’s baking.”

“Okay,” I say.

Let him change the subject, nothing wrong. Move closer, afraid, he can see that, I don’t need to say. Hold his arm, he won’t slip away. Look at me.

“I do love you,” he says.

There, except there’s something else.

“But?” I say.

“Nothing. I love you. I want to look after you.”

I don’t know what he means, I don’t know if he knows what he means, but this is love, he reads too much, he’s close, his arm is warm and shakes as he coughs. There are no shadows across the flat lake. We’ll walk here again in the autumn.

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

She was painting a picture of him, she had told him earlier across a table. Art feeding art. Life feeding art, criss-crossing across the way. Her breath had been warm, beer-tainted, warm. Two mornings later he changed the sheets on his bed, an hour after rising. They were still warm. Would he have been able to tell the difference between the warmth of two bodies having slept in that bed and just one? In a way, in mind only, there had been another person in that bed, a phantom of imagination. The bed was warm when he woke; comfortable; phallus erectus. He had not arisen immediately, but there had been no sleight of hand and no spring of warm, wet, pleasure-sensation, just a dull longing.

He stood and dressed. Grey sky. Hot tea. Paint peeled on the garden shed, wind blew leaves, rain hung back warily. Either of the girls (young-adult university students) would do. Neither seemed ideal, in a way just place-holders, diverting if not holding back the waves of sensation, the ebbing and flowing, waxing and waning of each day, until the next crush came along. Did two half-crushes make a whole? Not really. In the same way that an earthworm cut down the middle would continue to squirm, but would be unlikely to limp on alive as either segment.

Another sat down at the table, silhouetted moodily by a free-standing lamp above his head. Her eyes dart away, attention drawn. They have the same coloured hair, the same fancy dress. There is a murmuring in the bar, a warm sway of bodies. The low-lights are cosy, the music rhythmic, far away. She is talking to him. They’re always together. This is before she’s a face half-looked for in a crowd. She will stand soon, light-up eyes flickering , sparkling in the room, their warmth permeating her breath. She’s a firefly drawn like a moth to him, the one beneath the lamp, to them, the people around, to paint, to shiny glittering mechanical things, to soft cotton clothes and fresh-ripe fruits. She’s a mirror too.

A mirror, infinitely detailed: She’d be one of those old-fashioned gold-shining brass-framed mirrors, with black-green tarnish in amongst the deep-set grooves of the sculpted surround. And in her he would see whatever he wanted to see. If she was friendly, if she was taking an interest, if she was painting a picture of him, she fancied him. If she spent all her time with someone else, or even seemed to, then she fancied that someone else. And if she, or anyone else, was too shy to talk to him because they fancied him, then they didn’t fancy him. And how did he feel?

He looked for her in a crowd. He walked to her house the next day, saw the painting, saw her, saw the other, but no others. Alone. The three of them. They talked. The two that were not him told stories in the manner of a couple, with exchanged glances, editing and referencing and confirming each others narratives. They were the characters, they were the themes. Tea was offered and consumed. He was already over any jealousy, he had never committed any feelings anyway, rather, he had let them all be swept away, purged by the wave.

He might be wrong: paintings and light-up eyes, bedrooms and phone numbers. It would take hours to finish that painting. Hours staring at the same face, assessing and recreating every feature with minute detail, with sweeping, bold, confident brush strokes, and timid, delicate dabs of paint. How could you not fall in love with a face like that? Without love, without affection and dedication, the painting would fall lifeless or remain unfinished, like the glimpse caught in a mirror’s shard. Love. Love and dedication. When he wrote he loved every one of his subjects. He loved all his objects too. They were all beautiful and breathing: they had to be, otherwise they would be ugly and stale. The writer, like the artist was polygamous, even if the person wasn’t. She understood.

He left her house. He had judged it time to leave. He didn’t have a toothbrush there. There was a park near where he lived. It would be so nice to have someone to walk through with, he had thought the other day. That had been the first, and so far only time he had been there, having just moved to his new student-house. It had been evening when he had gone. Acute angle low orange bright sunlight, long sharp shadows. A woman read a paper on one of the benches that surrounded an inactive fountain. Further into the park his shadow stretched across a waist-high still-water toy yacht pond with lilies in the corner. Idyllic, somehow as if the park was unchanged since the nineteen-fifties.

There was a miniature railway track too, all criss-crossing metal veins stretching out under gates, behind fences across paths, like ridges of gnarled horse-chestnut leaves. Like abandoned coastal beach huts, faded autumn sun, the cold reflective toy yacht pond and an inactive fountain were indicative of out-of-season entropy. It was beautiful. He had sat by the toy yacht pond, leaning against its waist-high edge, to text his ex-girlfriend. She would have appreciated this park, a walk in this park, arms linked, steps in time, and he wished for someone else to experience it, even second hand, even though he would just have soon as been alone in that park, as he was, or at least alone apart from the woman reading the paper, some dog-walkers, some cyclists, a group of children playing football.

He stood and walked away from the toy yacht pond. There was more park to see and the sun was setting. As he walked he thought of the one he had thought of a few days later in his warm, comfortable morning bed. Could friends, a male and a female, walk like that through a park? Could they walk arm in arm and be nothing more, but maybe be something more, but more likely stay as friends? Perhaps he would ask her sometime. Perhaps there would be times in the coming months when he would walk her home, or they might stop after lessons for a cup of tea or some other hot drink and sit across the table from each other and talk easily, not as couples tell a story but as friends share a joke. Perhaps when they stopped at her door she might wrap her arms around him to say goodbye, or he might stoop a little and she move onto her tip-toes, leaning up for a quick kiss, on the cheek, on the lips.

Even if they both wanted that, it would take time, weeks, months. The sun was setting. There wouldn’t be many more days like this, warm enough to walk late in parks without wrapping up, hurrying steps, breathing misted breath. And that was if they both wanted that, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to be with anyone, except at times like then, walking alone in that park, because if he was with someone, then someone else would be experiencing this beautiful, quaint place with him, validating, in a way, his own experience. But what about after, and tomorrow? There were moments he wanted someone, moments he felt unworthy of someone, and moments he was content on his own. The sensations ran together.

He was attracted to the lustre of eyes lit up, like he was to the low autumn sun, and he was attracted to the warmth of another body, in a bed, linked through his arm, but these were sensations and not people. He could afford, as a writer, an artist, to be polygamous with sensations, but as a person, he could not commit, not until he was someone different and less different, to a person, even someone who understood. Would that change when the painting was complete? That was days away, many days and many waves, who could say how he would feel then? Most likely, nothing would change, because the painting, even if she fell in love with it, with those affectionate oil eyes staring back at her, would be a fiction, and not a person. He was the person, and he was in love with his own fictions, just as she was in love with hers.

He left the park. Crowds were made of many people, many bodies, many faces, hers was just one, just as anyone else’s was just one face. If he looked hard enough into a crowd, just as if he looked hard enough into a mirror, or at a person’s actions, he would see whatever he wanted to see, pick out whatever he wanted to pick out. That wouldn’t necessarily be an accurate representation, just an interpretation, and, like a phantom girl in a warm bed or eye-makeup and a fancy dress costume, it would just be a fiction.