She in due time marrying an Australian and moving there. Out of my life for years and years, the memory of her receding but her sexual imprint ineradicable. Then, in Australia on business, an opportunity to meet up at a dinner party.
The day approaching. Thinking, she’ll probably look different, don’t be disappointed that she isn’t still nineteen. Behave with decency, don’t make sly reference to our former love. She’s got a child, so have I, things have moved on, she doesn’t need interference and complication and neither do I.
These intentions disintegrating in the first instant of seeing her. Immediately, like an electric current, the connection reconnecting. Her complicitous eyes the same as ever. The simple unaffected pleasure at being together. Every sentence about anything freighted with sexual vibrancy, the mere act of communication heavy with desire.
Meeting her husband, trying hard not to recoil. An obvious mismatch for Jane. A clear narcissist, coiffed hair, over-strong handshake, ponderous utterances produced in sonorous voice for a grateful world, smile manufactured. Also, thick.
Thinking, oh Jane, as beautiful a sexual person as you, wasted on this prig. Bet you, when you make love, the main focus is him, you play a bit part and he thinks you’re lucky to have that.
Later, chatting with Jane, having to avoid too much meeting of eyes, both of us on the edge of tears. She knowing that I know. Her inner sexual life withered, far worse than mine. Both knowing that an hour together alone and naked, and we’d both be healed. But also knowing, to do so would be too unraveling, we have to live in this practical world.
A scene recollected many times, like this morning. Still don’t know whether we shouldn’t have just gone ahead.
