The physical touch of the kiss setting off a chemical reaction, slow-burn but soon fierce. My life at that stage empty and lonely. Defenseless against her Russian inscrutabilities, like an organism in a strange ecology without the requisite immunities.
Running more often at Battersea, looking for her, not finding her. Then one weekend, seeing her again. Mutual smiles of pleasure. More coffee, agreement to meet that evening.
A secluded corner of a restaurant, ice cubes floating in red wine as a hot summer drink. She laughing at my jokes, raptly listening to my stories. Stretching her hand across the table. My fingertips stroking her wrist, the crook of her elbow. She blushing and quivering. Whispering, come and have some coffee at my apartment.
Me hardly worried about the speed of events, like hothouse mushrooms growing, no roots, no strength, but choking up the space.
Making love with abandon. She utterly uninhibited. Only afterwards, thinking, it felt mechanical, like she’d learned what to do by watching porn videos, a rotation through various positions.
Next morning, she saying, oh, didn't have a chance to mention last night, have to move back to Moscow, flight booked for this evening, it’s been wonderful, kiss.
A wrench that stayed in my heart for years. Today, back at Battersea Park, running past the Pagoda, can still almost feel her presence.
