A brief pressure on my arm. Turning around, Laura standing there smiling at me, hi, just thought it would be nice to talk, all these people are old friends, it’ll be good to chat with someone new. Refined diction, education worn lightly. Before long, common interests established, poetry, philosophy, gym workouts. Amidst the smiles, a soft electric zing.
In the back of the car, getting sleepy. The driver, my friend’s wife, chattering away, nice party wasn’t it, Laura was looking good, she’s actually having a tough time, she’s thought for ages her husband’s a bit bisexual, now he’s come out, actually he's more homosexual than bisexual, explains why their sex life is nonexistent.
This electrifying piece of information causing me to have difficulty not responding, don’t want to look too interested. The pieces clicking into place. Thinking back to Laura, she exuded sexual need, the skin even on her hands giving off a static, subtle but undeniable. Or so it seems in retrospect.
My wife and my friend’s wife chatting. No apparent awareness of my interest, they probably think I’m asleep. Maybe I am, it’s late. Dreaming about Laura, wishing I could touch her skin some more, help it become alive again.
Two days passing, Laura’s afterimage still in my mind like a glow, but her features fading, her face refusing to be recollected at will, then occasionally forming unbidden with perfect clarity. A telephone going off somewhere in the house, my wife answering. My attention taken with the cooking of dinner. Coming on nicely, one glass of white wine, then I’ll serve.
My wife coming into the kitchen, oh, do you fancy going on a walk round Hampstead Heath tomorrow, those friends we met at that party are all meeting up there, we can maybe walk for an hour, then get a drink, I said we’d go. Sure, darling, that’ll be fun.
Sipping the wine, thinking, wow, how terrific, I was wondering how to contact Laura again.
