A May blossom pops off its branch six feet above my eyes. It takes its sweet time to flutter to my knee. Thin as my grandmother's skin and the same dusky pink, it hovers for a moment before sliding from the glossy satin of my dress to the natural cotton of my blanket.
It's dandelion yellow with see-through bits (the dress, that is) and has an elegant, haughty-looking woman smoking a cigarette reclining across the right shoulder. I love it dearly. Even more so because it seems to reciprocate my feelings, hugging my curves and discreetly hiding my bump of a tum. I should really stop admiring my latest purchase and resume 'How To Care For Your Terrapin', but instead I make a firm resolution to finish the book tonight. There are too many distractions in parks.
I can see clusters of T-shirts round the fog of store-bought barbeques, scorching the rich grass with their indolence. The scent of supper in the wilderness wafts over. Couples are cavorting everywhere: freestyle acrobatics on technicolour rectangles. Some lie snoozing, tickling each other's hair with spare fingers. A triangular threesome guzzles crimson wine to my right; as I try to catch a glimpse of what tipple they're imbibing, they guffaw in heartfelt unison.
I lay my book open on a double-paged spread comparing both genders of minature turtle. I gaze about, unable to concentrate on dry informative prose, instead choosing to settle on yet another pair of amorous souls. They're wrestling and playfully hitting each other. She keeps re-starting it after he backs off, leaving a few heartbeats of grappling before she lets him pin her to the ground. Beginning then relenting. Fighting then submitting. It's the tipsy-turvy game of love (or at the very least, sweet lust), and I watch entranced for a little longer, imagining my own lover's head balanced on the boy's long neck.
(...and as I watch, I transform into her. I am her now. I embody her anatomy, my muscles feeling the strain as they're overpowered, my skin turning red where it burns. As I start to drift into a sensation-satiated fantasy-land, something clicks in the far-reaches of my brain, in the outer-space of my memory...)
I've fucked that guy.
I've literally put his penis inside my vagina.
Oh... shit.
It must've been some boozy, 'Ego-stroke Evening' last Winter, after Dan left me for Melanie. The precise shape and size, I can no longer recall, but I do possess a seed of knowledge about the landscape of his back – hair as thick as a black bear; enough to grip with one passion-filled fist.
He looks up. Oh... fuck. He's clocked me for sure. A familiar pout juts out from his jawline. And then the plot of the whole sordid encounter hits me upside the head as I remember how I baited him into that exact expression the last time we met...
It was that night in Fabric. I was dressed in very little and more than slightly drunk. I took him home with me, high on mischevious pride. After locating the secret stash of vodka and downing half each, I fucked him on a pile of embroidered cushions covering a corner of my floorboards. His ass slid sideways as I clambered on top of him and he had to grip the bottom shelf of my bookcase in order to stay in position during the act itself. It didn't last long but then I didn't expect it to. The sex was satisfactory. I was happy.
The problem only started when I told him to get out. I said that to be fair, his job here was done, so he should just be content with his achievement, however miniscule in the bigger, more planetary, scheme of things, and go home. I did feel slightly bad as he tried to force on his shoes without untying the laces, but I believe that honesty truly is the best policy. It wouldn't be a cliché if it wasn't true. We'd had our fun together, but now it was time to separate; there was no sense faking feelings.
So, I told him where he should be going. Cue the cute, angry jaw-jut and the inevitable series of expletives designed to let me know exactly where I stood in the social heirarchy of chaste women. I remember my reaction well: reclining of the pillows like the lady on my right shoulder, thinking 'god love the 21st Century', before a drunken daze masquerading as sleep overcomes me.
Oh... cunt! She's leaving. Her backpack's fully packed and already nuzzling her back. She says goodbye with a bend and a three second smooch and trots off to wherever she's going. Now he's alone he's bound to come over; call me a hussy, or worse. Cuntyfuckbollocks. Social faux pas, impending: T-minus two minutes, roughly, and counting.
I pretend to read about the carnivorous habits of the Red-Eared Slider while keeping one eye trained on him as he rolls his tartan mat and squeezes it into a Tescos bag. I watch, bug-eyed, as he begins marching the twenty or so steps between his mouth and my ears. Turning my head as a last ditch attempt to survive this encounter, I tense up, as ready for this confrontation as the T.A. in peacetime. T-minus two seconds, and counting.
So... I wait... but nothing occurs. The balmy afternoon air's absurdly free from shouting. I glance up again; first to my left, where the jigsaw of this non-existent fight's missing a vital piece, then to the right, where I see the back of his legs and coat stomp off in the direction of town.
'What in the hell happened?' I think, confused.
I guess I'll never know. Perhaps he didn't recognise me, or he's as embarrassed by the episode as I am. Either way, I feel strangely neglected and rejected. A funny thought pops into being, a blossom landing on my knee. He's only gone and tipped the balance back! The joy of the ego-stroke that night has just been overtaken by the far-deeper knowledge that I'm wholly unimportant to this boy. I get a humbling sense of my actual status in this world - I'm a dot on the periphery of someone else's lifescape. As a Libran it gladdens me immeasurably that equality seems to have been restored.
I lean back on my fluffy, newly-washed towel and stare at the cerulean sky peeping out between gaps in the patches of blossoms. This is the ideal position to continue waiting for my current beau – a loving soul who cavorts only with me. When he arrives, I'm going to let him pin me down a few times. It might rip, but fuck the dress. It's only fabric. There are more important things in life than looking good.
