Mine is a bit long winded. I allued to a period that mentioned before on these pages.
It all started with me walking down the steet with this guy. He was a lot older than me. We had just made love and went out for a walk, down the main street in this small town, in the Highlands of Scotland. The sun was beating down, as it tends to do up there. The Atlantic ocean was releasing a steady cloud of humidity, that never really got too warm. I wasn't trying to show any affection as such, but was as near to being smitten as I was ever going to be. I was 18.
I'd gone to this town to try a new start. Like many small Highland town, in those days, this one seemed to be more than a passing acknowlegement to the past. Most buildings were old and built with granate. Decore tended to be old and functional. People tended to be reserved and polite.
I needed to visit an office for various things. I sat in the waiting area, watching a long row of female secretaties, running around with bits of paper, or sitting, tapping into typewriters, emotionless.
After a while, I was escorted past this line of desks to a door at the top. This was his office.
He sits there, looking so average, so normal, so ordinary. He speaks quietly. There is a trace of emotion in his voice. He looks at me through his brown eyes, set in his long, narrow, cleanly shaven face, the hint of his aftershave going with his neatly pressed white shirt and straight tie. His big fountain pen, sits sideways infront of his neat papers, ready to be picked up at either end, but ready.
His hand barely leaves the desk as he turns his head, talking in his calm quiet voice, which betrays a hint of emotion. His neat papers, waiting orderly for his command. His neat tie, insisting on maintaining its place. His neat pen, his neat hair.
He sits there, looking neat.
Then a bright silver, flying saucer lands outside and a troop of 3 foot aliens marches out, singing Waltzing matilda while dancing a highland jig.
No, that didn't happen. Something much more suprising. Something so completely out there, something that I still don't really believe.
Time stands still. It actually stands still.
This is how time stands still. He stands up, he turns slighly and he partly sits of the side of his desk, next to me. He, puts his hand on my chin. He leans down and He kisses me.
Now when time stands still, body stops. I drop the tension in my back like a cloak slipping onto the floor. So casual. I should have done it before.
There are two of me now, one wants him to climb inside me and never stop doing what he's doing now, the other wants him to stop, so I can look, so I can see, so I can make sense. So he can do it again.
I can hear my breathing now, its loud and fast, but now, I've left my body and floated to another place. But I hear my breathing, I hear the sound, in the distance. I hear it ticking. I hear it.
He stops. He looks at me. I look back because he will start again. It will be the first time. It will be the same. It's the same because its so good. It is. It is, It is.
I draw a breath, a long, slow breath. A breath that goes on and on, I'm still breathing in. Shall I stop now? Shall I?
I'm breathing out. I walk out side and stand on the small lawn, in front of the building, which has the office that he is in. I wait outside this terrible building, like an unwanted wrapper on a birthday gift that you know will be worth having.
Two lifetimes later, he appears. He doesn't walk. He is just there. He was always there. He's standing there.
We lie on our bed. We make love.
It was later, after he had smashed and pounded the lonliness, the life that should never be, the life alone, without him. The life incomplete. The life in darkness and fear. After he had kneeded the life and shaped it, remade it into a glorious life. After he had taken all I could give and returned it, repaired, working as it should. Then we walk down the street. That warm street. The street of happy people. The street of joy of life, of how it should be. How it will be. How it is.
We watch the shops, warming, presenting their goods, for our approval. They each stand there, eager for us to pass. Basking in the approval that we show to each.
We see a store with shoe racks outside. I stop, looking at one. It has beautiful shoes. It has shoes which stand out, which shine, because they are made with goodness. I see the crowning shoes. I see my glass slipper. He tells me to try it on. I do and it fits like a baby, sleeping in his mother's arms.
It is patent. It has a small heal, perhaps 1 1/2 inches. It has a round toe. It has a small, golden buckle. It is so beautiful. It's been made by special elves. Their life's work, to make my shoes. I hug each warmly and they go, rewarded.
I wear my new shoes as we walk down the street. We go into a department store. I check out the skirts, the blouses, the tights. I buy a dark, knee length skirt and a white, cotton blouse. I don't know much about makeup but buy some foundation.
It was much later, after shops had closed and office workers were driving home, that we went to his home.
He lived in a flat on the second floor. The building was made of dark granite. The ceilings were each high. The stairs were stone, with wrought iron bannisters, carefully painted black. It was clean.
His door was a large, wide oak door, solid. With bright brass handles and a bright brass letter box, a big box saying I am here.
His home is clean and solid. the furnatire knows about life. It is strong. It is clean. it is mature. It is secure.
I wash again and I put on my new clothes. They fit as they should. I stand before him. He likes what he sees. I am home. I have made it. All the years of waiting are over. I have arrived.
