Читать книгу The Living - Anjali Joseph - Страница 21

He turned me over. Here, he said. He put a pillow next to me.

What? I said. I looked at him over my shoulder. The curtains were drawn. I couldn’t see his face. He was kneeling over me.

Put it under you. Here. He helped me shift it, then got into me. There you go, he murmured as he started moving. He said things to himself. Yeah … Mmm … and got turned on quickly. Do you want me to come? he asked.

I thought it was a general question. Course, I said. He moved faster and did, with a shout. When he’d finished, he breathed in and moved in me a few times, just I guess because it felt good.

I waited for him to say something about the fact that I hadn’t come, offer to do something. He leaned back, took the pillow from me, put his head on it, got me in the crook of his arm. I liked that, the warmth. He’d be here for a while; he was in no hurry. And it was still early. I looked up at him, but he was different. Before, he was concentrated on me, like a spotlight. Now, he was here, my head was on his chest, but I’d disappeared.

He looked up at the ceiling. So, Claire, he said, how do you like doing it?

How do you mean? I said. I like it, I added.

He chuckled. His chest moved under my face.

What?

You’re funny, he said. He squeezed me with his arm. No, I meant, which way? Which other way do you like?

Like, position?

Mm.

I don’t know, I said. Er, from behind, sideways. I felt depressed, like in school when people would ask, What’s your favourite band, and you knew there was a right or wrong answer.

He looked down at me, interested. Embarrassed? he said.

Not embarrassed, I said. It’s just weird, talking about it.

Not embarrassed, but it’s weird talking about it, he repeated. He stretched his free arm towards the bedside table, looked at his watch, put it on his wrist.

What time is it? I said.

I’ve got a bit of time, he said.

I put my arm over his stomach. Under the curtain I could see the colour of the light, going from orangey to golden. Maybe it was around five thirty, six. When I’d got his text that afternoon I’d rushed home, taken a shower, waited for him. He usually left around six. Somehow he never ran into Jason. I didn’t plan it, or have to try.

Did I ever tell you about Lisa? he said. He put his free arm behind his head, looked up at the ceiling.

Lisa?

She was my first proper girlfriend, in school.

Oh, I said. No, you didn’t.

We were fifteen. We used to hang out at her house after school. Both her parents worked so we – she had a key.

Right.

He stroked my arm. She was so beautiful, he said. A really sexy girl. I didn’t know anything then – neither of us did. His voice was dreamy. He looked down at me suddenly. We did everything, he said. He laughed. We even got a book out of the library, can you imagine?

I smiled. He was looking at me but I wasn’t me. He was still talking and I began thinking, remembering how I’d felt in the afternoon, knowing I was going to have sex in a few hours. The smell of the machines and the oil giving me a headache, and being turned on, it reminded me of school, when I’d just started secondary. Sex had arrived then, for all of us – not that I was having sex yet, but all of a sudden it was there. There was a while, a few months, when it was all I could think of. I’d do it to myself whenever I could. A few times in a cubicle in the loo. It took no trying. Things were happening to all of us – breasts, hair on our legs, the boys starting to get spots and shave. For some reason, though, I thought I was the only one having this experience, this dirty but amazing secret.