Читать книгу The Harpy - Megan Hunter - Страница 8

It is the last time. He lies down, a warm night, his ­shirt pulled up, his head turned away. It is the kind of evening that used to make me want to fly through the sky, the kind that makes you believe it will never get dark.

Neighbours are having barbeques: the smell of the meat – sweet and homely – moves across his face. Downstairs our children are in their beds, dreaming through the hours, their doors closed, the late light blocked by their curtains.

We have agreed on a small nick, his upper thigh, a place that will be behind jeans, under shirts. A place of thick flesh, solid bone, almost no hair. A smooth place, waiting.

Jake is not squeamish: he is like a man expecting a tattoo. His hair is getting long, curling over the nape of his neck. His eyes are closed: not screwed shut, just closed, like a skilful child pretending to be asleep.

•

They were colleagues, then friends, and at first I suspected nothing. There were long emails, glimpses appearing on his phone, apparitions. The virgin blue of his notification light in the darkness. Nights where we couldn’t watch TV, because she was calling. Nights I went to bed early, enjoyed the whole bed to myself.

If I went in there – to get something, or turn a light off – I heard his voice sounding different. Not romantic, or gentle, just on show. His outside voice, the one he used with postmen, salesmen, people from work. I thought that was a good sign.

•

I lift the razor up – I have sterilized it, carefully, watching YouTube instructions – and rest it against his skin. I press down, very gently, and then with slightly more force.

•

Jake’s skin was one of the first things I noticed when we met. It was like the skin of a young boy – he was a young boy – someone milk-­fed, comfort-­raised. Someone who wore large, voluminous boxer shorts. Who slept silently, on his side. Who had a blond head of curls, like an angel. Even his eyelashes were curly. Tears used to get caught in them when we argued. On his stomach, his skin was hairless and as soft as a woman’s. The first time we went to bed, I kissed it.

•

I confronted him once, late at night, in my pyjamas, leaning against the fridge.

Do you want to sleep with her? I asked him. I think it’s best if we’re just really clear about this.

He laughed. I wish you’d get to know her, he said. She’s— He paused, the silence standing in for dullness, advanced age, sour breath.

She’s married, he said, finally. He looked at me, almost kindly. We didn’t touch.

•

I lift the razor and a fairy-­tale drop of blood escapes from under the silver. The colours are the brightest I have ever seen: stark and cartoon-­like, white skin and sea-­blue shirt and dark red, rolling and seeking. He doesn’t make a sound.