Dear readers, this story follows on from
Sunshine
. It will stand alone but is most likely better enjoyed after reading that submission first.
I've blamed it on the moonlight.
Wrapping a towel around me for warmth, I stumble sleepy around the chalet seeking some sign of Sarah. She has tidied the kitchen, folded towels, picked up empty glasses and bottles and there is no sign she was ever here except a faint lingering smell of our love-making on the bed I return to. Pulling back the covers I nestle into the warm spot our bodies had shared and smile myself into deep much needed sleep.
I wake much later to a loud beep from my mobile phone. My eyes are grainy and my body reminds me that all-nighters take a little longer to recover from these days. I have the faint remnants of a hang-over but nothing some ibuprofen and a swig of whiskey won't fix. My pussy though, feels soundly and enthusiastically used and that feeling alone mocks me by arousing me with thoughts of how that transpired.
Growing quite wet with recollection I pick up the phone to find a number of messages, two from George and one from "Piss Bitch". I remember giving her my phone to put her contacts in; I'm tech savvy but this latest phone defies my attempts with its windows operating system.
Opening Sarah's message first I find a picture of myself kneeling in the tub while she spreads her legs and pisses on me. Her hairless vulva and thighs frame the top of my hair and my face is hidden.
[Thank you, Connie, for a wonderful night. Pls forgive me leaving early. I have much to think on. C u soon I hope xxx ps I thought Mr Winter would like this pic.]
Smiling, I thumb through Georges messages. One is his standard nightly message when he is away, [Night beautiful] and the other is a picture of a pair of lacey underpants sprayed with ropes of cum.
"Oh, I see your grotty underwear and raise you..." I forward Sarah's picture, "[piss off old man].
Double glass doors slide open to the deck and I drag my old friend Tullamore onto the deck to gaze at the afternoon? My phone tells me I have slept until almost two pm. I had planned on souvenir shopping today for the kids and George. I could also use some toiletries and something to eat. If I'm to beat the mall hours I'll need to get a scurry on.
It's so hard to 'scurry' on island time though. I've showered and dressed and snacked and sat to read the first few chapters of my second novel. Adultery has never really been my flavour. Why not just be honest and play by the same rules? But, in this tawdry tale, 'Beau' an unreasonably gifted in all proportions young man gardens at a rich woman's mansion. His unnatural handsomeness leads the wife of the political ascendant to investigate his unnatural girth and length and thereafter, many mucky moments ensue. I fold the book as my phone indicates three pm, not bothering to mark the page and decide to pursue my own unnatural endeavours.
The walk from the chalet to the mall is one of my favourite things about this island. Not 'the' favourite thing but one of them. The boardwalk at the end of the chalet gives way to a sandy path that winds its way across the dunes and under palms and banksia forest through ti-trees and depending on which chalet you have booked past a natural feature of the island. My own track leads past a fresh water lake where my children were both conceived.
Our anniversary is the thirteenth of December each year and our brilliant computer analyst son and exceptionally talented producer daughter have still to conclude why they share September birthdays. This lake is why. Its soft shelly beach and mossy banks, the moonbeams which glow silver through the canopy onto the soft grassy shores each evening and the fact that we often wandered back this way after long lovely nights at the resort's entertainment venues; too impatient for the seclusion of our chalet and making the most of our private walkway is exactly why.
We make it a tradition to get at least one or two shots away each 'island'a'versary' at this very location and it begs me reminisce as I wander freshly showered and dressed in my island formal best; a dark black bikini under a yellow tie died, gauzy knee length cotton dress. Our yearly trysts are a salute of some kind to our younger days. I wish briefly George was here. Snapping a picture to send him I remember a time he and two young Jamaican men took turns on me just ten feet from where I stand.
[Remember?] I send him. I don't know what time it is in Japan so I am surprised when my phone beeps.
[Very fondly. Wish I was there.]
[Me too]
[Do you remember Jacques and Saul last year?]
[I was, just not their names. Love you bastard.]
[Love you bitch.]
And along the track I traipse. It smells deeply of the sand and undergrowth; a scent that is linked in the synapses of my brain to all sorts of memories which flood back in fleeting fairy-borne glimpses. Lost in reminiscence, I find boards beneath my feet again and approach the central hub of the resort sooner than I expected.
In the small pharmacy come newsagent come post office, I find sunscreen, handle some small souvenirs and browse the long aisle of magazines for something simply distracting to pass some sunny hours on the deck of my chalet. I can hear the hub-bub of voices mingled with piano music from the garden bar across the way. The island breeze brings it in lilting wafts that also carry the smell of cooking from the restaurant beside it.
Suddenly hungry, I make my purchases and pop them in my bag. Outside I beeline to the restaurant, "Frangipani's", and spend far too long wading through the simple menu. The truth is I have all the food I need in my chalet but it's nice to have someone cook for you now and then as well so eventually I order a seafood basket and ask to have it delivered to me in the garden bar outside.
Wooden barrels make tables and people lean against them chatting, some sit and listen quietly to the piano music. Ordinarily a guitarist entertains. The upright Steinway is a welcome diversion and the pianist quite masterful. He plays through 'Fur Elise' with nimble long fingers and strict adherence to timing then letting the last notes fade in the drawing room pitch belly of the piano he takes a sip from a drink that sits where a music score could and continues into Bach's Minuet in G, which just happens to be one of my absolute favourite classical pieces.
He draws no applause from the twenty-somethings that huddle in quiet gaudy groups of questionable fashion sense. Hardly even a glance gets thrown his way, excepting mine which watches those long, tanned fingers in mesmerised appreciation of this auditory feast. Another feast slides before me and I smile in thanks at the waitress. Picking at the calamari rings, I dip them in a tartare sauce and test them with my teeth; they are perfect and my eyes rise finally from the pianist's fingers to follow his arms higher till I see him for the first time.
Older men usually do not interest me for some feeble reason. Perhaps I compare them all to George and find them lacking in some way. I usually predate the younger men. I suppose that is a reflection on me. Maybe I feel superior to the younger men and see them as easier prey? This man however excites me. He is tall, easily as tall as George. There I go, comparing... But he is tall in a lean and dangerous way as opposed to Georges heavy set gym-fit build. His eyes are dark in his brooding taciturn face. Curls of jet dark hair take undirected licence to fall where they may around his strong clean jawline and neck.
His simple white business shirt is opened to the second button and the sleeves rolled high on his forearms. I can see the green lines of an old tattoo peek from below the cuffs and matted tufts of thick black hair tangle in the v of his open shirt. An intensity and power gather in an aura around him as he nods rhythmically and concentrates, lost deep in his own construction. And soon this too ends, the piano relaxing into silence that hangs like his fingers above the keys until deep enough, he rests his palms on his thighs and hangs his head into the quiet.
Applause seems like a hollow gesture to offer such a moving performance, but my hands make tiny clapping noises, alone in the garden bar with the chatter of oblivious young adults who would most likely have preferred the guitarist and the canned karaoke cover songs. The face I'd misnamed taciturn raises and flicks aside its dark curly fringe to twist into a faint, kind smile and I recognise deep grief etched into the playful laugh lines that show themselves in this momentary expression. Empathy, my constant curse, coils ready to launch me in wasted expansive gestures of humanity and I smile warmly in return.
Hollow echoes follow the lid of the piano closed and he stands and finds a seat at the bar. Moments later a waitress arrives with a whiskey sour and a folded note. "With thanks for the applause."
"Mr Reynolds wishes to know if you would mind company?" the little blonde girl asks with the naughty twinkle of a matchmaker in her hazel eyes.
