Rye is a quintessentially English town on the south east coast of the country. Cobblestones, taken from the chalk cliffs a little further up the coast, line the wiggly streets which wend their way up and down the hill on which the town is situated. It is on the far southern edge of the mystical Romney Marsh, the flat sheep-rearing countryside with a long history of smugglers and pirates. The river is tidal in Rye, all the way to the town quay, and sea mist regularly rolls in and engulfs the town in autumn; rendering it a beauty all its own.
Rye was never a seaside resort though and so it has escaped the cheapening that happened elsewhere on the Kentish coast. This is a town of antique shops, tea rooms, a jazz festival and a grand hotel now faded with time. The well-off middle classes stroll the shops and young families indulge in ice creams.
Sarah wasn't quite sure how she ended up in Rye. An American student, long light brown hair, petite yoga-toned figure, someone who had learned to love her freckles; she took a job one summer while studying in London and, with no better options, found herself continuing to work in Rye when her art course ended. Her Dad had always criticised her choice of subject and she didn't want to admit defeat by moving home. So she stayed on in Rye, working in one of the larger up-market antique shops that are dotted throughout the town.
There was something about the place, odd and yet comforting, that suited her.
Rye was where she met Al. The first time was when he was Lycra-clad, a classic MAMIL road-warrior 47 year old cyclist stopping in one of the tea rooms for a coffee & cake on a Friday morning. He had clip-clopped into the tea room in his silly cycling shoes and she couldn't help but laugh out loud when he nearly slipped over on the tiles. She was taking her morning break in her usual haunt overlooking the small harbour, he weary and calorie-hungry from his ride. They struck up a brief conversation where he admitted his laughable appearance and she smiled teasingly.
A few weeks later he reappeared, this time in a suit, prowling through the antique shops on the hunt for a gift. He had wandered into her shop and it took a moment when he recognised her. He was a lot more endearing in the suit, slim but not strong, full headmif hair and bkue eyee. They chatted and she enquired about what he was after. There was an ease between them she couldn't quite explain, a spark of familiarity she hadn't had with anyone else in the town.
After that he began regularly visiting her shop. He always had a reason, an excuse, an errand, but after the third such visit she guessed his intentions. It was no accident that he kept reappearing, all smiles and easy manner. She began to look forward to it.
As autumn moved in, they grew friendly and then grew flirty.
The afternoons gradually darkened in the way they do that time of year. The town gradually closing in on itself. Wrought iron street lamps adding charm and magic to the town. Colours turning on the leaves in the trees, streets emptying of tourists, the life departing the town early in the day and a comforting sort of loneliness descending on Sarah as she walked the few minutes home from the shop in the evenings.
One evening, just before closing, she heard the front door bell tinkle as she was sorting some paperwork in the back. Coming through to the front shop she could see the warm orange glow of street lamps was muted by a light sea mist that had risen in the afternoon with the tide. Turning, she glanced up and realised that her visitor was Al.
"Good evening, stranger!" She smiled.
"Sarah, hi." He seemed nervous. "I had to come see you."
"We have some new pieces in, if you want to see them?"
"No. Not that. I had to see You, Sarah." He replied a little cryptically.
She smiled to herself, an admission of sorts. At last. She had often suspected, wondered, even dreamt of his building fascination with her.
"See me?" she asked, all innocent wide eyes.
"Yes! I, er..." he tailed off and turned away distractedly. "I'm not sure I should say anything. I yearn to. But."
She noticed he was fiddling with his wedding ring.
"I have been looking forward to seeing you, too." She said simply.
"You have become very important to me, Sarah." He dared a look in her direction "I have a deep crush on you. But I am too old and it is silly and all the rest." and for a horrifying miment she thiught he was about to leave.
She felt giddy. Finally, after such a build up, he was admitting the obvious. And she couldn't have been happier. She wasn't sure if it was the place or the tempo or the fact everyone else in the town was over 60, but she had also dreamt of this moment. Hoped.
She decided to take charge.
Walking up to gim, she pressed her finger to his lips, hushing him. Next, she crossed over to the shop door and flipped the sign to Closed. She locked it quickly and then pulled the blind down over the front window. It was a big blind, the winding mechanism loud in the silence of the late afternoon, it covered the front window imperfectly but lent the air of privacy.
Silently she then took his hand and led him over to the Chesterfield sofa that was half in the window. She had sat in the arm of it many times in his company, stroking and caressing the studded surface. She had hoped then that the eroticism implied was clear and she had decided early on in her fantasies that this was The Place.
She stood him in front of it and kissed him briefly on the mouth. He emitted a brief moan of surprise but soon kissed her back. Her finger hushed him again.
