Is this desire? Part one

What happens when a married woman feels seen by another man.

9 September

Is this what it feels like?

She is listening to him and, for a long moment, she hears his words on the smooth surface of his cheek, moving across his mouth, along the line of his jaw. She watches the words slide along the skin of his forearm and down the long, tapered fingers that lightly enclose his warm tea cup.

He is talking. They are talking. They have been talking — what is it, almost two hours now? The conversation has been a kind of weaving. Back and forth they hand the thread, with their mouths, their eyes. They pour tea and then more tea. What have they been talking about? Everything. Simply that. But not as two people who have tread these paths before. They haven’t.

Is this what it feels like? Are they friends? They are becoming so. And yet, as they talk, she can’t help imagining the pressure of his chest against hers. The table is not wide but reaching for him is as far away as anything on earth.

She tells stories and he listens, really listens. He doesn’t know the people she describes, not like her husband does, not like her friends do, so she comes alive in the telling, alive with the pleasure of holding his attention. Is this what it feels like? To talk with someone who really gets her? Who wants to sit and drink tea with her through the morning, reaching for crispy biscuits coated in chocolate, beautiful to the tongue. They both appreciate the design of the biscuit box. He comments on what she had already noted to herself, the specific shade of pink, like the colours he uses in his art — bright, neon coral forms that radiate in all directions.

Is this what it feels like? To be noticed in detail, as she notices him?

He tugs at the sweatshirt he is wearing. He found it in a skip outside a thrift shop. All he has are the clothes on his back, his bag lost en route from Albania. It’s been more than two weeks. She remembers what was lost, the contents of his bag. After arriving from Japan, he stayed with them a few days before travelling to the art exhibition in Tirana. They had put his clothes in the wash and she had hung each item to dry on the washing line under the trees. Wide t-shirts in grey and black. Socks in many shades of blue. Underwear, black, striped, plain. Shorts and a hat. She did it casually, but her back was turned to the house. Nobody could see her as she studied his clothing with her hands and eyes, the presence of his body still in them.

Is this what it feels like? To want someone in secret?

You see, this was not the beginning. That was a couple of years ago. Her crush started at their first greeting. They stood in the sun and smiled and exchanged names. Her eyes dropped to the tattooed koi fish swimming a circle around his strong thigh. She felt hot. He had a hand-rolled cigarette in his fingers. His accent was Japanese-London. He’d recently finished his masters in the city. He had black eyes, a shaved head and broad shoulders. She was six months pregnant, her belly a conspicuous orb in her short dress.

There followed distance, years, motherhood – enough to put his body galactically far from hers. They stayed in touch. But when he had recently come to stay (four nights on a bed on the landing) she had been relieved. Her crush seemed crushed – safely subdued by the chaos of toddler holidays and the strain of her husband’s long work hours – tucked away in his studio, labouring towards an exhibition of new sculptures. Her fantasy had seemed silly. She had no time or energy for it.

But she forgot. She forgot, until this morning, that when her attention could land where it will, when she had a chance to be alone with this man, something happened. In the pause and protraction of an empty house, something intense and calm was building. Something hypnotic. She forgot that she came alive under his eyes.

They have talked for over two hours now. He is still right there across the table, his skin, his eyes, his flesh. She cannot deny it, this feeling.

She gets up quickly, goes to the bathroom and sits on the toilet. Her body is tingling. Her breath is fast. She lets herself go. She takes off his grey t-shirt. She lets her skin slide over his, feels herself pressed against his chest. She touches his hard jaw with her fingers. She kisses his mouth, tastes his tongue. She pulls him down with her. She doesn’t know where, or how, but with her eyes closed, she does it anyway.

Continued here