A Belated Happy New Year to All

It’s funny how words we associate with one person can trip us up when we hear them from the mouth of another. I had such an experience last week. My throat constricted and I just stopped a moment and took a deep breath. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t feel like that. Three little words uttered in passing, without the speaker knowing the significance, and I feel my edges soften.



“Crass and empty as it sounds ...” Pah!



The razor scrapes over my jowl as Rachel comes into the bathroom from door to my right. I’m too busy concentrating, keeping a steady hand, for the moment to greet her. She steps in behind me and extends her right index finger to the very corner of my jaw. Laughter ripples through her words.

“You missed a spot.”

She runs a soft hand, cooled by the fresh application of some moisturiser, over my nude torso and slides her hand beneath my belt. Without skipping a beat, I tenderly gripped her willowy wrist and extracted it.

“Cab’s gonna beat you to it, babe.”

Her eyes filled with disappointment as I wiped the razor clean on the crimson washer and went about rectifying the error. Rinsing the superfluous streaks of lather from my face, she leaned in and kissed me fully. It was only now that I took notice of the black party dress she was wearing. She’d described it to me over the phone, but this was the first time I’d seen it in the flesh. It’s a little short for my liking, but it still has a strangely aphrodisiac power over me.

A low “Oh, wow!” fell from my lips as I shuffled past her to collect a shirt, jacket and tie. She followed me back to the bedroom.

Smoothing her hands over my lapels and making the slightest adjustment to my tie, she speaks softly “Now, who’s going to be there?”

“Phil and Steph, Larice – if she’s not too wiped out by the jetlag – Nuge and Jess.”


Fast forward a bit over an hour and I am sat beside Rachel on a sandstone bench in the gardens of St Andrew’s Place, nursing a dram of scotch. She slips her hand into mine, knowing wholly just how provocative this place is. Recent visits, both in my dreams and in reality have been tumultuous, perhaps even sordid, little affairs.

I could feel her eyes locked on me. Ordinarily I don’t mind it, but in this moment there’s just something unnerving about it. She knows that my memory harks back to another woman. Here. This party. She and I together.

“You OK?”

Taking a sip of the single malt, I know I have to measure my words. I have always been open with her. I told her of that dream the first instant I could.

“I just hate being tangled in memory’s thorns. It feels … different: vacant and foreboding.”

Rachel curled an arm around my right shoulder and leaned into me. Thoughts of the “other girl” fill my head for the first time in weeks. Oh, what a fucking piece of shit thing to say! She meant more to me than that. The mere mention of her name once brought a genuine smile to my lips. It gave me a sword to stem rivers and cut the moon in half. Now, for all the happiness it brought me … a Roman death is not out of the question.

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B_stu.kay823
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