It’s a warm summer’s night and you’re sitting on a stone bench, alone, on the far side of the garden. Come to think of it, we could be in a park. The sound that emanates from behind me is the din of a party. In front of me: the occasional vehicle flies past, but the sight is obscured and the sound is muffled by a hedge fence. It’s midnight or later, not that it matters.
“What are you doing out here?”
You wilt slightly at the sound of my voice. You always said you would be prone to a mild stroke on hearing it. You don’t audibly reply, but even in this dim light I know your forlorn smile.
Curling my aristocratic fingers around your jaw, I rub at your cheek with my thumb. You’re cold. Shrugging the jacket from my shoulders, I place it over yours and sit beside you on the bench. You thank me with your eyes. Oh, how I hate them. They pierce me like a thousand icicles all at once. Eyes like the beam of a warship’s searchlight: honest and fierce. Eyes that could boil oceans.
Wait – there’s something going on here. Why are you dressed like that? Not that I am complaining. The backless vermilion gown hugs at your hourglass figure perfectly. It looks exquisite. And there’s just enough décolletage to – oh …
The drinks waiter stoops, offering his platter. Your manicured, ivory fingers select a flute of champagne. I take a tumbler with a generous dram of single malt with two ice cubes. I sit.
“You know, you look impossibly cute in black tie.” You unravel the bowtie before caressing my clean-shaven jowl. Daintily biting at your lower lip, you close in to kiss me, but I turn away.
And there you go again with the eyes … Polishing off the flute, you stand and I’m awestruck now that I am fully able to appreciate the dress.
“I wanna stretch my legs.”
As we walk the grounds, a sense of déjà vu leaches into my mind: I’ve been here before. Damned if I know where I am though.
We find a secluded corner of the garden with a dried out birdbath. In the slightly orange haze of the street lighting, you perch on it, yet I’m decidedly more interested in getting my bearings as the hedge has been replaced now with a small section of wrought iron. No luck. There is a bit of a greenbelt and a bitumen bicycle track between these nondescript buildings.
Curse this concrete jungle!
You reel me back in, pulling me within inches of you, but still I resist. We’re interrupted by a man in his early forties clearing his throat.
“Sir, miss, the party’s concluding.”
Wait, this is our party? WHAT!
My words of gratitude to the guests are drowned out with rapturous applause. And we leave by the wrought iron gate. The slight change of scene divulges a secret.
Oh, yes! Of course! The rear gardens at St Andrew’s Place!
Dashing hand-in-hand across Spring Street at the Bourke Street intersection, we stand atop one of the three stairwells into Parliament Station. But we don’t clatter down. We pass it, what used to be the Hard Rock Café, Thomas’ and the 7-Eleven on Exhibition Street corner. We cut north, heading towards Lonsdale Street.
Breathless outside Stalactites, you dissolve into laughter. A melancholy smile comes to my lips, because I know the pain it disguises. Snaking your arms over my shoulders you draw me closer. No escape this time. The taste of champagne sullies your lips. It’s a heady taste, sweet and alluring.
Stalactites is an early hours of Saturday morning ritual. And in this part of town, they have a corner on the post-alcohol munchies market. We enter and order some fresh takeaway. They do it well here. None of this sitting in a bain-marie congealing for two hours before you order.
Chips: my catalyst for sobriety of choice. And maybe a lollipop to stain your lips and everything will be right as rain. We find a bench, sit and tear the bag open.
“Where’s our hotel room?”
Instantaneously pointing behind me, I reply “Two minutes thata way.”
You nod. We sit in silence a moment. A divvy van hares down Lonsdale Street, heading toward the middle of town. To describe Melbourne’s nightclub district as notorious is a dramatic understatement. I rarely venture beyond Queen Street now.
We’re off again, heading back up the slight hill. Producing the key from my jacket, you unlock the door. Our footsteps echo across foyer as we cross to the elevator.
“We’re on the fifth.”
Room 508: expectedly, it’s right down the end of the corridor. Leading me along, you stumble slightly on the small step. You giggle.
Stood behind you, I delicately trace the line of your once-fractured collarbone. I stoop and kiss your neck. Another trill of laughter escapes. Guiding my right hand down, I envelop your hand in mine as the key clicks in the lock.
Entangled in one another’s lips, we push into the room. There’s a half-full bottle of Grey Goose on the table. You pop the stopper and pour – generously.
Then it hits me. I can’t take my eyes off you, nor do I want to. There is just something so ultimately perfect. No need for the bag from smitten kitten tonight.
“I’ll be out on the balcony.”
‘Balcony’ is a charitable descriptor. There’s barely room for two, even with your slight build. You coil your arms around my waist.
“Stay.”
How can I say no to that mellifluous lilt?
Next thing I know, dawn breaks. Enmeshing our hands, we graze lips. Your hot breath shudders against my chest.
“I just want to lay here a moment.”
Your milky skin is cool. Our eyes meet and dance together briefly. The fingers of your right hand caress at my neck as I take your hips hands and press my firm hands them into your supple alabaster back. There’s a sigh as my fingertips elusively brush downward. You kiss me fully.
And I wake. Two minutes past seven.
The other half of my bed is vacant. It has been for far too long.
But it doesn’t stop my imagining how the grey sheets will fall over you.
“What are you doing out here?”
You wilt slightly at the sound of my voice. You always said you would be prone to a mild stroke on hearing it. You don’t audibly reply, but even in this dim light I know your forlorn smile.
Curling my aristocratic fingers around your jaw, I rub at your cheek with my thumb. You’re cold. Shrugging the jacket from my shoulders, I place it over yours and sit beside you on the bench. You thank me with your eyes. Oh, how I hate them. They pierce me like a thousand icicles all at once. Eyes like the beam of a warship’s searchlight: honest and fierce. Eyes that could boil oceans.
Wait – there’s something going on here. Why are you dressed like that? Not that I am complaining. The backless vermilion gown hugs at your hourglass figure perfectly. It looks exquisite. And there’s just enough décolletage to – oh …
The drinks waiter stoops, offering his platter. Your manicured, ivory fingers select a flute of champagne. I take a tumbler with a generous dram of single malt with two ice cubes. I sit.
“You know, you look impossibly cute in black tie.” You unravel the bowtie before caressing my clean-shaven jowl. Daintily biting at your lower lip, you close in to kiss me, but I turn away.
And there you go again with the eyes … Polishing off the flute, you stand and I’m awestruck now that I am fully able to appreciate the dress.
“I wanna stretch my legs.”
As we walk the grounds, a sense of déjà vu leaches into my mind: I’ve been here before. Damned if I know where I am though.
We find a secluded corner of the garden with a dried out birdbath. In the slightly orange haze of the street lighting, you perch on it, yet I’m decidedly more interested in getting my bearings as the hedge has been replaced now with a small section of wrought iron. No luck. There is a bit of a greenbelt and a bitumen bicycle track between these nondescript buildings.
Curse this concrete jungle!
You reel me back in, pulling me within inches of you, but still I resist. We’re interrupted by a man in his early forties clearing his throat.
“Sir, miss, the party’s concluding.”
Wait, this is our party? WHAT!
My words of gratitude to the guests are drowned out with rapturous applause. And we leave by the wrought iron gate. The slight change of scene divulges a secret.
Oh, yes! Of course! The rear gardens at St Andrew’s Place!
Dashing hand-in-hand across Spring Street at the Bourke Street intersection, we stand atop one of the three stairwells into Parliament Station. But we don’t clatter down. We pass it, what used to be the Hard Rock Café, Thomas’ and the 7-Eleven on Exhibition Street corner. We cut north, heading towards Lonsdale Street.
Breathless outside Stalactites, you dissolve into laughter. A melancholy smile comes to my lips, because I know the pain it disguises. Snaking your arms over my shoulders you draw me closer. No escape this time. The taste of champagne sullies your lips. It’s a heady taste, sweet and alluring.
Stalactites is an early hours of Saturday morning ritual. And in this part of town, they have a corner on the post-alcohol munchies market. We enter and order some fresh takeaway. They do it well here. None of this sitting in a bain-marie congealing for two hours before you order.
Chips: my catalyst for sobriety of choice. And maybe a lollipop to stain your lips and everything will be right as rain. We find a bench, sit and tear the bag open.
“Where’s our hotel room?”
Instantaneously pointing behind me, I reply “Two minutes thata way.”
You nod. We sit in silence a moment. A divvy van hares down Lonsdale Street, heading toward the middle of town. To describe Melbourne’s nightclub district as notorious is a dramatic understatement. I rarely venture beyond Queen Street now.
We’re off again, heading back up the slight hill. Producing the key from my jacket, you unlock the door. Our footsteps echo across foyer as we cross to the elevator.
“We’re on the fifth.”
Room 508: expectedly, it’s right down the end of the corridor. Leading me along, you stumble slightly on the small step. You giggle.
Stood behind you, I delicately trace the line of your once-fractured collarbone. I stoop and kiss your neck. Another trill of laughter escapes. Guiding my right hand down, I envelop your hand in mine as the key clicks in the lock.
Entangled in one another’s lips, we push into the room. There’s a half-full bottle of Grey Goose on the table. You pop the stopper and pour – generously.
Then it hits me. I can’t take my eyes off you, nor do I want to. There is just something so ultimately perfect. No need for the bag from smitten kitten tonight.
“I’ll be out on the balcony.”
‘Balcony’ is a charitable descriptor. There’s barely room for two, even with your slight build. You coil your arms around my waist.
“Stay.”
How can I say no to that mellifluous lilt?
* * *
“I just want to lay here a moment.”
Your milky skin is cool. Our eyes meet and dance together briefly. The fingers of your right hand caress at my neck as I take your hips hands and press my firm hands them into your supple alabaster back. There’s a sigh as my fingertips elusively brush downward. You kiss me fully.
And I wake. Two minutes past seven.
The other half of my bed is vacant. It has been for far too long.
But it doesn’t stop my imagining how the grey sheets will fall over you.