He comes up my body and rests on his elbows. ‘Hey, are you OK?’ His eyes are concerned.
‘Yeah, it was a really good orgasm,’ I say, and I even manage to smile up at him.
He grins. ‘How good was it?’
‘Like a box of chocolates and a newborn German Sheppard puppy called Ghengis?’
‘Really? As good as all that,’ he teases.
‘Yes, as good as that.’
He kisses the tip of my nose. ‘Oh, Snow. There is just no one like you.’
‘That’s true,’ I say, and kiss the tip of his nose. Against my thigh I feel his cock grow again.
‘Really? You can’t be wanting it again,’ I say with a laugh.
‘I’m fucking starving for you. But first, a trip to the toilet is in order. I don’t want to be peeing inside you.’
‘Ugh, you’re disgusting.’
He gets off me laughing and disappears into the toilet. I watch his nude body walk away from me avidly. I will remember this.
When he comes back he sheathes his cock and pushes deep into me. I cry out. Not with pain or pleasure, but with gratitude. I will have this until the day I die. For the first time in my life I understood women who never remarried after they lost their love. Nobody else is good enough. Once you get that one person who is right for you, you will never again want anybody else.
Maybe I will marry. Actually, of course I will marry, my mother will make sure that I do, but I will never, never, never love like this again. Never.
And when we come we lock eyes with each other. It is beautiful.
‘I’m yours,’ I whisper, wrapping my legs around him tightly.
‘Like you won’t believe,’ he whispers back.
Our bodies entwined, we lie there. It’s hard to look into his eyes. They are so blue, so sincere, so awesome. I want to tell him. I want to tell him that I love him like I have never and will never love again, but I realize that my declaration would be neither here nor there.
So many women must have expressed that sentiment. So what if I do too. No, I won’t. It will be my little secret. No one will ever know. Not him, not my mother or my father, or anyone. Maybe I will tell my grandchildren one day. If I have them. If I am not contaminated with HIV or even full-blown AIDS.
‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a full day today. Can you entertain yourself for a few hours?’
I smile. Can he see how much love I have for him? ‘Sure, I’ll clean the flat or something.’
‘No, don’t do that. I’ve got a woman coming in to do that. She’ll come around about two this afternoon.’
‘I’ll read a book,’ I say quietly.
‘Good girl.’ He pauses. ‘Only thing, don’t leave the apartment will you?’ If you need anything just call me and I’ll arrange for it to be brought to you.’
‘I don’t need anything, Shane.’
We get out of bed and use the bathroom together. It should have been mundane, a little domestic scene, but it is not. It is special. And it makes me think. How stupid we human beings are. We think that just because we do something all the time it is not special. It is. Just think that tomorrow is the last time you will ever brush your teeth with the one you love. See what I mean now?
So we brush our teeth and use the toilet. And he doesn’t appreciate it, because for him it is just another boring task, and he thinks he will do it tomorrow with me too.
When he says, ‘What do you want to have for breakfast?’
I know exactly what I want. ‘I’ll make breakfast,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘You don’t cook.’
‘You’ll eat my burnt toast and like it,’ I say with mock severity.
A strange look crosses his face, but I don’t ask that thing that all lovers who are confident of their place in a relationship ask. ‘What? What are you thinking of?
Instead, I go into the kitchen. I know exactly what I am recreating. I switch on the oven. 220 degree Fahrenheit. I take the cherry plum jam out of the fridge and put a few spoonfuls on two plates. I take the plates to the top of the oven and I put them there so they will be at room temperature when we have it.
I open the oven door and a blast of hot air hits me in the face. Perfect. I put the brioche rolls onto the metal tray and slide them in. I squeeze oranges and pour the juice into two glasses. I place the container of unsalted butter on the table and set it with knifes and spoons and forks. And the whole time Shane sits at the table and watches me with slightly raised eyebrows.
I take the brioches out of the oven, place them on the table, and sit next to him.
Shane looks at me. ‘Thank you.’
‘Bon appétit,’ I say.
I watch him tear into the brioche. I watch the steam rise from the inside. I watch him cut a small bit of cold butter and lay it on the corner of the brioche that he has already spooned the cherry plum jam on. I greedily watch him put it into his mouth. I close my eyes because I know exactly how it feels and tastes in his mouth. Cold butter, hot pastry, warm jam.