going for a shower, Gabriel excuses himself without giving a reason and follows her up the stairs, I hear her laughing again, telling him to stop doing something although it doesn’t sound as if she wants him to stop at all. I stay on the veranda, trying not to listen for sounds that will give away what they’re doing, but although of course it’s impossible not to listen I don’t hear a thing. I think I ought to do some work on my assignment but I’m a little drowsy from the wine, I’m not used to drinking every night. However, I go and fetch some books from the pile on my bedside table, I open the one with the most attractive cover and flick through it aimlessly, I take another sip of my wine.
“Hi there,” says Gabriel as he steps out onto the patio a while later. “How’s it going?”
He sounds cheerful but friendly, he’s looking at me with an expression I can’t place, I almost think he looks a little bit lost, as if he’s not quite sure how to behave. Maybe he feels the same as I do, I think. Maybe he’s not in control of the situation at all, maybe he doesn’t know how to handle it any more than I do.The thought makes my anger ebb away, replacing it with a kind of tenderness, I smile at him.
“I thought I might do some work, but it’s not going too well.”
He nods, sits down beside me on the sofa, and reaches for one of the books, he leafs through it without appearing to take any notice of what it says, sighs, puts it down again.
“I guess it’s not going too well for either of us,” he says.
I look at him, at first I think he means the kiss and it’s an invitation to talk about it, then I realize he means his writing. He reaches for his glass of wine, his arm brushes against mine, he’s sitting very close to me. Suddenly all I want is to lean my head against his shoulder, to feel him pull me close and hold me tight. I am aware of his smell, it’s faint but unmistakable once I have picked it up, he smells clean with a slight hint of smoke and then a soft scent of something sweet, like vanilla. I look at his arm where his T-shirt ends and his skin begins, I feel a tremendous desire to reach out and touch him, gently run my fingertips along his arm, along the veins just visible on the inside, it looks so soft.
“Everything will be fine,” I hear myself saying. “I think you’re making too much of an issue of this novel. You should just write.”
He gives me a wan smile, I feel slightly stupid for saying anything at all, I have no idea what I’m talking about, no doubt he realizes that too.
I clear my throat.
“What I mean is, your writing always turns out well. You should trust in that.”
“Kind of you to say so.”
“I didn’t say it to be kind.”
There is a vase of sweet peas on the table now, spreading a perfume that seems to grow more intense as the day goes on. They clamber up a length of chicken wire in the kitchen garden, getting entangled in one another and in the wire, winding their tendrils like lianas around everything they can reach, greedily, clinging on tightly, some are almost impossible to pull free when you’re picking them, I look at Gabriel’s arm again, his hands, his fingers, imagining how it would feel if they touched me, if he reached out his hand and placed it on my leg right now, letting it find its way up my thigh, beneath the thin fabric of my dress. The scent of the sweet peas mingles with the vanilla coming from him, I quickly close my eyes and take a deep breath, it’s a soft scent, powdery, it seems almost improbable that it can simply appear like this, it ought to be possible to extract it from the air somehow, concentrate it, bottle it.
Gabriel looks at me but says nothing, it is quiet now, no music tonight, just the singing of the crickets, his eyes are darting all over the place.
“Perhaps it’s best if we go to bed now,” he says quietly.
“Is that what you think?”
There is a tortured expression on his face now, I recognize
“Hi there,” says Gabriel as he steps out onto the patio a while later. “How’s it going?”
He sounds cheerful but friendly, he’s looking at me with an expression I can’t place, I almost think he looks a little bit lost, as if he’s not quite sure how to behave. Maybe he feels the same as I do, I think. Maybe he’s not in control of the situation at all, maybe he doesn’t know how to handle it any more than I do.The thought makes my anger ebb away, replacing it with a kind of tenderness, I smile at him.
“I thought I might do some work, but it’s not going too well.”
He nods, sits down beside me on the sofa, and reaches for one of the books, he leafs through it without appearing to take any notice of what it says, sighs, puts it down again.
“I guess it’s not going too well for either of us,” he says.
I look at him, at first I think he means the kiss and it’s an invitation to talk about it, then I realize he means his writing. He reaches for his glass of wine, his arm brushes against mine, he’s sitting very close to me. Suddenly all I want is to lean my head against his shoulder, to feel him pull me close and hold me tight. I am aware of his smell, it’s faint but unmistakable once I have picked it up, he smells clean with a slight hint of smoke and then a soft scent of something sweet, like vanilla. I look at his arm where his T-shirt ends and his skin begins, I feel a tremendous desire to reach out and touch him, gently run my fingertips along his arm, along the veins just visible on the inside, it looks so soft.
“Everything will be fine,” I hear myself saying. “I think you’re making too much of an issue of this novel. You should just write.”
He gives me a wan smile, I feel slightly stupid for saying anything at all, I have no idea what I’m talking about, no doubt he realizes that too.
I clear my throat.
“What I mean is, your writing always turns out well. You should trust in that.”
“Kind of you to say so.”
“I didn’t say it to be kind.”
There is a vase of sweet peas on the table now, spreading a perfume that seems to grow more intense as the day goes on. They clamber up a length of chicken wire in the kitchen garden, getting entangled in one another and in the wire, winding their tendrils like lianas around everything they can reach, greedily, clinging on tightly, some are almost impossible to pull free when you’re picking them, I look at Gabriel’s arm again, his hands, his fingers, imagining how it would feel if they touched me, if he reached out his hand and placed it on my leg right now, letting it find its way up my thigh, beneath the thin fabric of my dress. The scent of the sweet peas mingles with the vanilla coming from him, I quickly close my eyes and take a deep breath, it’s a soft scent, powdery, it seems almost improbable that it can simply appear like this, it ought to be possible to extract it from the air somehow, concentrate it, bottle it.
Gabriel looks at me but says nothing, it is quiet now, no music tonight, just the singing of the crickets, his eyes are darting all over the place.
“Perhaps it’s best if we go to bed now,” he says quietly.
“Is that what you think?”
There is a tortured expression on his face now, I recognize
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