tell you.’
Unavailability can be so liberating. I asked to kiss her. She had to walk round the block to think about it. I waited by the window.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I will.’
Soon we were exchanging the most intimate caresses while eschewing personal questions. In those days my favoured form of contact was the anonymous. Who could blame me for being afraid of the pulsation of feeling?
She said that I studied her constantly. She liked me looking at her.
I’ve never known a woman who wanted so much to be wanted, or a woman who was more afraid of it.I’ve never known anyone make more arrivals and departures, not only on the same day, but within the same hour. I preferred her not to go out, and soon blamed her for having any life apart from me, which I considered an infidelity. This is what she shoved into her bag each time she left: hairgrips, slides and combs; little wooden boxes containing cheap Indian jewellery and hash; lip balm, nipple cream; tapes of the sound of the sea or perhaps of dolphins, birds or whales; camomile tea; a stuffed giraffe; postcards and photographs of cats; underwear, and other bits of the odd equipment necessary to mobile girls, as well as a certain amount of my wardrobe, including shirts, socks and my loafers.
Then, on her long legs, accompanied by a handful of good intentions and a head full of whims, she would make for the door as if pursued.
It made me fret about what it was out there she found so exciting – until I began to wonder about what it was in here that she found over-exciting. I learned that the more she loved me, the more she had to remind herself that she was separate. Understanding that nearly did me in as, from the window, I waved and watched her go. But at least I saw it.
I had just started to write a new film about an ageing and fragile couple whose children have grown up and done well. The parents go to visit them, only to find their marriages are breaking up. I was excited by the idea and talked about it a lot so as to have her understand what I was trying to do every day.
She would lie on the floor beside my desk and watch me work. She said she envied my having something important to do every morning; something that absorbed everything; something to live for. My sense of purpose made her feel left out. She didn’t believe I envied the fact that she woke up in the morning and wondered what she felt like doing that day. Would it be the dancing, pottery or a walk? She went to parties on the beach and in warehouses; she’d go any distance for a rave. She played guitar and sang in a group that I went to see. She dedicated all the songs to me. Not yet having acquired the glassy indifference of busy women in the city, she talked to people on the street and felt responsible for them. Her friends were dope heads in old clothes with woolly hats pulled down to their eyes. They were indolent and lacked the spark – like her and not like her. She drifted between boys. When she left them they suggested she consideredherself too good for them. Too good for everyone but me.
I lay over her one afternoon. I had kicked off my slippers, and we had thrown the duvet down on the patio. She liked to make love outside, and I didn’t mind, provided I didn’t get a draught between my legs. The TV was on low. England were playing the West Indies. I was looking at her in awe and puzzlement, unable to understand how I could have such feelings for a girl I didn’t know.
She used to say, ‘You’re so neat and gentle, with a soft voice. I’ve never met anyone who so much wanted the best for me. You know how to speak to people. You make them feel they can tell you the deepest things.’ She seemed to trust me, as if she knew implicitly that she was safe, and that I would not let her down. But I did. In a strange way, she seemed to expect that, too. At least, then, she knew where she was.
There were mirrors in the bedroom we used. One afternoon, as I lay on the bed to wait for
Unavailability can be so liberating. I asked to kiss her. She had to walk round the block to think about it. I waited by the window.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I will.’
Soon we were exchanging the most intimate caresses while eschewing personal questions. In those days my favoured form of contact was the anonymous. Who could blame me for being afraid of the pulsation of feeling?
She said that I studied her constantly. She liked me looking at her.
I’ve never known a woman who wanted so much to be wanted, or a woman who was more afraid of it.I’ve never known anyone make more arrivals and departures, not only on the same day, but within the same hour. I preferred her not to go out, and soon blamed her for having any life apart from me, which I considered an infidelity. This is what she shoved into her bag each time she left: hairgrips, slides and combs; little wooden boxes containing cheap Indian jewellery and hash; lip balm, nipple cream; tapes of the sound of the sea or perhaps of dolphins, birds or whales; camomile tea; a stuffed giraffe; postcards and photographs of cats; underwear, and other bits of the odd equipment necessary to mobile girls, as well as a certain amount of my wardrobe, including shirts, socks and my loafers.
Then, on her long legs, accompanied by a handful of good intentions and a head full of whims, she would make for the door as if pursued.
It made me fret about what it was out there she found so exciting – until I began to wonder about what it was in here that she found over-exciting. I learned that the more she loved me, the more she had to remind herself that she was separate. Understanding that nearly did me in as, from the window, I waved and watched her go. But at least I saw it.
I had just started to write a new film about an ageing and fragile couple whose children have grown up and done well. The parents go to visit them, only to find their marriages are breaking up. I was excited by the idea and talked about it a lot so as to have her understand what I was trying to do every day.
She would lie on the floor beside my desk and watch me work. She said she envied my having something important to do every morning; something that absorbed everything; something to live for. My sense of purpose made her feel left out. She didn’t believe I envied the fact that she woke up in the morning and wondered what she felt like doing that day. Would it be the dancing, pottery or a walk? She went to parties on the beach and in warehouses; she’d go any distance for a rave. She played guitar and sang in a group that I went to see. She dedicated all the songs to me. Not yet having acquired the glassy indifference of busy women in the city, she talked to people on the street and felt responsible for them. Her friends were dope heads in old clothes with woolly hats pulled down to their eyes. They were indolent and lacked the spark – like her and not like her. She drifted between boys. When she left them they suggested she consideredherself too good for them. Too good for everyone but me.
I lay over her one afternoon. I had kicked off my slippers, and we had thrown the duvet down on the patio. She liked to make love outside, and I didn’t mind, provided I didn’t get a draught between my legs. The TV was on low. England were playing the West Indies. I was looking at her in awe and puzzlement, unable to understand how I could have such feelings for a girl I didn’t know.
She used to say, ‘You’re so neat and gentle, with a soft voice. I’ve never met anyone who so much wanted the best for me. You know how to speak to people. You make them feel they can tell you the deepest things.’ She seemed to trust me, as if she knew implicitly that she was safe, and that I would not let her down. But I did. In a strange way, she seemed to expect that, too. At least, then, she knew where she was.
There were mirrors in the bedroom we used. One afternoon, as I lay on the bed to wait for
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