2010
Joanna Fletcher
‘. . . and this by that I prove, /
Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.’ Joanna Fletcher closed the book
with a sigh. Now she would have to find another reading project to occupy her mid-day
break. Along with a plastic cup of yogurt and a piece of fruit, the Sonnets had
been part of her daily diet for the past twenty-two-plus weeks. Today,
Thursday, June 3, she had fulfilled her New Year’s resolution to read and
reread one sonnet each day until she had parsed all the meaning and savoured it
fully. ‘All the variations and complexities of love’ proclaimed the blurb on
the back of the book. She turned the volume over and traced a line with a
fingernail under the title. So much in so little, she thought.
She had completed her self-assigned
task while sitting on a park bench. She pushed aside the debris in her purse and
wedged the book between her appointments diary and the magazine she had brought
to read on the bus and then turned to the scene before her. A sudden upwelling
of joy made her realise that the sight made her feel happy and fuller of being.
If I were a poet, she thought, how would I describe this beautiful early June
day? One of those days that Nature fashions a few times each year to remind us
of the wonders of the world, a day when the air glows more luminously, a day when
the clouds are harbingers not of rain but of halcyon skies, a day when the
grass is greener on this side of the fence. Truly a day to ‘live light in the
spring’.
Before her on the lawn leading down
to the pond were a hundred other workers from the surrounding office buildings who
had chosen to spend their break enjoying the sun. Some chattered in groups
formed into rough circles. Others sat by themselves reading or sunbathing or
just looking about. A few couples were displaying their passion for each other.
Here and there one member of a pair clearly hoped that the other member would
consent to demonstrate similar degrees of passion.
‘If I were Venus,’ mused Joanna, her
thoughts still on the last sonnet, ‘whom would I choose as targets of Cupid’s arrows
this day?’ Some had already been hit by the little love-god’s arrows. Those she
could ignore. Just as obviously others did not need Cupid’s help. It should be a
challenge, thought Joanna. She needed to find two people who would suit each
other but who on their own would never think of the other as a potential
partner.
The problem intrigued her. Even
excluding those who did not need Cupid’s aid, there were still dozens of
possible pairs. What about the young woman in the pale green blouse reading the
newspaper and the older man seated to her right who from time to time oh so casually
glanced in her direction? The man was probably married, thought Joanna. He
looked the type who would be married. No, today, Venus would not stoop to
countenance adultery. Other pairings presented similar objections. The power to
connect two individuals was tempting, but the responsibility was too great. Cupid
might as well shoot the arrows at random, Joanna concluded as she stood up to
leave. Those two young men sitting at opposite ends of the pond were as good a
choice as any. The odds of making a wise choice were as likely as the two of
them ever meeting.
Nathaniel Bowman
Nathaniel Bowman leaned back, with
his forearms on the ground behind him propping his torso up at an angle. He stretched
his legs out in front of himself and crossed them at the ankle. The ground was
cool and damp, in contrast to the warmth of the sun on his face and chest. Behind
his dark glasses he surveyed the crowd, his eyes briefly lingering on other
young men who caught his attention. He felt safe behind the glasses. Those whom
he was cruising would not realise that something about them had caused him to
pause and consider them.
There were three worthy of more
attention, he decided. The best was the one sitting fifty feet away, near the
other end of the pond. He had drawn his legs up by bending them at the knee and
was resting his forearms on them, with his hands clasped lightly together. The
sleeves of his shirt were pushed above the elbow. His wrists and forearms were
thick, muscular. His thighs stretched the fabric of his trousers. Even though
he was sitting, it was clear that the rest of him was well built. Like
Nathaniel, he was wearing dark glasses, but he was gazing at the pond,
seemingly lost in thought and oblivious to the crowd surrounding him.
Good, thought Nathaniel, the deep,
brooding type. Passion beneath a calm exterior—those still waters the proverb says
run so deep. That’s what he needed, a summer romance, perhaps continuing into
the fall or, with luck, into the winter. Who knows, he might even be Mr Right,
the ever elusive MR. Now how to meet him? Oh, he’s looking this way.
Mr Right stood up and brushed off
his trousers.
Nathaniel leaps up and hurries to
catch him. ‘Pardon me, are these your glasses?’ MR turns around and sees the
ever-helpful and charmingly cute Nathaniel returning his property. But will MR
leave anything behind for me to return? Unlikely of him to be so obliging,
thought Nathaniel.
What if we work in the same
building? At 1:30, both of us make our way back. Ever courteous, I hold the
door open for the people behind me. And there he is, smiling at me and trying
to remember where he has seen this devastatingly handsome lad before.
‘Beautiful day,’ say I with a smile
meant just for him.
‘Isn’t it though,’ says he. ‘I’ve
been sitting in the park by the pond. I wish I didn’t have to go back to work.’
‘I was there too.’ And then both of
us wonder how we managed to miss seeing each other. ‘My name’s Nathaniel.’ No, ‘My
name’s Nathaniel Bowman.’ Better to give my full name. That shows sincerity and
seriousness.
We shake hands. His grasp is dry and
warm and confident and smooth and strong and gentle—Is he holding on for just a
tad longer than necessary?—and promising. ‘I’m …’ What would be a good name for Mister Right?
‘I’m Misha Wright,’ he says with a
wry grin, simultaneously exhibiting mortification at having an unusual first
name and explaining the source of those high Slavic cheekbones and those pale
northern frost-blue eyes. MR is half-English, half-Russian. His mother was a
ballerina with a touring company from St Petersburg who fell in love with a handsome Englishman and abandoned her career for love. MR’s passion comes from
his mother, his devastatingly masculine looks from his father.
We stop before the lift doors. The
crowd pushes us closer together. Our bodies brush. Has MR felt the same electric
shock that I have? Our eyes lock. We know. Fate. Kismet. At the very least, a
date.
The lift arrives. I push the button
for the fifth floor, he for the ninth. We rise in silence, standing next to
each other but not touching, more aware of each other’s body than we would be
if our flesh were pressed tightly together. The bell chimes just before we
arrive at my floor. I look over at him and shrug with dry irony. Passing ships,
alas.
‘Meet after work for a drink?’ MR
stammers and blushes slightly. His shyness is endearing in one so attractive. The
lift doors part at the fifth floor. The other passengers stir restlessly,
waiting for me to get off.
‘Sure,’ say I nonchalantly as I step
out and turn around to face him. ‘5:45 at the front entrance?’
‘Great,’ says the Adonis of the ninth
floor, craning his neck to maintain eye contact as the doors close. ‘See you
then,’ I hear him calling from overhead as the lift continues its ascent. I get
no work done at all this afternoon.
We meet for drinks. MR is everything
I’ve ever hoped for. I am everything he’s ever hoped for. We skip dinner and
proceed directly to bed and slowly make love and drive each other mad. When I
spill some champagne on my chest as we lie in bed, he pulls a petal from the
single red rose I left on his night table and then gathers up the droplets and
eats the petal.
In the morning when I awake, I am
lying face down, with my cheek pillowed on one of MR’s well-rounded and firm
pecs. His arms are around me, and with the fingers of one hand he is lazily
tracing the channel down the centre of my back, engraving each vertebra with the
gentle hardness of his fingertips and wondering if I am the one. A light
covering of hair covers his chest. No—a thin rivulet of soft dark hair runs
between his pecs and down his abdomen. My legs are stretched out an angle
across the bed. The window beside the bed is open. It has just finished
raining—a light rain—and the air smells fresh and clean. The rest of the day
will be bright and warm. The curtains are made of that gauzy white material,
and they stir in the wind. The lower edge of the curtain brushes the backs of my
calves. It is slightly damp from the rain. I raise my head, and we stare into
each other’s eyes. We say nothing. Nothing need be said.
As if that’s going to happen,
thought Nathaniel. He’s probably straight anyway. The good ones always are.
Nicholas Hilliard
Nicholas Hilliard was staring at the
pond but he wasn’t seeing it. Nor was he more than dimly aware of all the other
people around him. The shadow of a passer-by might flit momentarily over his
body but not across his consciousness.
Three nights ago, on Monday, May 31—a
day he would never forget—David had told him that he wasn’t ready for a
commitment. They had been seeing each other for nine months by that point. It
must have been on his to-do list for the Spring Bank holiday. Tell Nicholas
that you’re not ready to settle down, let’s just be friends, fuck buds, see
each other occasionally, nothing serious, no strings attached. David had even
waited until the bank holiday was almost over before ending their relationship—he
hadn’t had to find another date to fill the three-day weekend.
Nicholas had thought David was the
one. They had met in this very spot. One of those fleeting, warm days in
September when everyone came to the park one last time before the cold rains
began. The park had been crowded that day, especially by the pond, but Nicholas
had found a place to sit close to it. There had been a few early autumn leaves
floating on the water, just drifting in the breeze. He had been watching them,
almost mesmerised by the sight, and hadn’t even noticed when someone sat beside
him.
‘What a beautiful day.’ That’s how
David had drawn his attention away from the pond and toward himself. Nicholas
turned toward the speaker who had interrupted his contemplation of the end of
summer. And David had smiled at him. That’s all it had taken. One smile. A
smile with the promise of eternal summer in it, or so Nicholas had thought.
Why was it so difficult to meet
someone serious? Someone who wanted a life together. Sometimes he felt like the
only gay in the village, even if the village in question was London. The only
gay guy in London who wanted a serious relationship. Surely there had to be
someone else who wanted what he wanted—a lifetime together.
He raised his head and looked around
as if expecting to find someone with a sign around his neck advertising
‘Wanted—serious relationship’. It was so much like the day he had met David.
Crowds of people enjoying the weather. Chatting with friends. Reading.
Sunbathing. Looking around. All but a few people wearing dark glasses. A few
solitary lads. Like that one over there at the other end of the pond. What if I
were to walk over to him, sit down beside him, and say ‘What a beautiful day’?
Could I manage a smile that promised eternal summer? More likely eternal
misery.
The other man appeared to be looking
his way. It was hard to tell where his eyes were behind those sunglasses. Better
stop staring at him, thought Nicholas, he might take offence. I have to snap
out of this. Next I’ll be attempting to pick up complete strangers with a line
that worked on me.
Nicholas stood up and brushed
himself off. Time to get back to work.
Pour changer en amour notre
amourette,
Il
s'en serait pas fallu de beaucoup,
Mais,
ce jour là, Vénus états distraite,
Il
est des jours où Cupidon s'en fout.
Il
est des jours où Cupidon s'en fout.
To have changed our flirtation to
love
Would not have taken much.
But that day Venus was distracted.
There are days when Cupid does not
care.
There are days when Cupid does not
care.
— Georges Brassens, 'Cupidon s'en fout,' 1976
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