Even in the train it is cold.
Netanya snuggles closer to me,
her eyes searching me,
her hand clutching mine.
Had a job getting out,
she says.
Does he know
where you are going?
No, I just said
I was going out.
Was he suspicious.
Who cares?
She breathes out,
her breath like smoke;
it fills our area
of the carriage.
Why Brighton?
I like it there;
it reminds me
of my childhood.
She lays her head
on my shoulder,
her hand holding mine;
warmth moving
through mine.
Outside it is dark;
evening sky menacing.
How are things?
We rowed,
we always row.
I look at her hair
on my shoulder,
dark, wavy.
Won't going out
for so long
make things worse?
I hope so;
I hope he moves out,
hope he moves away.
What about the kids?
They'll understand,
kids do;
they like you.
I look out
at the passing view,
lights in the distance
from passing
villages or towns,
trees swimming past.
We arrive at Brighton rail station,
get out the train
and walk into the town
hand in hand.
We must come here
and stay the weekend.
When?
When we can.
I look at her beside me.
She's serious.
What would he say?
He'll say nothing.
He thinks it's just
a mid-life crisis
and I’ll get over it.
We walk down
to the seafront;
the wind and cold
biting at us.
The sea's rough.
I like it rough,
I like to sense
nature's power,
she says,
snuggling
close to me.
We go into a shelter
and sit down
in the semi-dark.
We kiss and embrace.
No one is about.
It seems far
from my usual world,
kind of surreal.
Her lips are on mine.
Feel her pulse.
Her living through me
and I through her;
I feel along her back,
feeling the smooth coat
she is wearing;
my fingers sensing
and imaging
what ever is beneath.
We sit there
for what seems hours,
kissing, holding,
looking out
at the rough sea.
Was I being
someone else
or was I just
being me?
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 3:37 AM UTC
Even in the train it is cold.
Netanya snuggles closer to me,
her eyes searching me,
her hand clutching mine.
Had a job getting out,
she says.
Does he know
where you are going?
No, I just said
I was going out.
Was he suspicious.
Who cares?
She breathes out,
her breath like smoke;
it fills our area
of the carriage.
Why Brighton?
I like it there;
it reminds me
of my childhood.
She lays her head
on my shoulder,
her hand holding mine;
warmth moving
through mine.
Outside it is dark;
evening sky menacing.
How are things?
We rowed,
we always row.
I look at her hair
on my shoulder,
dark, wavy.
Won't going out
for so long
make things worse?
I hope so;
I hope he moves out,
hope he moves away.
What about the kids?
They'll understand,
kids do;
they like you.
I look out
at the passing view,
lights in the distance
from passing
villages or towns,
trees swimming past.
We arrive at Brighton rail station,
get out the train
and walk into the town
hand in hand.
We must come here
and stay the weekend.
When?
When we can.
I look at her beside me.
She's serious.
What would he say?
He'll say nothing.
He thinks it's just
a mid-life crisis
and I’ll get over it.
We walk down
to the seafront;
the wind and cold
biting at us.
The sea's rough.
I like it rough,
I like to sense
nature's power,
she says,
snuggling
close to me.
We go into a shelter
and sit down
in the semi-dark.
We kiss and embrace.
No one is about.
It seems far
from my usual world,
kind of surreal.
Her lips are on mine.
Feel her pulse.
Her living through me
and I through her;
I feel along her back,
feeling the smooth coat
she is wearing;
my fingers sensing
and imaging
what ever is beneath.
We sit there
for what seems hours,
kissing, holding,
looking out
at the rough sea.
Was I being
someone else
or was I just
being me?
A YOUNG MAN AND HIS LOVER IN 1975.
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