From There to Here

rugosa-rose-hedge

This takes the slow beginning and turns the tentative into movement. My hand strokes down her face. She kisses my fingertips and there is another of those tentative smiles.

Again, she says ‘we shouldn’t do this’ as her hands betray her words and she pulls my shirt open, leaning forwards to kiss down my chest.

Behind us, back in the house, the party goes on oblivious to our absence. As her husband’s laughter barks across from the open windows and across the lawn to the bushes here down at the bottom of the garden her kisses hesitate only momentarily.

I hear a little giggle from Laura before she kisses on, lower and lower.

‘What?’ I say.

‘All the things he wants me to do that I refuse….’ She looks up at me. ‘I want to do them with you… to you.’ My belt falls open under her fast moving fingers. ‘If not now, tonight, then soon.’ She stares up at me from under lowered eyelids. Her breath is heavy, fast.

Then her head lowers and I glance back at the party, wondering how we got from there to here.

I didn’t really know Henry, apart from that barking laugh of his. I’d heard it so often in the summer as I lay in bed listening to yet another of Henry and Laura’ summer parties winding down across the road from us.

Our house was small semi-detached. There’s was detached: big with an even bigger garden, big enough for barbecues and one of those big tent things – a marquee – out on the lawn, if necessary.

Tonight there was no marquee. The weather forecast – wrong as usual – had forecast rain, so the party had moved indoors, into rooms as big as our whole house.

Henry was celebrating – not that he and Laura ever needed an excuse – making his first million. ‘Every year for the last ten years,’ he’d said when surprising me with the invitation. The first invitation to us in the ten years since we’d moved into this street.

I knew why he was not that keen on inviting me. I know he’s always fancied Jenny. I remember once seeing him watching her washing her car one previous summer. I was upstairs in our bedroom, Jenny was on our drive and Henry was hiding behind one of the rose bushes that line up in ranks across his front lawn.

At first, I’d thought he was clipping the rose bush. Then, when his back arched and his mouth opened wide, I could see that it wasn’t a pair of secateurs he was gripping so tightly.

Ever since then, Jenny had called him The Creepy Bush Wanker after I’d told her about him watching her.

Now, here was his wife down on her knees in front of me as I wondered how I could ever tell Jenny about this.

Published by David Hadley

A Bloke. Occasionally points at ducks.

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