I scroll through my savoured memories.
Jenny emerges next to me in her bed, pushed into her pillows. I read to her, relishing her company. She listened to the words intently. Jenny enjoyed my in-character voice. Unexpectedly, the power went off—a suburban black-out. I couldn't read to Jenny anymore. The alternative flashed quickly. We snuggled and burrowed into each other. Her doona twisted above, below and around us, a private coracle. Our bodies were coiled and interlocked.
Yet, as I frame the night in memory, words on a page fill my head. The book I read to Jenny was a title she plucked off a Saturday market stall. A bottle-green jacket cover drew her attention as we strolled through a weekend market. She stopped at the second-hand bookstall. She picked one title, Greene's Our Man in Havana.
"I like Greene," I enthused, having read many of the author's novels.
Jenny flipped the pages of the hardcover in her hands. The dust jacket remained in excellent condition. I examined the novel as Jenny paid. I noticed it formed part of a collector's edition. Though here it lay solo, at a stall. Only the author's name, title, and no picture adorning the cover. No hint as to the story's themes.
Before the blackout, I read with verve. Well, the novel is a dark spy comedy. Then, as my voice read a word on a page, my mind skewered into memory.
I read, ′…. cooled his mouth with his morning daiquiri.'
I know, I wriggled.
Jenny didn't react as I pushed myself into the pillows.
My mind mulled uneasily.
Memory — hit a Malaysian beach and more. My thoughts stalked two women near a hotel pool. A black and a blue bikini floated across my mind.
My tongue held firm reading the following line of print. My memory lingered on a daiquiri. One word in a book, one proper noun for a rum-based cocktail, created a new memory chain—an unwanted chain.
I read to the apple of my eye: Jenny.
Then, her bedroom was crowded. Not in a physical way. Daiquiri's, Lena and Leise congested in the company of Jenny's amber eyes and charcoal brows. The memories of a hotel room flooded into Jenny's bedroom.
The close-knit pair of German lasses faded as I read down the page.
However, I could not push a swirling ceiling fan to the back of my mind like I could two lithe girls seated around a hotel pool.
I fixed my mind to the words over the next page and my body beside Jenny's.
The mind can be a well-disciplined, selfish prick.
The word daiquiri reappeared in the novel.
It rolled off my tongue this time without meaning, like downing a straight double shot.
The power outage had hit abruptly when it occurred.
"Oh," groaned Jenny, "I don't have candles handy."
I closed the novel. It fell somewhere.
"I'm handy," I quipped.
We shaped into each other and built excitement.
Jenny rode me in the dark.
"Yay," exclaimed my amber lass as the power returned.
Her hips rolled. We found our mutual grind under naked light globes.
We never finished reading the novel. Its words remained unread, like a half-finished drink left at a bar.
Memory frays and tatters delight I want to keep together—time spent alongside Jenny. At the same time, it binds better than a patchwork quilt, that which I want to stay apart.
Jenny, through associations connected to other girls in my life.
I cast my mind to an occasion Jenny and I drifted apart.
Relationships have tiffs.
Here, I pinpoint a discord moment between us. It stands out as a one-and-only. We were close physically; the divide occurred between our minds.
I never felt anxious or insecure in Jenny's company. Though, I hadn't reused the word love. Life bounced joyfully as our lives shaped in tandem.
Yet, once, I irritated Jenny.
We relaxed and kissed on the black vinyl settee in my shared house lounge. Neither of us chose the beanbags that day. I initiated an overconfident play. My mischievous fingers fondled the buttons of Jenny's blouse. I tried to make out—a male's preoccupation with desirable female company. I opened Jenny's buttons, one or two, or three, in a coltish way — and it made her buck.
Jenny stood promptly. I remained seated.
Her quick movement puzzled me.
She looked away; I caught her exasperation.
Jenny secured her buttons fast.
I sensed I was not wanted, and I squirmed. Equally numbed, I hesitated. I sat behind her and then gently placed my hand on her arm.
She chose not to turn. I sought eye contact; Jenny moved away without speaking. She left the lounge room. I saw her enter my bedroom through the open door. To my relief, she stayed in the house.
I thought, what did I prick?
At the time, no thought, I was the prick in assuming the right, the okay to remove her top in the lounge room of a share house.
After a few seconds, I followed like a penitent puppy, unsure what would come next.
In hindsight, I attempt to understand her annoyance.
I realised I never, ever undressed Jenny. She never encouraged me to. I never requested the privilege, either. Jenny slid herself out of her clothes in a private setting.
I managed a quick thought, progressing to my bedroom.
She thought I thought her easy? I didn't ask. I sought to remove her blouse as a fait accompli.
When should one remove the clothing, even of an intimate known other?
I took away her choice. She only had to say, 'No,' like her panties.
Why didn't she say No?
I paused at my bedroom door.
My focus was directed at saying sorry.
I peered into my room. Jenny propped on the edge of my bed, her hands pressed into the mattress.
From my bedroom doorway, I offered the cautious, "Sorry."
The word covers much and little. It's our best: a massive blank caveat when unsure what you are apologising for. My Jenny didn't tell me to go away. I ventured in. I eased onto the bed beside her.
Thank you, angels, in heaven, as I initiated the 'forgive me cuddle.'
I chose a tactical hug and closeness to bridge us. Jenny lost her prickle.
I pondered; opening her buttons without permission created a dicey moment between us.
Jenny relaxed in my embrace.
I still did not ask her where I erred.
Here and now, I would like to know.
Still, unlike at the moment, you don't need to know. I should have known better, even without knowing her privy reasons why.
We held together at the edge of my bed. I kept our communication non-verbal.
Jenny accepted my 'sorry' and hugged me.
I told myself: Don't get tongue-tied and over-apologise. Or ask, 'What upset you?' Get her back to you.
Our touch resumed, and the mood remained steady in a rhythm of togetherness. My heart snared the lead in telling me what to do next.
Keep it simple—touch, not words.
I chose to embrace her.
It never crossed my mind to kiss Jenny or trigger petting.
Our durable cuddle concluded. We sprawled across my bed.
"I like the organisation of your room," she finally said, "Your neat books."
The room contained wall-to-wall shelves: several hundred books. Their themes were the arts and architecture.
Jenny focussed on one of my hanging artworks.
"I like re-examining your large landscape painting."
She added, "The mist draws you on an adventure. You want to go there. I can picture myself in it."
I liked this.
I remembered the day I purchased it at a Mill gallery. Jenny accompanied me—an impulse purchase, attracted by the landscape's Turneresque techniques.
Following Jenny's remarks, I surveyed my room differently, including a chuffed, puffed chest moment. She acknowledged my taste in art.
Yet, an earlier time in my room, she gave her opinion about another small pair of works hanging in a corner.
"Those two hand-painted, mass-produced Asian prints look out of place here."
" Thai travel souvenirs," I quipped quickly.
"Oh, alright!"
She did not talk about them again, nor did I.
A vexed Jenny never reappeared. The blouse incident never resurfaced or cast a shadow between us.
Still, I wish she had beckoned to me to undo her blouse buttons in a bedroom.
The next day, Jenny bounced effervescently. An outstanding result on an assignment perked her mood. I joined her success, and she rewarded me.
Jenny stretched naked across my bed, lying back, legs parted. My head between them, licking her sex. I peeped for reassurance. Jenny murmured in indulgence. Her body sprawled, her head unseen by me. Her petite bead and butterfly lips obscured as my eyes closed.
A succulent sensation escalated between us. A hazier aim included my desire to seduce the deeper stratum of Jenny's self, to hold the free-willed lass beyond my lapping touch. Jenny's breathing sharpened. Her legs tried to close. Her mind willed them to stay open. I kept flicking, hummingbird fast. Her body delivered what she needed. Together, we tapped the source and released human hedonistic opulence.
Jenny bobbed radiantly, ready to treat her man. She straddled me, above and happy, engaged in sex. Absent any involved thinking. We combined and consumed our pleasure rhythm. We harvested fitted flamboyant friction, leaving yesterday's fractured afternoon in our wake as our bodies bonded.
And now, I need no more than to recall Jenny in high spirits.