The first time it happened was a week after the play. It was a long week. Peter didn't show his face in the bar for days. When he did show, Assumpta hid her relief behind a dozen pints to fill and as many ash trays to clean. She didn't speak to him at all. And then he made himself scarce and she saw that two o'clock sandwich for what it was: a poor cover-up, a pretense, playing at normal...
Not my problem, she told herself, almost certain she'd done nothing wrong. If she'd kissed him - but she hadn't.
Out of sight was not out of mind and this angered her. It was this anger that drove her to the church after closing. She saw him but he didn't see her. He was blowing out candles. Surely he didn't always take quite so long over it. One at a time. One, then another, then one that just wouldn't go out. He licked his fingers and pinched the wick, then brought his fingers back to his mouth, wincing.
Assumpta backed out. The church was no place to have this conversation. Her anger dissipated before she got to his door, and with it her certainty about which conversation they were going to have. He was avoiding her, clearly, and she wanted to know why, to call him on it.
He was taking forever. She sat down on the step.
She didn't hear him approach. Nothing till he said, "Assumpta?"
She stood, "If it's a bad time - "
"No, it's fine." He held his keyes inside his fist and waited for her to state her business.
"I've hardly seen you lately. Been busy?" So much for calling him out.
"Oh, ah, I suppose."
The breeze picked up and she hugged herself against it.
Peter unlocked the door and walked in, leaving it open.
She followed him into the kitchen.
He filled the kettle and set it on the stove. "Business booming?"
She laughed, "Hardly."
He didn't even smile.
"Has something happened?"
She saw the tension in his neck, but he looked her in the eye, too boldly, like a child caught in a lie. His mouth twisted and she thought of how he'd licked his fingers to snuff the candle.
He licked his lips.
It was such a small thing, a step. Maybe he moved too, because the space between them in that tiny kitchen shrank to nothing. They'd spent their hesitation on the stage apparently, for now there was none. His kiss was clumsy, hungry, unpracticed, his grip on her head too firm, as if she resisted, but she didn't. As if he thought she'd disappear. She couldn't summon the will to pull away at all. She rolled her hip against him and felt his breath catch on her lip. He groaned and she did it again. Until then he'd held he firmly, his hands stationary, but something changed with that groan. He ran bold hands down her body. Again she moved against him. He reached between them. She expected then, for the first time, to be pushed away, but his cool fingers slipped inside the front of her jeans. Without thought or sense, she pressed into him again. He stopped kissing her - froze, in fact.
She knew, and pushed him over the edge, lapping up his sounds.
The kettle sang.
Assumpta pulled away. He let his hand slip free of her jeans and watched her take the pot off the element. His fingers were wet. The kettle was silent. Assumpta turned back to face him, the look on her face all expectation. He went to her, kissed her again, gentler than before. They'd found a way to fit together, a rhythm, no less eager for its new ease. He was not sated. He was curious about himself as much as her - or not quite as much. He spread his hands around her middle and backed her into the kitchen counter. She was still wet and moved against him as if he knew what he was doing. He opened his eyes and stopped kissing her; he had to see. But he couldn't keep his distance. Her exposed neck begged to be kissed. The curve of her breast pressed against her t-shirt. He moved against her hip, wanting more. She shifted, the soft plane of her abdomen inviting, teasing. She spoke his name, just, "Peter," but his lips were on her throat and the vibration of her voice charged through him. He tried to reach further. She hooked her leg around him and opened. He drew back, a few inches gaping between his mouth and hers. Then she opened her eyes and looked right at him. She came in shudders and groans, her form tugging at his hand.
Her eyelids fell closed again and again, but she kept looking at him. There was almost always a challenge in her eyes and just now it was there more than ever. He was responsible for this, he did this to her, not to lay blame - no, she took her share of responsibility - but to acknowledge that she saw him and knew him and that this was happening.
He rested his forehead on hers and closed his eyes.
"I should probably go," she said.
The length of his fingers were still trapped between them, inside her clothes. He ran one fingertip along the line of her hipbone and sighed.
She took his face between her hands and kissed his mouth, a gentle familiarity - though this might still easily be called a first kiss.
He freed his hands and held them up, open, but away from her and all he still wanted - needed.
Her lips wavered and twisted as if she wanted to speak, but she didn't.
She left.
