We sit on a bench by the river and, as I listen to him talk, I amuse myself by trying to slip acorns, surreptitiously, into the pocket of his jacket. They fall frequently from the heavily-laden branches above us, making little popping noises as they hit the hard, heavily worn track and, though my little game is mildly entertaining, it does make me realise, with burgeoning regret, that autumn is now just around the corner. The Thames looks so different here, green and almost inviting, with a few sturdy little boats dotted along the bank, straining at their moorings. The current is strong and, in such close proximity to it, I'm surprised at how much sound the water makes. There's a light breeze in the trees too, rustling the dark, stiff, late summer foliage and causing the sunlight to dapple the dusty ground around us, giving it the appearance of a carousel pony's painted rump.
Martin seems to understand better than anyone else how revitalising I find it to be near the water. While it's not the wild, coastal, Cornwall cliffs, I'm still so very grateful to be here, and even happier to know how it's because he respects how integral to me this connection to the elements really is. When I suggested a walk, instantly this beautiful spot was his suggestion and, now we are here, it feels like a tiny triumph, like when you make yourself the perfect cup of tea or you get an assignment completed well before the deadline. And it's a little bit more cement, too, I suppose, in the foundations of the thing that is me and Martin. Amongst my friends, if I'm honest, I've always felt like a bit of an oddball, countrified and unsophisticated, and I can't believe how much it helps, when you're trying to figure out who you actually are and what really matters to you, to have someone accept some of your less-exciting character traits. And to say they love you, too, even though you are a walking conundrum; someone who adores the water but hates boats, and dreams of one day returning to the tiny fishing village where she grew up but totally loves the excitement and fashion and music London provides and, actually, isn't even that bothered, really, about eating fish.
He knows me well enough to have brought me to this really beautiful spot, where huge old trees sweep down to touch the water, and Cliveden, itself, is magnificent atop the cliffs above, watching over us like some sort of benevolent guardian. As is often the case, I wonder how Martin actually came to know about this place or, more specifically, this particular bench. It's a bit sad that you can't go inside the house any more because it's now some sort of luxury hotel but he seems to be familiar enough with the grounds, and the lovely walks that serpentine through the woods. There's a tenuous medical connection I suppose, as he informs me the estate was the site of a Canadian Red Cross hospital during both World Wars, but that doesn't really seem to be been enough to have piqued his interest, and I wonder whether I am brave enough to ask him, whether I actually want to know the answer.
I'm desperate that nothing should spoil this. With his long legs stretched out in front of him and his arm laid along the back of the seat behind me, he appears so comfortable and even, dare I say it, relaxed. When I lean into his shoulder and he doesn't flinch, or instantly colour with embarrassment, I just feel a delicious surge of emotion and I can only describe it as contentment; the Swedes probably have a word for it, or the Germans, something long and unpronounceable which basically means finding yourself happy and satisfied by not doing very much at all. The surroundings and, most importantly, the company, is enough. And I really do love just hearing him speak like this, it just seems to make everything better, not only because his tone is so soothing but because it's a tiny glimpse of Martin the Orator; confident in his subject and so sure in his delivery that his voice becomes a deep, velvety tool of hypnosis.
Along the path to our right, a small group approaches; cheerful and excited. Two small boys, trailing sticks, run, gleefully, in and out of the trees, absorbed in a world of their own. Behind them, a woman in a sun hat calls out admonishments; hopeful suggestions of caution and care, echoed by the man who accompanies her as he is towed inelegantly from tree to tree by a small, determined dog. It's enough of an interruption that Martin is suddenly silent and alert but I can't help but smile lazily at the kids; their happiness is infectious. Unprompted and breathless with excitement, they tell me that they've seen a bear and that they mean to capture it. Smiling conspiratorially at their mum, I tell them that I've seen it too, wishing them luck and telling them just how clever, and terribly brave I think they are. Squealing with delight, as quickly as they arrive, they are gone again, and our peaceful and pleasant isolation resumes.
As soon as I turn back to face Martin, to encourage him to continue, I sense immediately that something has changed. He sits perfectly still, his eyes downcast, the only movement his hair, ruffled almost imperceptibly by the wind that whips along the water. For a moment his expression seems almost pained and, though I am aware of his impatience with many things, I am a bit a perplexed at how just a few second's interaction with a couple of delightful little kids might make him so suddenly remote. I hadn't even noticed but, as he clasps both of his hands in his lap, he has even withdrawn his arm and now, disconcertingly, it is as if he has momentarily closed down.
"You okay?" I ask him quietly, reaching over and putting my hand over his.
He glances up at me and I'm relieved to see that his eyes are soft, though strangely more sad than annoyed. I smile at him tentatively, wracking my brain for what I can say that might encourage him to continue. Perhaps he's just having a similar reaction to the one I have when I see an Ice Cream van: a flashback to a happy childhood moment, a beacon amongst the grim, grey years of parental disinterest, an occasion that you clung to forever afterwards; the normality and security of one that time your dad bought you a chocolate-dipped, double cone. Those sorts of thoughts can make you equally both happy and sad, and sometimes they can trigger more memories, ones that challenge your convictions, the internal myths that you've created so you don't ever have to think about what really was.
"Have you been here before?" I ask him, gently. "Who brought you? Was it your mum?"
His head flies up and he shoots me a look of such disbelief, such disappointment, that for a horrible moment, I wonder what the bloody hell I've said.
"My mother? God no!" He growls, with more than a hint of scorn.
My heart sinks, and I cringe internally at my own stupidity as I watch his expression darken. After my encounter with his mother, I wouldn't really be surprised if she didn't spend significant time with Martin when he was a child, as cold and self-centred as she was. However much I couldn't stand her though, it defies belief that she wouldn't have done something with her son, at least occasionally taken him places, and shared experiences with him. I wish he'd tell me more about his life so I could understand. He's got the advantage, if you can call it that, of having met me and seen my childhood circumstances, but I feel like I'm trying to put together a jigsaw without the the picture. What's worse is that each tentative glimpse he gives me of his upbringing just makes me feel so sad for him, but, distressingly, I can't seem to prevent putting my foot in it. I bite on my lip and say nothing and, after a minute or so of grim silence, he starts to talk again, haltingly and without emotion.
"I've been once, previously...with, ahh, Henry Ellingham, my grandfather." He says quietly. "Umm, I seem to recall that he'd had a bit to do with training some of the surgeons here during the war; I suppose that makes sense because he had developed some new techniques for the reconstruction of blast injuries so, in a military hospital, I'm sure that would have been a significant proportion of their admissions."
I smile at him affectionately. I can't get the image of him as a little boy out of my mind, dressed in shorts and long socks, cherubic with his expressive blue eyes and floppy fair hair. I can just imagine how interested in everything he must have been, so inquisitive and intelligent, a sensitive and diligent little sponge, wanting to know how everything worked, what everything did, attempting to make sense of the world. His disclosure makes me wonder how things might have been different for Martin had his grandfather been around a bit longer. I find myself wishing he'd tell me more about this Henry until it suddenly dawns on me that he must, in fact, be Mrs. Norton's father; yet another incentive, in my opinion, to tell her about Martin and me. While she might be able to enlighten me further, I'd need to think about it carefully; families can be difficult and Martin is so private, however close she was to him when he was growing up, however much like a second mother she apparently was.
I never even met my dad's parents but the thought has crossed my mind on occasions, you know, what if I'd had an extended family around when I was growing up. As often as I've thought it might have been better I've also concluded that perhaps it could have been significantly worse. Eleanor's dad, James, died when I was small and I really only remember him vaguely; disliking having to kiss his whiskery face, smelling as he did of tobacco and rum. He seemed a kindly enough old man I suppose but his wife, my maternal grandmother, was long gone. She'd run off, too, as it happened and James seemed to be enough of an anchor for my mum that, once he died, there wasn't anything to keep her in Portwenn, including me. I really do come from a long line of bolters; and I suppose on one hand, you might view them as incredibly selfish, putting themselves and their own needs over everything else. On the other hand, they might be seen as women who weren't prepared to simply settle for unhappy marriages, and the drudgery of home and hearth. And I could respect that, you know, if only they'd decided to seek adventure elsewhere, and claim their independence, before they'd actually given birth to the helpless, bewildered kids they left behind.
"Did you spend a lot of time with Henry then?" I ask him, suddenly, and he glances up at me, surprised.
"Umm...He died when I was quite young but, up until then, yes, I think so. He...let's just say he wasn't a natural with children. When I think back, he must have been at rather a loose end as to what to with me... and so we came here, and...umm... looked at the boats and...we walked about the grounds.."
"Did you run around with sticks, chasing imaginary bears too?" I ask, grinning at the rather charming thought of an excitable little Martin in miniature, as I rub his hand affectionately, hoping he'll elaborate.
Instead, he clears his throat, assuming instead his ubiquitous expression of discomfort and, to my disappointment, he stands up as if he's sat in something unpleasant, and an air of impatient irritation seeming to overtake him.
"I think we should go and look at the fountain, don't you?" He says quickly. "It's getting late and we don't want to get held up on the M4 on the way home..."
For a moment, I'm a bit taken aback and I wonder what I've said that seems to have unnerved him so. Honestly, it can't be more than four o'clock and it's a bloody Saturday, for God's sake, and I open my mouth to point that out to him but, mercifully, I manage to choke back my objections before I make things even worse. I hold out my hands to him, hopefully, watching his expression as he pulls me to my feet. There's something about the way he holds on to me for a moment, how he fixes me with a look of rather odd intensity, but I have no idea what it all means. I don't know what to do or what to say, and it's clear I must fight my instinct to throw my arms around him, and most definitely avoid attempting to reassure him with another impromptu declaration of love. I have to admit my emotional outburst wasn't particularly well-received this morning, when blurting it out how I felt was just a little bit too spontaneous for his comfort. And, you know I was miffed by his response, or lack of it, and, still, now, I wonder why he is so unwilling to reciprocate, why he finds it just so difficult to say the words to me, just what it is exactly that holds him back.
It feels like all I can do is to grip his hand and hang on to him rather firmly as, silently, he leads me along the path that takes us up to the formal gardens, and the bloody enormous house. I'd give anything to know what's he's thinking, to have some sort of insight into why he reacts like he does. Strange how you can feel like you know someone, how you think you have a good sense of their character but, when it boils down to it, you don't actually know much at all. You don't know what formed them, or what they've been through, or what struggles they've faced. As much as I want to understand Martin, he doesn't make it particularly easy. I know that withdrawing emotionally is a defence mechanism for a child, I mean, I've studied that. My head spins and I frown as I recall what they taught us, how should we respond and, most importantly, was any of it transferable to the situation of an astute and searingly intelligent adult?
"Is that what made you want to be a surgeon, then?" I ask him after a few minutes, as we begin our ascent up the steeper paths. "Hanging out with Henry I mean? Was he a vascular specialist as well?"
He pauses for a moment before answering, and I watch as his brow knots into a thoughtful frown. Libby once told me that the key to piquing a boy's interest was simply to ask him about himself, and then you just had to sit back and listen really. You'd be bored far sooner than he would, she'd said with a a roll of her eyes and a resigned sort of grimace. Clearly, when she was evolving her theories, she never encountered anyone like Martin; private, self-contained and utterly self-effacing but it seems as if even Martin feels as if, eventually, he should answer.
"No, there was no such speciality, really, back then. Ahh...Henry was a general surgeon, like my father was, but a damn good one. He was extensively published and, umm, actually some of the procedures he developed are still used today. You know, even after he retired, he was in demand; a brilliant man. Quite terrifying but still brilliant."
"A role model, then, Martin." I say with a wry grin, but he either chooses to ignore me or it goes right over his head, and we walk along in a thoughtful sort of silence for a bit, blackbirds crying out in alarm as they vacate the undergrowth around us and flutter away noisily.
There's a dull hum in the distance as a motor boat comes up the river and, inexplicably, we stand for a moment and watch it as it goes past. The man at the wheel is as focused as the captain of Martin's little tin boat and, as I point it out gleefully, there's almost the semblance of a smile on his face.
"Let's hope that his vessel is a little more sea-worthy." He observes drily, shifting my grip on his fingers and taking my hand in his, a gesture I find rather encouraging.
"So why did you actually choose vascular?" I ask him, after a moment, finding the idea of Martin as a young impressionable boy completely endearing. "I'm a little embarrassed to admit I'd never even heard of it, you know, before I met you."
He makes a sort of humphing noise, inclining his head as if he expected nothing more.
"Not necessarily a bad thing, implying as it does that neither you nor your family have ever needed specialist vascular expertise.. and, really, nor should you, hopefully, if you're careful with your diet, watch your alcohol intake, umm, and you continue not to smoke. Neglect of those three basic rules contributes a large percentage of my elective surgeries, mostly preventable of course..."
We emerge into the sunshine again now and the sky seems paler now we are in the open. While what he has just said about his patients does explain why he bangs in a bit about diet and exercise and moderation, it makes him sound more like a dietician than a doctor.
"I'm sorry, Martin, but that doesn't quite seem enough really; to, you know, inspire you to make the all the sacrifices you've had to. I mean, you can't just have woken up one morning and decided you wanted to spend your life lecturing people about their lifestyle and how much bacon they eat. Surely, even you would get tired of that eventually..."
He glances at me sideways and the look he gives me makes me laugh out loud but, before he has a chance to reply, I blurt out what's been so much on my mind since last night; almost blew my mind really, when I think about it.
"I suppose I'm talking about, you know, people like Bucky. That sort of thing. Surely that must be the really rewarding part? Even if he is a plonker, I mean, you saved his arm. That must be an amazing feeling?"
His expression becomes quite contemplative and he clears his throat, slightly awkwardly, as if he is weighing up how to answer me.
"Mmm, yes, of course there is a lot more to it than encouraging people to take responsibility for their own health and well being..." He says with noticeable intensity, before his voice trails off, as if he's suddenly decided to that he doesn't want to share anything more, as if he's revealed too much.
"I'd actually be really interested to hear about what made you choose this, umm, path, you know, if you wanted to tell me." I reply as I turn my head and smile at him hopefully. "I've always loved hearing people talk about things they are passionate about...it's sort of inspiring, don't you think?"
He glances at me, his expression thoughtful, his eyes searching my face as if he doesn't really believe I could possibly be interested, like I'm playing some sort of trick on him. Sensing his hesitation, I squeeze his hand and give him a little encouraging nod.
"What if I was a really clever kid from the local comprehensive, you know, thinking about a career in medicine, and I asked you...what would you tell me?"
"Right. I see..." He says cautiously, after a moments contemplation, and then he starts to talk, hesitantly at first but then, for all too brief a time, it's as if he suddenly can't hide his enthusiasm. His eyes light up and he speaks with an animation and an energy I haven't seen in his everyday conversation before.
"I...well, I'd have to say, for me, it was the challenge, the difficulty of the discipline really. I mean, vascular is at the absolute cutting edge of medical advancement...umm...especially around minimally invasive procedures. The constant innovation in endovascular techniques, everything continuously evolving...to be a part of that, to contribute to that, really, it's without a doubt for me the most stimulating specialty. Every day is like a puzzle, deciding on the best course of treatment for each patient, which might simply be lifestyle changes, or it might be drug therapy, or other options such as minimally-invasive interventions, stenting and so forth. Every case is so different."
I smile at him and nod again, so desperately keen to encourage him to actually talk to me, to reveal bits of his thoughts and his reasoning and just, I don't know, share something of himself, let me see the inner Martin, the part of him I suspect he seldom shows anyone.
"So the variety then, was that what made your mind up?" I ask him.
"Well, yes, that, and the fact I was...well, I was fascinated by the opportunities for the incorporation of technology into our work, the speed at which procedures evolve and improve...the potential for working with interventional radiology, solving really complex cases, I just knew I very much wanted to be at the forefront of that..."
I don't think I'm imagining it but, with his enthusiasm, I notice a change in the way he moves. His posture which, even usually, is so confident and correct, now seems even more imposing, as if he's suddenly animated and inspired.
"So there's a lot of variety then? That must keep it interesting."
"God, yes, no two days are ever the same, and that's also very appealing...there's a good balance with clinics, and elective surgery plus, as you now know, emergencies..."
We pause at an incredibly beautiful water feature. Beyond it, along a broad avenue of creamy-brown gravel, lined with neat rows of symmetrical trees that Martin informs me are limes, is the ridiculously imposing stately home. No one could help but be impressed really, looking at it all but Martin seems more intent on gazing at the fountain. I laugh at him, asking if he made me walk all the way down here just so he could gaze at the nudes but he just raises an eyebrow at me and asks me, rather archly, if I'm aware how many endovascular procedures go in through the groin.
The scale of everything is just a bit overwhelming and I imagine you could spend a day here and still not see everything. I tell him that I'd like to come back and he replies with an economical sort of vocal agreement, a positive grunt, I suppose you'd call it, forced between the closed jaws of a deeply contemplative face.
"And we'd purchase a guidebook, too." He says, after a moment. "Because I'd like to know who sculpted this. Anatomically brilliant...very fine work."
I lift up his hand, turning it upside down and casting my eye over his broad palm and his thick, strong fingers. It's actually quite amazing to think that he, too, has such fine motor skills, and that he's capable of such delicacy and sensitivity; that he can be so dexterous and gentle and exact.
"You know, Bernard said that you had the golden touch, that you were a once-in-a-generation surgeon." I tell him, and I wait cautiously for his reaction. "To be that talented, I think that you must truly love what you do? Operating on people I mean. Is that your favourite part?"
He frowns and looks down at our hands and then back at me, and I notice how he swallows hard, and moistens his lips before speaking, as if he is having to force the words out, against so much resistance.
"Well, I suppose I always did have good hand-eye coordination. Umm, and I have no problem concentrating for long periods of time...and I suppose I just seemed to know instinctively what to do. I could make sound decisions under pressure too, which is important. When I did my rotations, vascular just seemed to be an excellent fit to both my skills and my interests. I absolutely loved every minute of being in theatre you see and, after that, I just couldn't honestly see myself lopping out appendixes and gallbladders for the rest of my life."
He takes my hand in his, again, and I follow him as he walks around the circumference of the fountain, narrowing his eyes as he gazes at the little cherubs, and the figures of the women, one or two who seem almost a bit too ecstatic for public display.
"She looks like a good sport." I say, as we take in the figure of a long haired woman, bent backwards over a rock. I'm sure that these statues represent something but, unlike generals on horses with their legs off the ground, I can't easily read this one. "What does it all mean?"
"I suspect that the smaller figures are cupids and, umm, from that pearl of wisdom, you can probably now hazard a guess as to what is going on..." He replies, with the merest hint of amusement. "Have you seen enough for one day? Shall we go?"
Of course, it's a fait accompli for Martin, a rhetorical question because, before I can even answer, we are striding off toward the car park; as usual, determined and single-minded.
"What about brain surgery or heart transplants? You weren't tempted by that?" I ask, as he opens the car door for me.
He snorts, slightly derisively.
"No...Cardiologists are born, not made, in my opinion, they tend to be the glamorous, attention-seeking, celebrity types..." He replies briskly
I watch him walk around to his side of the car and, as I do, his expression makes me laugh out loud; disdain is written all over his face, a tight-lipped disapproval that would do Mary Whitehouse proud. As he climbs in and starts the car, I can see that he is thinking about something and it suddenly seems very important that I know what that is.
"What?" I ask him and he glances at me quickly before he reverses, at his usual high speed, from the car park space.
"Umm, as a matter of fact, I did actually consider neurosurgery quite seriously because, well, a lot of the required skills do overlap."
"But?" I prompt, as the forward acceleration throws me back into my seat.
"But, the first time I was presented with a blue ischemic limb and I was able to restore the blood flow, to check on the patient post op and see a warm, pink foot, I knew I'd chosen the right specialty, I was, ahh, confident, I suppose, that I'd made a good decision."
I smile at him though I'm not sure if he can see my face, as he focuses on the road, intent as he is on manoeuvring around the traffic as if he's Nigel Flaming Mansell.
"That's brilliant, Martin, it really is. To be so passionate about what you do, and to be able to really help people, to change the course of their lives...that must just be such an amazing feeling..."
He grunts at me, a sort of self conscious muttering under his breath, a sound that is actually really endearing but which also strikes me as just a little bit sad too; I don't really understand how he can be so widely acknowledged as a brilliant surgeon and yet still obviously feel so awkward when he is congratulated, or his skill is appreciated. It seems especially weird that he's still so shy about his achievements with me, especially; the girl who not only loves him but who has shared his bed for the last three nights. Is he like it with everyone? I can't say for sure but he didn't really give me the impression of being a shrinking violet when I saw him ordering people about at the hospital, but that's not exactly the same thing is it? Maybe that's what it's like when you have not only the authority but a huge amount of responsibility. But to be that accomplished, and yet to struggle with compliments, I don't know, it all seems a bit dismal really, and I experience an ache, a little pang of sorrow, on his behalf.
The motion of the car is soporific and I struggle to keep my eyes open. I don't recall exactly the point at which I fell asleep but, as he parks the car, he says my name. I feel his hand on my arm and I open my eyes, dazed, like a toddler woken from their afternoon nap, struggling to focus and unsure of exactly where I am. He gazes at me, a hint of mirth on his face, as I mutter something incoherent about a cup of tea and I'm not sure why it seems like such a long walk back to his flat, when he always parks in almost the same place, but it does. I have a sudden hankering for chips, for their delicious, salty greasy stodginess, but it dawns on me, miserably, that I have as much chance of Martin nipping down the chippie for me as I have for convincing him that he can leave the house without a tie, or that dance music is still culture, or even having him throw me over his shoulder and carry me to the bedroom in a fit of passion. It's been dawning on me for a while now that I will have to satisfy my chip craving in secret but I'm resolute and determined not to give up my ambition to change his mind on all the others.
I really am thirsty though, and I need to pee. Two toilets might seem like a luxury, but the advantages are obvious. No scrambling to be first, no loss of decorum as you elbow your flat mates out of the way in a screamingly hilarious battle to get to the loo. When I eventually emerge, still with my dignity in tact, Martin is stood in the kitchen, with his back to me, apparently intent on hydrating us both as he fills the teapot. I like this view of him. I love the cut of his suit across his shoulders, the skill of his tailor at having every seam sit so beautifully and unobtrusively flat. I adore the back of his head, his neatly cut hair so tactile, the glimpse of his unblemished golden skin so soft and smooth across the back of his neck, and his immaculate white shirt collar; always crisp and somehow so utterly perfect. I'm not quite sure why I find it so incredibly attractive, but I do.
No one can accuse me of being a slow learner though, and I wait until he has completed his task, until any chance of a scalding injury has all but been eliminated, before I slip my arms around his waist and rest my head gratefully against his back.
"Thank you. I really enjoyed today." I tell him, and I tighten my grip around his middle ever so slightly.
"Umm, you're most welcome." He replies, and we stand there for a minute before he finally takes hold of my wrists and loosens my grip enough that he can swivel around and face me, regarding me with interest as he carefully smooths a strand of errant hair back behind my ears.
"I have the feeling that you, too, will change the course of people's lives, Louisa, given the opportunity." He says, from out of nowhere, his expression now pensive and rather solemn.
I stare up at him, a bit confused because, to be honest, I don't exactly understand what he means. I'm all too aware that, sometimes, he just doesn't have a filter and there isn't really a place or occasion he considers sacrosanct when it comes to saying what he really thinks.
"What are you saying?" I ask him, cautiously, as a host of explanations start to fill my head, not all of them positive.
"I suppose what I'm saying is that any child that has you on their side, umm, either to teach them or just to take care of them, should...well, they should consider themselves very fortunate."
Just like that, I feel myself blush like a schoolgirl, and I know I must look like a simpleton as I gaze back at him, soppy but happy, as they say, but I really don't care. It feels like just about one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me; in fact chuffed doesn't even begin to describe how happy and, even, delighted I am. And it's so much better actually because, not only does Martin think it, but he said it to me too, out loud, and it's just like when he told me all those years ago that I needed to pursue the best education I could. I can't remember exactly what he said then but I still remember so distinctly how he made me feel; that just for a moment I was worth something, enough to elicit encouragement and guidance from a complete and utter stranger, enough that I began to actually believe in myself. At that moment, I know it was so important to me that I fell a bit in love with him, and I also know that I'm rather a lot in love with him now. So I forget about being thirsty, and I ignore the fact that I'm tired, and feeling a bit under the weather and, instead, I reach up to kiss him because it suddenly becomes imperative that I remind him how I feel. Not blurt it out in a way that makes him look like a stunned Sea Bass and me look like an emotional Jack-In-The-Box, not via a cheeky little snog in a doorway, under the influence, nor even a desperately hungry expression of lust in the tiny bedroom of a dingy flat.
It seems so important, now, that this is different; that, when our lips meet, it's tender and sweet and rarefied; and it becomes absolutely the gentlest expression of the most intense of feelings. This is what I need, his mouth so exquisitely delicate against mine, his hands barely touching my waist, yet every nerve in my face electrified by the mere hint of his warm breath against my cheek. I kiss him because, one day, a long time ago, he encouraged me to find my own way out of the mess I'd been left in. From bitter experience he knew how to survive and so I kiss him for that too; for all the unhappiness of his childhood, and because there was no one in his corner when he needed there to be and so he had to fight on alone. I kiss him because he is truly an extraordinary man; a victor over his circumstances, rising from the ashes of his abysmal upbringing, emerging unbelievably self contained, and brilliant, and accomplished. The fabric of his suit feels divine; so very smooth and cool beneath the hot, bare skin of my limp, languid arms. And, within the silence, as his hands on my hips ease me irresistibly toward him, even the melodic ticking of the clock seems to slow to almost nothing.