One evening, a group of well dressed young men came, whooping and hollering, down the street towards me, and I stopped and watched them as they approached. They didn't seem to think it necessary to change their course because of me, and I was expecting to be bowled over when I felt a pair of hands on my arm, pulling me to one side. The hands flung me against a wall, which winded me slightly, and then I felt a body covering me as the men raced past.
Joe was just the same height as myself, slightly short for a man, and consequently his face and mine were brought close together while he protected me. His head was turned to one side, and for the first time I noticed how flawless his skin was. His mouth was small and pink, and his eyes clear and focused, unlike someone who had been drinking all evening. It occurred to me that I had never actually seen him consume any ale. Most of the men at the bar smelled of alcohol; he smelled of soap and something else, indefinable, rather like fresh clothing. A wholesome smell. We were pressed together for seconds, but it was enough for my skin to flush and my heart to be in my throat as he pulled away. I did not know where to look, and then he offered me his hand and pulled me from the wall, saying, "They're gone. Just drunken young idiots. Come on."
We walked several yards together before my look reminded him he should not keep hold of my hand. He dropped it straight away, and half-apologised, half-laughed, "Oh! I'm sorry! I forgot." By that time I was in two minds whether I wanted him to let go. It felt so nice to be touched, and not grabbed; to feel someone's fingers curl around yours through absent-minded friendship, and not because they seek to control you.
After several weeks of his protection, I became convinced he would never trouble me for anything in return. By that time I was established in my work, I had lodgings I could call home, and a kind friend. I should have been content. But the heart never seems to be satisfied with what it has. Many evenings I would arrive home, having spent the journey wishing for Joe to take my hand once again, and spend the night wishing for Liam to write to me and tell me I was wrong to leave.
I arrived home late one night and came to the casement as usual, but Joe was nowhere to be seen. I scanned the pavement in either direction; the street seemed completely empty. I checked the other window, which overlooks a patch of waste ground, covered with low bushes and weeds. One of the larger bushes was shaking and, to my horror, behind it I could make out Joe struggling with a man who seemed twice his size. Seeing no option, I rushed out to help him, thinking that if I made enough noise the attacker might take fright and run off, for it was certain he was too big for even both of us to fight.
By the time I arrived, the man had disappeared and Joe was lying on the ground. His coat was torn away, and hung from one shoulder. Blood was pouring from a wound in his arm, seeping through his shirt. I knelt and tried to revive him, and to my astonishment, he came round moments later.
"Anna? What are you doing here?"
"You were attacked!"
He looked at me sharply, "Did you see what happened?"
I explained that his attacker must have run off while I was coming down the stairs.
"Yes, I think he must have." He stood, his wounded arm held to his chest, and started to slap the dust from his clothing with his good hand. After a few moments he looked at me again and said, "I'm not badly hurt. You should get inside. There may be others."
I shook my head. "You can't go home like that. You must let me bandage your arm at least." He regarded his arm dispassionately, as if it belonged to someone else.
"I suppose it is bleeding."
So I took him up to my room and found an old sheet that would tear easily into strips. I took some water and washed the wound, and bandaged his arm. It took me a while, but I managed it fairly well, although not expertly by any means. He watched me all the time, with a small, private smile, as if there were some joke of which I was not aware.
I finished my work and pulled the tattered sleeve of his shirt down over the bandaged wound. He settled back against the cushions I had placed for him on the couch, and his eyes followed me as I rolled the remainder of the bandages away, and put the kettle back on the fire so that I could make him a cup of tea.
"You're so... why aren't you married to someone?"
"There was never anyone I wanted to marry," I lied.
Clearly, my face must have given me away, because his next question was, "Who was he?"
"I don't want to talk about him."
He was silent for a moment, than said very quietly, "It's hard to lose someone like that. I know. There was a time..." His voice trailed off and he never completed the sentence, just let it hang there between us.
After he'd taken his tea, he stood, as if to go, but staggered slightly and was forced to sit down again.
"My head. It's swimming a little."
"You need to rest."
"I'll be all right in a moment."
I toyed nervously with the remains of the bandage, and heard myself say, "You could stay here."
He opened his eyes and smiled at me. "What about your precious reputation?"
I didn't know what to say to that, and so I cleared away the bowl and the cloth and placed them on the washstand. Intense loneliness, thoughts of Liam, and fear of what they might lead me to, made my heart heavy again. I kept my back turned and my head bent, and when the tears began they splashed into the bloody water.
"Anna?"
I felt his arms circle me from behind and instantly I turned and buried my face in his neck.
"Don't cry. Don't. I won't stay. I'll wait a few more minutes and go. Everything will be fine." His sweet, fine voice whispered soothingly to me and I feel the incredibly soft skin of his cheek against my ear. "You have nothing to fear from me."
It was the first time in many weeks that another human being had touched me like this, and, all of a sudden, I was determined to have him stay. It was not bearable that he should go and I should be left alone with my thoughts again. A desperate resolution overtook me and I wrapped my arms around his neck and started to kiss him hungrily. He was surprised, at first, then he kissed me back with equal fervour. But then, instead of thrusting his tongue into me as I expected, he drew back and became gentle. Cradling my head, he touched each of my lips with his, softly at first, then drawing one, then the other into his mouth a little and releasing it slowly. His kisses brought blood to the surface of my skin, but instead of making me raw, I felt everything more keenly. After a few kisses, the simple act of his lips brushing mine was enough to make me shake. I was never made to feel so aroused just by being kissed before, and this with no force or invasion; no-one ever kissed me with such delicacy.
I felt his hands at my waist and he pushed me from him and held me, a foot away.
His breathing was ragged, and his face was stained with red. Well, as to that, it was like looking into a mirror because I felt my cheeks burn and my chest rise and fall rapidly.
"Anna, I'm sorry." he began, his voice squeaking in panic, then "Oh God. You can't. You don't know what you're doing. You don't know me. You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're sad. I know you're lonely. I know... you lost someone dear. We're very much alike. I... I could comfort you."
He smiled that small, secretive smile again. "Yes, you could. And you have no idea how much I'd love your comfort. But you... What I'm trying to say is, we're even more alike than you think." Turning, he rumpled his short, fair hair with his hands and took a step away. Then he said, softly, with his back still towards me, "This is impossible."
I looked at the floor in the hope that it might open up and swallow me. When I gathered enough courage to raise my head again, he was gone. Shamelessly, I rushed to the door, my impulse was to go out into the hallway and find him, bring him back and make him stay with me, but I stopped in my tracks as something caught my attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone stood by my bed, at the far end of the room where I least expected them to be. A naked body, folding discarded clothes and placing them neatly in a pile on the floor. A pale and delicate body, with one arm hastily bandaged. A body turning to face me, squarely, without concealment.
A woman's body. Joe.