I can't breathe. But I don't need to breathe. So, this must be a dream. I'll close my eyes and the world will right itself.
Like this morning.
When I woke up and stretched I knew she wasn't there, even before I opened my eyes. The bed was cold. I could hear splashing, and the apartment was filled with a faint mist, too thin for anyone but me to notice, and a soapy, floral smell. I guessed she was in the bathroom running hot water, washing, or perhaps taking a bath.
I pushed the covers away and made sure I was still wearing stuff, that my clothing hadn't slipped off during the night, that we hadn't undressed each other. But, that was just nerves; in reality I knew I was dressed from ankle to neck because I hadn't wasted many of the six previous hours sleeping. I remembered her announcing she was going to bed and leaving it up to me, as usual, what I did. Whether I stayed or left. She'd disappeared for ten minutes and I'd taken the opportunity to change into the jogging pants and T-shirt I left there for just these circumstances.
When she came back she was dressed in cotton pyjamas, white with a tiny blue check, the kind with three colours; white, dark blue and a lighter blue made up of a mixture of the light and dark threads. She looked at me quizzically and I said, "Is it OK if I stay again?"
She laughed and said I could sleep here every night if it suited me. She stretched out a hand and I took hold of her warm fingers and followed as she led me to her bedroom.
It's a peaceful room. A large bed, a duvet covered in cream fabric, built in wardrobes and a small table, with a mirror and a few tubs of cream and bottles of this and that, stacked neatly, very little clutter. There's a large television in one corner, angled to give the best view to someone lying in the bed. I smiled when I first saw it and she noticed and gave me a dig me in the ribs. She said she liked watching TV in bed late at night. It relaxed her, sometimes.
She pulled back the covers and sat down on the sheet underneath stretching her arms out behind her so that her back was at a small angle to the bed's surface, and her hair fell back from her face over the collar of her shirt. The material was drawn taut over her chest; the check was bent out of shape in places where the cloth was under more stress, giving an impression of the weight of her breasts and I could see the oval outlines of the darker, pinker nipples through the pattern.
When a few seconds passed and I didn't move, she swung her legs over the side and scooted under the duvet, patting the space she'd vacated to indicate I should join her. I slid both hands over the sheet and sort of half jumped, half sat, poking my feet under the duvet and pulling it over me in one movement.
She ignored me for a while, allowing me to get comfortable and watch her. There was a remote control for the television under her pillow and she turned on the TV and began flicking between channels. The lighting in the room was very low, and the light from the tube threw her face into different shades and colours.
Eventually, she gave a little squeal, and declared we had to watch a certain film - one of her favourites. It was called The Piano - when I saw the opening scenes I vaguely recalled seeing billboards advertising its release in theatres a few years before - a thin, elegant woman in a dark dress with a huge, hooped crinoline. I don't watch many movies, most of them are crude, violent or dull, some are all three at once. But I settled back against the pillows to watch, wanting to see what sort of film she liked.
It was a lyrical piece, beginning slowly and revealing its subject gradually, like a woman of another age emerging from layer upon layer of clothing. Kate sat up at first, her knees drawn up under her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. After a while she straightened herself out and turned onto her side to look at me. I was enjoying watching her as much as the film, but when she started watching me back it seemed too intimate, so I looked away at the screen, where the mute woman was dressing her daughter for bed.
I felt the bed shift and Kate's hands on my chest as she wriggled over to me and tucked herself under my arm. I hesitated a moment and then kissed the top of her head. She responded by turning her head towards me and kissing my collarbone, then my throat, then my chin, and finally her hand caressed my cheek and guided me down to her.
She opened her mouth under mine and when I slipped my tongue inside her she tasted clean and sharply fresh, like mint. I rolled towards her and she sighed softly as our bodies clashed, our limbs instinctively moving to accommodate each other. It was hard, but I made myself pull away and whispered to her.
"You're missing your film."
She smiled and answered, "I've seen it before. I can afford to miss bits."
Her breath filled my mouth and nose - I breathed her in. But then she did turn back to the television. Instead of moving away, however, she merely swivelled in my arms so I spooned her from behind. I wondered at first if she intended me to give her more space, but she put her hands over mine and snuggled back against me. The firm flesh of her rear massaged my groin and I closed my eyes and fervently imagined being somewhere else, trying to control my body's response.
I watched the film more to distract myself from the sensation of being wrapped around Kate than any interest in the story. During certain scenes - where the woman is forced to make bargains to regain the instrument - I felt her heart beat a little faster, but then she seemed to become calm and after a while I realised she was asleep. I relaxed a little, and allowed myself to be more aware of her body touching mine. As the lovers on the screen in the corner of the room moved against each other, I tried to be as still as I could, and she slept on. She is a gentle, quiet sleeper, just occasionally stretching within the circle of my arms.
I threw the covers back a few times when it seemed to me that she was getting too hot. The film came to an end and I reached for the remote and turned the television off. Then I watched her, the flutter of her eyelids as she dreamed, the steady rise and fall of her chest and, infrequently, a murmured word or two from her lips, which I strained to catch but never understood. An hour before dawn I allowed myself to fall asleep too. The next thing I knew it was morning and she was gone.
I secured the cord around my waist a little tighter and went after her. The density of the steam increased as I approached the door, and from the pattern of the pattering noises made by the fall of water, I knew she must be in the shower.
I expected to find the door locked, but it stood open, and I stepped into the bathroom. The glass door of her shower was misted but I could see her inside. She had just begun to wet her hair under the jet of water, it was half dry, and hanging in tendrils around her face and neck. I pressed my palm against the glass.
At that point I didn't think about what I was doing, I just ... wanted to be close to her again. Her eyes were closed under the water, so I said, softly, "Kate" and she turned to face me.
I don't know what I was expecting; perhaps that she would cover herself with her hands, or be startled.
Instead she swept the water from her eyes and turned to see me. Then she waved me back a step and pushed the door open.
"Angel?"
I took a step towards her and she put a hand on my chest. I stopped and her hand travelled down my abdomen and her index finger hooked in my waistband. She whispered "You'll get them wet." I threw the T-shirt over my head and pushed the pants off my hips and kicked them away. She stepped back to let me inside.
Then we were both under the water, kissing desperately and laying hands on each other. I didn't care what was going to happen. I was suddenly intent on my desire for her, nothing else was real. As we broke apart, she said my name again.
It wasn't her normal voice.
Kate's voice is incredible. Whatever she's saying, whatever is happening around her, it's the same. It's not a monotone, it has depths and tones and a husky quality. You can tell when she's upset and when she's joking, but the changes and inflections are subtle. It's the same beautiful sound, whether she's ordering a pizza or accusing someone of murder.
When she said my name, it was different, as if for the first time she was asking something of me and it did not come naturally. The only time I heard her talk like it was when she was speaking about her father. I caressed the muscles of her back, fighting the streaming water for closer access to her skin, and she half-closed her eyes. I touched kisses to her face; I wanted to fill her mouth with my flesh again, but then I also wanted her to speak again in that strange, needful way. I desperately wanted to bring that voice out of her.
The water trickled over her throat and down between her breasts, falling in a single rivulet down her stomach. If I looked down I could see my own flesh hardening and the water trickling off her and onto me. Her head was thrown backwards under the spray. She was breathing at her normal rate, but in a too much measured way, as if it no longer happened naturally and she was having to keep it under control. I felt the point of no return slip past, without either of us raising any objection.
That was when I felt a sickening, stirring feeling in my chest, like a small animal was crawling about in there, trying to find its way out. I think I must have gasped - I don't know. The next thing I remember is an insistent electronic noise inside my head. Then it wasn't inside, but coming from the sitting room where I had left my clothes. The bleeper. I ran towards the warning sound, picked up a handful of clothes and kept on running.
A dream. Except, I know it happened.
"Angel, are you all right?"
Wesley bent over Angel's body, shaking him by the shoulder until his eyelids flickered open.
"Wes? What happened?"
"You tell me. I came to get a file and found you on the floor. It looks like you passed out."
Angel sat up and clutched his head. "I'm cold. Everything is aching."
"Ye-es," Wesley mused. "Not a good place to kip, really. Not when you've got over a hundred bedrooms. Nineteen of them usable." He helped Angel to a seat and pulled another up close.
Angel shivered. "I was dreaming, I think."
Wesley nodded. " I see." And then, "No, that's a bit of a fib. I don't see at all. Are you sure you're all right?"
Angel shook his head. "Something's wrong with me. Maybe I've been poisoned or something. I've been having strange ... symptoms for about twenty-four hours."
"What kind of symptoms?"
"Just before I passed out, I was struggling for breath. And then in the shower this morning, I had this palpitation."
"Lack of breath and palpitations? You sound like an elderly maiden aunt. You don't need to breathe and there's nothing palpitating in there."
Angel gulped. "And at Caritas."
"What?"
"This morning. I was drinking like a fish and ... I actually got drunk."
TO BE CONTINUED ...