Four long days have passed since I've heard my Pats voice. I could call it moping, as I'm lying here in bed at something past one in the afternoon, but I was on a late shift last night. Luckily it was quiet, though that doesn't help when you long for a distraction. Anything that doesn't give me time to wallow in self-pity. I keep imagining her lips. Those perfect, plump wonders could bring me to my knees. Clutching my pillow in frustration, I let out a bit of a howl. At times such as these, I usually take comfort from looking back over letters and notes she'd written me. Nothing suggestive or erotic is penned on the pages. Just a few lines about a nightcap or meeting for breakfast. She used to push notes under my door at night. Sometimes I'd hear her sneak to my door and she'd be lingering outside, for what felt like hours before she finally pushed the folded paper through. It was like she'd be in two minds about sending it or most likely building up her courage. I'm not even sure if she knows that I've even kept them. I just didn't have the heart to throw them away.
The letters are from when she first moved away to live at Nonnatus house. The front of the envelopes are always blank. She's never once wrote my name across them. I used to find them in my handbag once I returned from one of our outings together. Those letters are of course longer and a little more personal, well as much as my Pats could muster on paper. The most wanton speaks of her longing to hold me in her arms but her handwriting is so closely joined together, that on first glance the words are hardly legible.
Ambiguous, yes, but the words are still there nevertheless. Some of her written communication doesn't even close with her name. Just a few dozen kisses or the letter 'P' with about four kisses. Today though these aren't enough and besides I've already read them all two times over. Reaching across to my pile of books, I grab one tucked in the middle. It's Breakfast at Tiffany's; Pats also happened to buy me this book, but I have no intentions of reading it now. What I'm after is tucked tightly between the pages of the book itself. My photo of Pats. Only she's still Blonde in the photograph. She is alluringly beautiful with any hair colour but she is rather gorgeously refined with her blonde locks flowing about. I said that too, about her red hair, that she looks ravishing. I want my Pats anyway she comes.
Turning on my side, taking my blanket with me. I started to pine over her picture. My eyes focusing on her delicate features and they soon fixed upon her lips once again. Mercilessly, my mind began to replay our passionate kisses. As if I was tormenting myself, I could almost taste her upon my own lips. Tugging at the blanket, I let out another deep sigh.
Staying like this until well past two o'clock. I decided to go take a nice long hot bath. Feeling a little like myself again, I found some of my colleagues who were in their rooms. Talking of work, play and entertainment. I enjoyed their company. Laughing as we flipped through Sophia's stack of Picturegoer magazines, a particular film caught my eye. 'Midnight Lace.' A mystery-thriller. I could picture it now, me and Pats in the back row of the darkened picture house. Grabbing her hand tightly as the film reveals it's suspense. I'll be sure to mention it to her.
Spending the rest of my evening with nurse Sophia; watching record after record spinning round on her turquoise coloured, dansette. The fellow brunette was egar to learn Welsh curse words. Which I was only too happy to oblige. Least it was a little educational, I chuckled. Sophia dreams of the countryside. Stunning views and fresh air, so this friendship was an easy one to make. She oftens tells me her dreams of running a farm in Wales. My response is always, 'My Mam would adore you.' Glancing at a picture stuck on her wall of James Stewart, I begin my naughty Welsh lesson. Least my smile is genuine for the rest of the evening. Not that it really wasn't before but I had to force myself to 'think' happy! Rather heavy handed with the Johnny Walker, the mood and everything we said made us burst into fits of laughter. Watching her dance about all silly to one of her old records, 'Pennsylvania 6-5000' I had tears streaming from my eyes. Part of me wished that Pats could be sitting here too, enjoying the fun but I tried not too dwell.
With the night drawing to a close and a rather early start looming. I decided to go back to my room. Tucked under my left arm was my almost empty bottle of whisky. In the right arm was a vinyl record, to help with my ache of Pats. It's title was, 'Like strangers.' Sometimes that is how I felt. Strangers, or perhaps ghosts. Going around unnoticed. Maybe Pats felt that way too? Maybe she didn't? Talking about her feelings was something she struggled with. I'm only too glad that when she does want to discuss her emotions that it's only me she truly turns too.
Left with my dreams again tonight, I begin to picture us dancing. Not a light shuffle but rather sensuous movements, played out to a jazz tune. Flirtatiously zestful as Pats holds me close. Eye to eye and amorous. With the booze in my system, I quickly fell to sleep that night.
A/N - Thank you for the reviews. They do mean alot to me. This chapter I just wanted a slice of Delia by herself. Oo also if you wanted to check out the song, 'Like Strangers' by the wonderful, 'Everly Brothers.' It's rather a good listen. It was the B-side to, 'When will I be loved.' Next chapter very soon. x