Time doesn't mean anything to me and I don't know how long I have been staring out the window at nothing. I'm not actually aware of any thoughts, it is feelings that overwhelm me; a divine, exquisite sort of delirium that cocoons me in a bubble where all I can do is relive the moment when you and I ignited.
Martin, I know I threw the petrol but, oh my god, you struck the match.
I glance over at you. As soon as we were in your car you just assumed your typical air of control and self confidence, and I envy you that. I also confess to finding that one of your many attractive traits and it's partly responsible for why I am sitting here beside you now, a little swoony and light headed. But I can't help but feel a bit bewildered by your reaction, or lack of it; you seem just bit distant and lost in your own thoughts; one hand on the steering wheel, the other, closest to me, resting loosely on the top of your leg. Ready to fend me off, I think to myself as my self-doubt starts to snowball.
I need you to know that, for me, there were actually fireworks. Not gaudy, exploding sky rockets, promising so much but merely showering the ground beneath them with a disappointing flash of spent, colourless gunpowder. Absolutely not the insipid fizz of a hand held sparkler that seems like so much fun until you realise it's over before it's even begun, and all that remains is a singed hand and an air of childish disappointment. What I mean by fireworks is that my heart now feels like a Catherine Wheel, spinning wildly and threatening to burst through my chest which feels too shallow to contain it.
How could I have imagined the intensity that existed between us? I felt deluged by a crippling and desperate desire, where I neither knew nor cared if anything else existed in the world. It didn't matter to me that we were in a public park, in broad daylight. There was just you and I, and a desperate physical need; I wanted to possess you and I wanted to be possessed.
But those sort of things do matter to you and I realise with increasing horror that you might well be affronted at my rubbish timing. It isn't even as if this is the first time that I had been caught unaware by my own spontaneity. Usually, it's harmless, and I end up with my foot in my mouth, or I make a prat of myself in public, but this is immeasurably different. I feel like things have changed for me forever, that everything I've ever dreamed of feeling about another human being is threatening to overwhelm me, physically and emotionally. And now, as I look across at you, as you glance casually in the rear view mirror, and your expression is so neutral I fear it might break my heart, I realise that, in all probability, all I've made you feel is embarrassed and desperate to escape.
A tiny voice inside me struggles to make itself heard. It pulls back on my sleeve as I march headlong toward a grim afternoon of self-admonishment. It tugs at my ponytail and, instantly, I recall the feeling of your fingers against my cheek, and I remember the slow, mesmerising insistence of your mouth on mine, Martin, your languid, sensual exploration intensifying like an irresistible, transcendent force. If you were so unwilling then how can you have just kissed me in a way that seared my soul? How can you have produced such an exhilarating moment of passion, when there was such a detonation of desire between us that I felt as if we might be forever fused together? Recalling it now makes my breath shallow and, god help me, my abdomen and pelvic floors contract like a steel trap. If my mind is faltering and unsure, my body certainly remembers how you made me feel.
I turn in my seat, so I'm almost facing you now but, even now, you don't seem to notice me as you focus on performing a rather rapid undertaking manoeuvre, sweeping around the inside of a truck, belching clouds of acrid, black smoke, that dawdles along in the outside lane. For someone who is so concerned with health and safety, you do tend to drive very quickly, continuously provoked by the alleged incompetence of the general population when they get behind the wheel of a car and, more especially, when they get in your way. I watch your face transformed by frustration and contempt, and listen as you mutter bitterly about oblivious imbeciles, and I can't help but stare incredulously at you as your force of acceleration throws me back into my seat. It's like I'm not even here.
I realise that appearing cool and composed is an integral part of who you are. As Libby pointed out, who would want a dithering, nervous surgeon anywhere near them? But she said quite a few other things that I'm now wondering, somewhat nauseously, might also have had some foundation in the truth. I hadn't wanted to hear them at the time because they didn't fit the fantasy of you that I'd created, but perhaps, like she suggested, you do have women throwing themselves at you all the time. Apparently, she said, it's not necessarily your fault, that it goes with your job, your career, your profession. She also said that I needed to be prepared that you might be a serial seducer, enjoying the challenge of the chase and quickly discarding the spoils of victory. I'd nodded, and smiled weakly, not believing it for a minute but unable to verbalise any defence of you because I knew that telling her you weren't like that would just have provoked one of her pitying frowns and yet another a condescending pat of my arm. Poor Louisa, she would have thought, poor, gauche, needy, insecure Louisa, hurtling headlong into another disastrous encounter of which I will be forced to come along afterwards and pick up all the desiccated, irreparable pieces. No wonder Libby hasn't been home for a week, she probably fears what awaits her.
God, I wish we'd never spoken of you now because her words are forcing themselves into my mind like a cold draught seeps into a warm room. Perhaps you are just a bit more blasé about this sort of thing, Martin, because probably I am just one of many. Although I almost can't bear to think about it, I must assume that you don't find willing lovers hard to come by. There's a reason they set soap operas so often in hospitals, and I've watched enough of them to know what goes on. I've seen you, albeit briefly, sweeping commandingly down the corridors at St. Mary's, a gaggle of young doctors in your thrall. I can only imagine the effect you have on your colleagues if you say their names like you say mine, if you glance at them with your soft, wide-eyed expression, especially if you cup their jaw so gently in your hands and explore their mouths like you just did mine.
It stings, but this is where I am at, rubbing salt in my own wounds, and it's just so indicative of my lack of emotional maturity really; the thought of you with anyone else makes me I feel like I've been stabbed. And now I'm also horrified at myself for allowing such painful and unfounded thoughts to undermine my joy because, of course, they just trigger a million doubts to start gnawing away at me. I glance over at you again, now desperate for some sort of sign that you feel something, anything really, but you are as impassive as ever.
Immaculate, unruffled, poised, with neither a hair out of place nor even the faintest discolouration on your brilliant white collar or cuffs. When I'd joked earlier about your suit costing six hundred quid, you hadn't corrected me. I'd plucked the figure out of thin air but, as I glance across at the way it sits on your shoulders, the way the collar and lapels lie so perfectly flat, the invisible seams and the impeccable length of the sleeves, I expect I'm not far off the mark. I recall how the fabric felt both reassuringly firm and rather silky against my bare skin, rather like you did yourself actually. I loved the cool smoothness as it brushed against my shoulders, and the way it felt beneath my caress as I slid my arms around your neck.
I wonder what my Political Science tutor would think of me now; she an arch feminist encouraging us all to smash the patriarchy, and yet here I am fantasising over the way the muscles of your chest and shoulders felt as I ran my hands over you, a little too hungrily, probably, now I think about it. That really is your fault. It also happens to be another thing that Libby said begrudgingly in your favour; that you had an amazing male energy, and I admit I hadn't really understood what she meant until that moment when you returned my hesitant kiss and then all I was aware of was the way I'd responded physically to you; unconsciously and unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. If nothing else, I have learned something profound about myself today and that is that, had we not been interrupted, I wouldn't have stopped you regardless of where were at the time. If we hadn't had been spooked by the scratching blackbird or the stray dog or the escaped puma, or whatever it was that was in the undergrowth, god knows how far I'd have gone. It's quite a confronting realisation and it hits my brain like a sudden inhalation of smelling salts.
I must have given a start because, finally, you glance at me, as cool and impassive as ever. Because everything in my life is usually the triumph of hope over experience, I can't help but give you a faltering smile, as I realise all my bravado has deserted me. Though it is an admitted affront to my ego, I must face the fact that you are clearly not feeling anything like as inflamed as I am. The traffic has begun to build and you flip the sun visor down with an irritated flourish, as the the glaring late afternoon sunlight renders the windscreen opaque. I finally find my voice and I ask you, tentatively, if you mind dropping me at my flat and you respond with what to me sounds like a slightly irritated no, and I feel an immediate flash of discomfort.
After a moment I glance at you again, and this time I notice a definite twitching of your leg, a sort of barely perceptible nervous jiggle, and I cringe as I remember your expression earlier when we both realised where my hand had ended up. It dawns on me that you might now think that I'm just shameless and that realisation has probably left you disappointed and disillusioned. I just don't know really, most men of my acquaintance would have taken it as a green light and just been totally up for it, but this was you, Martin, and I'm quickly learning that you are unlike anyone I've ever known. I just don't know what you're thinking and I feel an agony of regret because I fear that particular unknown so intently.
Suddenly you seem to realise that I'm looking at you and you clear your throat self-consciously. It's actually more than a relief to finally hear you speak.
"Umm, would you...would you like the radio on?" You ask and there's a softness in your voice that gives me hope.
"Do you mind?" I ask tentatively, feeling suddenly brighter and attempting another smile in your direction.
You don't say anything but you reach across and stab at the button on the car stereo, and it immediately lights up like the control panel on the Space Shuttle.
You glance sideways at me, nervous and unsure, like a shy child, desperate for approval; wide eyed and almost angelic and I feel like I have been winded, such is the jolt I feel under my rib cage. At this moment, any regret I feel for throwing myself at you disappears completely and I know for certain that, given the opportunity, I would do exactly the same again
"You may have to tune a station that is more to your own taste." You explain gently, and your hesitant tone is made even more endearing considering I know how much you will hate whatever I choose.
Perhaps you're not as unaffected as you appear. The subtle trembling of your leg is still noticeable and I see you surreptitiously bouncing your foot a couple of times as if to shake off your malaise. I remember how your leg felt too. The fabric of your trousers stretched tightly across your thigh was incredibly enticing and I find myself blushing at the memory, but I swear that my hand finding it's way there was just a complete accident, even though the memory of the sensation refuses to leave my head.
I also can't help but recall how you were so calm and still in response to my hesitant kiss until, suddenly, you weren't. Remembering your reaction now makes me tremble as well and, swallowing hard, I fumble awkwardly with the buttons on the stereo.
I don't actually even know if I care about listening to music to be honest. It's been an incredible day, one I can't quite process at the moment, and I start to feel that dazed sensation you get when things are just a bit overwhelming. It crosses my mind that you must be finding my silence highly unusual and I wish I were brave enough to broach any sort of conversation with you but it's as if all my cognitive abilities have evaporated. Usually, in the absence of actual topics, I can always find something to tease you about but it's almost as if things are temporarily too intense and important for such flippancy to ever be appropriate.
On reflection, I suppose we have both revealed rather a lot about ourselves today and I suspect we are both feeling a little exposed. Sitting opposite you at lunch and listening to you talk a little bit about your childhood, as if you'd been some sort of impartial observer of your own life, had saddened me. Suddenly, quite a lot of things about you made sense too. It also dawned on me that I have had a lot of preconceived notions about you, many that probably couldn't be further from the truth. In my defence, because you haven't really ever said anything much, I find myself making loads of assumptions just to fill in the gaps. I realise I'm still doing it, right now.
I try again, half-heartedly with the stereo, just to give me something to do really, and this time I manage to sort something. They're playing the Happy Monday's so I assume it's my type of station and I'm happy enough with that. I turn the volume down a notch or two, and lean back into my seat, conscious that I don't want to aggravate you. There might only be ten minutes until I am back at Graham Terrace and then I suppose either you or I will have to say something but, until then, I may as well try and regain some composure, and enjoy the ride.
Your hand still rests on your knee and I fight the urge to place my own across it. Since we first met, I've been fighting my almost irrepressible urges to touch you. I suppose that must be what they mean when they say someone is magnetic. Even today, in the little restaurant, I couldn't help reaching out to you because I think I just understood exactly how you felt. I suppose I knew then that you and I have more in common than I'd realised and I just wanted to reassure you of that. As my arm slid across the table, I was fully expecting you to flinch again but it was too late to stop myself. I seem to be really prone to acting first and thinking later where you are concerned, Martin, but I have to admit it came as a total surprise when you took my hand and interlaced your fingers with mine. I couldn't quite believe the intensity of the moment, despite neither of us uttering a word, and I'd felt almost light headed as a result. I look at your hand again but, this time, I've lost my nerve, and it remains in your lap, unmolested.
I suppose I'm realising that you are infinitely more complex than I'd naively given you credit for. You've existed in my head for so long as some sort of noble knight in shining armour, as cliched as it sounds. I always sensed a rare and fragile affinity between us and, despite my best efforts, I have found myself clinging to that, on and off, for the last six years of my life. I just knew you were special, just like I've come to realise that no one can ever measure up to you. By comparison they all just seem like flaky, shallow, pale imitations of men; intellectual pygmies, morally ambivalent and standing for nothing, existing wholly in your shadow. Looking at you now, I wonder why it's taken me this long to fully appreciate that.
On reflection, it's probably the reason you get so frustrated by just about everyone. By nature, I like to make people feel comfortable; Libby says I am what she calls 'a pleaser' and she hopes that I will soon grow out of it and learn to speak my mind with confidence. Perhaps I am predisposed by the circumstances of my childhood to want everyone to be happy, and to get along. As much as I really like a lot of things about you, I'm realising rather rapidly that you do actually always speak your mind, usually regardless of the consequences. Because your absolute honesty is something I admire, it would be hypocritical of me to find fault but I can't help but wish that sometimes you'd just temper it a bit, for the sake of other people's feelings.
For instance, today, when your friend Chris appeared, out of the blue and, instantly, I noticed your guarded exterior return despite the fact that he seemed very friendly and really rather sweet. He'd also seemed vaguely familiar and that had made me pause for a moment but, when I couldn't place him, it didn't matter really. He did seem like a nice man and it's clear that he is really fond of you, despite the fact that he didn't really receive the warmest of receptions from you. In hindsight though, watching the way Chris dealt with you was quite instructive actually because, clearly, he wasn't put out in the slightest by the terse and dismissive attitude that, I hate to say, you had assumed with him.
Outside, you told me why you had been in such a hurry to leave but, like your explanation for your dislike of Richmond Park, I'm starting to realise that what you leave out is almost more important than what you say. I'd like to try and understand you enough to ask you, and for you to trust me enough to reply, but as we drive through West London in an awkward self-conscious silence now, that sort of ideal does seem sadly unobtainable. I'm not sure entirely but it does feel that every wordless, uncommunicative moment that passes takes me further away from you. And, honestly, the worst thing about that for me is not the ache of physical separation that I would of course suffer horribly over. It's not even the fact that I'd be destined to feel the agony of deep and unrequited feelings for the rest of my life. What creases me with despair is that, today in the park, I saw a fleeting expression on your face that betrayed all your pain, and the wounded innocence I now know you carry inside you. In that instant, my heart had ached for you as a the small bewildered boy you must have been and I knew then, irrevocably, that I loved you.
I hear myself sigh as we wind our way through the back streets to Graham Terrace. I'm amazed at both your ability to remember where I live and your complete confidence in yourself to find it without even having to ask. It's yet another impressive and admirable Martin trait and, sadly, it just adds another aching layer to my current state of emotional disarray. You have delivered me safely home; we pull up on the opposite side of the street and I watch you throw the car into neutral and slowly apply the handbrake. The engine is still running and you're not looking at me, instead using your right hand to brush imaginary dust from the spotlessly clean dashboard.
As if by some strange twist of fate, I hear the distinctive twang of Johnny Marr's guitar on the radio. I know these gentle notes like the back of my hand but I sit perfectly still, listening in mesmerised silence. Less than two minutes long, even by the melancholy standards of The Smiths, it's a deeply effecting and emotional song for me, even after all these years. I steal a glance at you and I see that you are gazing at something through the window; chin up, your face expressionless, seemingly so totally disassociated with me, and the here and now that you could be a a stranger. Morrissey's voice trails off and I shift awkwardly in my seat.
"Well, thanks again." I say, giving you a quick unhappy smile, and realising that all I can hear in my voice is just an infinite sadness. I remove my seatbelt and glance over at you, surprised to note that you're now looking back at me, your eyes wrinkled with apprehension,and your brow creased with worry.
I find myself staring at you. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were as anxious and overwhelmed as me and, as we gaze hopelessly at each other, I'm surprised to feel you gently clasp my hand.
Suddenly, everything seems very still; every action profound and intense, every thought vivid and all-consuming.
In an unfamiliar voice I hear you say my name; low, croaky and hesitant and I watch, mesmerised as you close your eyes and raise my arm toward you, bending forward and pressing your lips, so softly and reverentially, to the inside of my wrist.
"Louisa." You say again, after a moment, and, this time, you sound utterly helpless.