I have been with my boyfriend Brad for six months, and he is almost perfect. 

I am in love with his body and all its senses – its taste and its smell and how it tenses when we fuck. But deeper than that: Brad is interested in what I say, and makes me laugh and puts his hand in mine without being asked. If anything, I am envious of his thoughtfulness, his gentleness, and his unpredictability; how he goes from soft to hard – a lights-on suddenness. I love his kisses: his lips press and suggest as much as demand. I never want them to end. Beyond a certain point, the minutes run into each other.

We shared our Christmas presents yesterday. I gave him an antique wristwatch from the 1950s. Not expensive, but pretty. He wound it and held it to his ear. “Like the beating of our hearts, in bed, afterwards,” he said. His way with words, I like that too. 

He handed me my present: a pair of pearl drop earrings, beautiful and delicate. I tenderly lifted one between thumb and forefinger, and studied it with a jeweller’s intensity.

“You know,” I grinned, “what it reminds me of?”

“No,” Brad began. But after a second he reddened.

I pressed my forehead to him; my fingers tickled the nape of his neck, my lips as close to his ear as his wristwatch had been. “You do, don’t you?”

My tongue went inside his ear, licking like a pendulum, before I pulled away.

“After you’ve come,” I said. “You know – when I jerk you? What’s left on my fingers. Or when I suck you and you pull out. The mess on my chin. The little pearls of you.”

I put the earring to my lips to illustrate.

“Jesus, Amy,” he says. “You have some mind.”

I said, “Didn’t you think it too?”

He laughed.

Like I said, almost perfect.

-x-

I’m wearing the earrings now, because Brad has asked me to his parents’ and I still try to impress them. I’ve tied my hair into a tail and wear a half-sleeve cashmere sweater and a mid-length pleated skirt.

It is all presentation: inside the rucksack I’ve brought with me, black leggings and a navy T-shirt lie folded, ready for the supermarket shift I’ll begin in an hour or so.

The four of us sit around a table, and as always conversation is difficult. Brad’s father – who has his son’s eyes and who eats with a gloomy, distracted indifference – hardly speaks. His mother, tall and hawk-like, can’t bear to look at me. Brad is a different person: all deference. He’s not wearing his wristwatch.

I have imagined every reason why Brad's parents don’t approve of me: I interfere with his medical studies. I am eighteen to his twenty-three. I am stupid. Not beautiful enough. Work in a supermarket. All guesses, and Brad says none of them could be true. But I wish he'd ask.

When Brad’s mother finally speaks to me, towards the end of the meal, her voice drips with distaste. 

“And how are you keeping, Lisa?” she says, examining the wine bottle.

“Amy,” I say, and smile as if it doesn’t matter.

“I do apologise. I get Brad’s friends mixed up. All so alike.”

I glance across to Brad, but he’s still chewing.

His mother continues prodding the last of her meal. “And your family, Amy. Do they keep well?”

“It’s just my mother and me. But we’re fine, thanks.”

“Of course,” Brad’s mother nods. “Brad told me that your father absconded. How wretched for your mother.” She carefully prods a final forkful and lifts it towards her mouth, then pauses.

“Of course, some women are attracted to that type.” She clatters her knife and fork together in the centre of her plate.

I ask to be excused. “I have to get changed. Work to go to.”

"Oh yes,” Brad’s mother says, nodding towards her husband. “Robert thinks he saw you in the supermarket the other day, but wasn’t sure. Stacking shelves, wasn’t it?”

I grab my rucksack and stand.

"Take your choice of bathroom,” Brad’s mother waves airily. “The one by the stairs has a big mirror. You’ll prefer that.”

In the bathroom I lock the door behind me. I lean over the basin and rest my head against the mirror beyond and mouth a swear word.

I take off my earrings and lay them to the side. I pull my sweater over my head, slip my skirt down and as I stare into the mirror and wonder if anybody notices me, I hear footsteps outside the door. The door handle rattles briefly. If it’s Brad coming to see if I’m okay, he can wait.

But the door lurches open inwards. I turn, and it’s Brad’s father standing halfway through the doorway.

Neither of us moves. We look at each other.

“You didn’t,” he says, still fiddling with the handle, “lock the door.”

“I did.”

“Oh.” He is immovable and gulping. “It – sometimes – it doesn’t catch right.”

He continues to stare, slack-jawed, at the length of my legs, then a hesitating glance at my crotch, my bellybutton and finally the whiteness of my bra. He clears his throat and places his hand over his groin, as if he’s protecting something. He cannot look away. A calm descends on me. 

I lift my hand to delicately brush the strap of my bra off my shoulder. I feel the immediate slackening. The cup falls forward and my nipple, pink and erect, peeps out above it. Brad's father licks his lips. I hear his breathing.

"Maybe you'll notice me now," I say.

With my other hand I reach to pick up my earrings and put them in. “Brad just bought me these," I say.

Brad's father's gaze leaves my nipple and stutters towards them. “He did?”

I nod. “Know what they remind me of?”

He shakes his head. But he blushes, just like his son.