I can’t remember when it happened but there came a time in my life when I felt a continuous numbness. A nothingness. I didn’t live, I existed. Everything I did was ‘in the moment’. Nothing to look forward to and nothing excited me. Sex was boring, normal, casual and consisted of one-night stands. Maybe it was the conversation that accompanied the sex, I don’t know.
I used to frequent pubs that were classy and where you hoped to meet some high-flying executive that could shower you with presents but now, I prefer the normal pubs where you meet everyday sort of people. People that want to talk to you and not just look down your cleavage or up your skirt. I don’t even dress for the occasion anymore. I wear jumpers, jeans and boots; a far cry from my previous life. A life that made me boring.
Not anymore.
Not since he spoke to me.
I remember the day vividly. I had just entered a cosy pub; outside was the bitterly cold London fog that caught your breath. The snow was falling and the warmth of the pub was welcoming because for some strange reason I had chosen to wear a long skirt and boots to go out and get some much-needed vegetables. I headed for my usual seat and found that it was taken and so I ended up sitting on a high stool by the bar with my back to the wall, I loosened my bomber jacket but kept it on until I warmed up. I ordered a beer and a coffee; the latter to warm me up, the former to keep me going. I reached out for the newspaper that lay next to him.
He watched me and I thought he was going to stop me from taking it, but he just watched my hand slid it towards me. I looked up into his eyes but ended up looking away when his steely blue eyes pierced me. In that instant, I had already felt inferior to him, an amoeba that could read or an educated piece of dirt that had scraped off the underside of his posh shoes. He looked out of place in this part of London. If I hadn’t had known better, I could have sworn he turned his nose up at my presence; sniffing the air as if to determine the direction of an unsavoury smell.
I had only opened the paper to page two when he turned to look at me. I busied myself by pretending to read but I could see him staring at me, tilting his head to one side and then the other; like he was studying me or reading the front-page headlines from the other direction. His actions annoyed me and I eventually looked over the top of the newspaper into his eyes; an attempt to tell him to fuck off more than an attempt at engaging him in conversation.
I was shocked when his outstretched hand ended up inches from the newspaper, accompanied by, “Hi, my names Jeff,” he had said.
His words were light and soft. I hadn’t taken his hand and I just looked at it dumbfounded.
“Your name’s Anna, right?” he had asked.
My mouth fell open and I looked at him like I was a goldfish in a straight-jacket. For some reason, I glanced from one side of me to the other before looking back into his eyes. He smiled. I had expected someone from the pub to start smiling, hinting that it was all a setup, a practical joke. It didn’t seem to be.
He tilted his head and jabbed his hand a little closer.
I looked in the direction of the barman, Steve, but he was busy serving another customer at the other end of the bar. I took his hand and shook it; feeling a little uncertain. I smiled, hesitantly. “How do you know my name?” I had asked.
He just smiled. His gaze fell onto my pint glass, before settling back on my eyes. I glanced in his direction and there it was, my fucking name on the side of the pint glass that I had been given by my last boyfriend Steve. I felt stupid but I had to grin and ended up biting the side of my lip.
“You look lovely when you smile,” he had said.
I nodded, I knew I looked lovely when I smiled. Everyone had always told me that.
“Thank you,” I had said. I had to reply, it would have been impolite if I had not; actually, it would have been downright rude in my book.
“Your dimples compliment your freckles and they wander across your nose like – like they’re on an erotic journey of some kind,” he had continued.
My mouth dropped open once more and I thought, what the fuck is he on? But his words, the words he chose to use resonated with me. Only one person had ever used the fact that my dimples complimented my freckles and he was an old schoolboy romance and his name wasn’t Jeff and he wouldn’t be dressed like Jeff was dressed.
I think I blushed at his words because I had always been self-conscious about my train of freckles. Without waiting for my response, he continued.
“I bet – ” he paused for effect, “that you also have freckles that start at the small of your back, tiny ones, and I bet they get larger and split in two as they sweep over your shoulder blades, and I bet they like to get kissed, each one in turn. One after the other.”
Fuck, he was forward, but he was right, I did have freckles on my back that blossomed over my shoulders and they did like to get kissed one after each other. I reckoned it was an educated guess on his part.
I suddenly realised that he had me smiling. I rarely smile these days. I was not only smiling with my lips but with my eyes too. I was impressed and the only thing I could think of was, keep going.
“I would imagine, and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong…” he had said, and I nodded in anticipation at telling him that he would be wrong. It’s funny, but those words correct me if I am wrong always grabs my attention.
“That when you’re touched down the side of your waist, by slowly caressing fingertips, soft fingertips that is, that you giggle and squirm but eventually you learn to control the feeling. Capture it, play with it, and then turn it inwards to your advantage.”
I sat there, looking at him. I imagined that his fingertips would be soft; he didn’t look like he had done a hard day’s work in his life. The newspaper had fallen out of my hands to rest on the bar. I picked up my drink and took a long hard squig of beer. The coffee had gone cold but I didn’t need it anymore, my body had been warmed through by his words.
I bit my lip, I couldn’t counter his argument and I listened to him until such a time as I could correct him. My silence allowed him to proceed like it was a game, each statement allowed him to proceed to the next until he got something wrong.
“I would also imagine,” he continued, “that you have sensitive skin.” That was par for the course, I thought, who doesn’t have sensitive skin.
“And that your skin responds quickly to sensitive touches. Especially your small breasts, with their puffy pink nipples sitting atop them, that grow to be an inch long when aroused.”