The door closes behind him. Her skin is still warm. His retreating footsteps beat a rhythm and she sings to it softly, tracing a line from hip to breast with her fingertips. His favorite bit of her, he says.
Brief, fleeting, fervent, she loves him in three hour intervals that begin and end with the rhythm of steps. In one direction and then in the other. He is not like the rest.
Tonight was not unexpected. Tomorrow it will not be forgotten.
But this is what they said they wanted — a life free of obligation, of repetition, of confinement. They make time for one another, but never a plan. Theirs is a desire born of those forced apart by time, by distance. By mutual fear. Extraordinary selfishness.
Freedom is her drug. She craves the weight of amorous eyes and revels in the knowledge that she is bound neither by her passions nor her ability to fulfill them.
She won’t be owned. He needs no possessions.
In these quiet moments, when his steps have faded and taken with them his flavor and his scent, she wonders, “What if…?”
But only for a moment. Only until he has left her completely. And she goes on.
What happens when one opts out of reproduction and throws herself into self-absorbed hedonism? They pack their cigarettes, thigh highs and trench coat and head for London town. These are the stories of the Barreness, our London correspondent. This piece was originally posted on her blog. Image based on a picture by Anirudh Koul.