I don’t even know what program this is. It’s on E4. I haven’t been watching much telly lately; I don’t even know what’s popular anymore. There are people talking, fighting, driving around some city or other. Probably Cardiff, it always seems to be Cardiff in the end. Cardiff tarted up to look like parts of London. Maybe it’s Bristol. I don’t know. The actors don’t look familiar to me. I missed the beginning. It could be anything. Whatever it is, you’d have hated it.
You weren’t much of a fan of the telly, really. If Mrs Hudson hadn’t already furnished the place herself, I suspect you’d not have had one at all. And that would have been too bad, really. We had some fun watching crap telly. Didn’t we? The worse it was, the more fun we had. It seems that way, anyway. In retrospect. Maybe you’d disagree.
I can smell someone’s cooking: boiled cabbage and mash, probably. A roast. Families making meals for each other. I miss you especially when I smell other people’s cooking. I don’t know why that is. I guess it reminds me that I don’t have anyone to make meals for anymore.
How maudlin. Really, John.
I know, I know.
Oh. Someone just got killed. You would not have liked this crime scene. It’s not even a four. Fingerprints, footprints, and a wallet left by the body: far too easy for you. You would have begged me to switch the channel by now.
You should. This is terrible.
I inflicted so many terrible movies on you. You complained, but you never said no when I suggested another. You never walked out. You stayed, you sat on the sofa with me. You ate popcorn, you laughed. Usually at the wrong times, but you laughed. And I laughed at you as much as at the movies. I think you enjoyed those evenings with me. I like to think you did.
I remember Goldfinger; we were sitting on the couch together, you leaning forward, looking bewildered and appalled, your elbows on your knees. And your leg was pressed against mine. I remember that.
It was such a small thing. Almost unnoticeable. Unremarkable, if you didn’t know it wouldn’t happen again. One of the many things that’s so easy to take for granted.
It was a warm point that connected us. It made me feel secure, somehow. Secured. Like you held me in place, me as some sort of helium balloon in a storm. But that’s not how it was: I was the one holding on. You were always the one on the verge of flying away. You were the one made of coffee and unpredictability. You were the one with the magic. I’m the one with feet of clay. Still here. Still stuck on the ground. I must have let go, somehow.
“Popcorn?” Apparently popcorn warrants a raised eyebrow from you. You act as if I’d brought over a bowl of eels. As if you’ve never seen a bowl of popcorn before. Honestly. You look at it skeptically, but by the end of the film you’ll have eaten most of it yourself. Sweet things and salty things; you like them both, when you bother to eat. Sweet coffee and pastries, and salted butter and popcorn. You are a creature of extremes. You deny yourself physical pleasures with people because people are too distracting, but then you inject yourself with cocaine. You were always about to fly away, weren’t you? Every moment I had you.
“It’s traditional,” I say. I put the bowl on the coffee table and grab a handful. It’s hot. Popcorn is something you’ve deleted, apparently. Strange. I never know with you. Either you’ll know too much about something, or nothing at all. It’s completely in or out with you, always. Nothing halfway.
“I see.” You reach over and take a single bit. You inspect it, then put it in your mouth. I watch your jaw flex as you chew. You act like it’s some kind of popped abomination, but you like it, I can tell. I’ll laugh about it afterwards when I dump the remaining unpopped kernels into the bin while you’re fast asleep on the sofa. You are open to experimentation, that’s certain. Everything is worth trying, at least once. If you like it, you don’t hold back. Off or on. No in between.
“All right then.”
The program I don’t recognize has a lot of sex in it. A lot. More than I thought they were allowed to show at this hour. Half-naked bodies, tongues, lips against nipples. It’s quite explicit. Not that I mind. I don’t mind. I just don’t know who any of these people are.
Your leg is pressed lightly against mine, your body heat mingles with mine. Why are we sitting so close together? I don’t know. It’s easier to see the telly this way. It’s not very big. It’s comfortable. I don’t know.
“You like the closeness.” You lean back against the couch and watch me. “It’s an excuse, isn’t it.”
An excuse? “I don’t think so. Excuse for what?”
“To touch me.”
I laugh. “I hardly need an excuse. You’re the one who takes a case and wants me to sleep with you in a dead woman’s bedroom for the experience of it. You’re the one who asks me to take your phone out of your pocket for you. You have boundary issues. Do I need an excuse to sit next to you?”
“Maybe not. Maybe it’s me looking for excuses to touch you, then.”
“Oh.” Could that be true? No. It was never like that between us. It never was. That wasn’t the way your mind worked, not when it came to me. Irene, maybe. She came the closest. I think she kissed you. She must have, when I left you alone with her. You drifted off, you were thinking. You didn’t notice me leaving. You were thinking about her, I know you were. She kissed you; did you kiss her back? Did she touch you?
“Are you jealous?” she asked me. She must have had a reason for asking.
Yes. I suppose I am. A little. It’s strange. I don’t entirely know how to make sense of that.
But it doesn’t matter: it was never going to go down that path. You weren’t interested, you would have been disappointed in me for suggesting it. If you had been interested, you would have been more obvious about it. Surely. Wouldn’t you?
“Certainly.” You shift slightly closer to me. More of your thigh pressed against mine. I remember that: yes, you did shift closer to me. I didn’t think anything of it. You were reaching for popcorn. I barely noticed. “Probably not. Why do you think I wasn’t being obvious? Sometimes I wonder if you notice anything at all.”
Well, I’ll never know the truth now, will I. In my head you only talk in riddles. My memories are too flexible to be bearers of truth. My readers onThe Strand are right: my memories make you look like you’re in love with me. Why?
“Wishful thinking.”
“Very funny.”
I hear the heavy breathing and moans from the telly. Is this a plot point, all this sex? It must be. Bloody E4. All these young girls with their tits out. Not that I mind, of course. Not at all. You just never used to see that.
You grab a handful of popcorn, and I watch the light of the telly wash all the colour out of you. Your pale face, your eyes; you become ambient blue. You were sitting here first, but when I sat down you moved a little closer to me. I’m sure of it. How did I miss that? How did I not notice?
“Is there ever a time you do notice things, John?”
Maybe you were deliberately close. Of course you were: you only do things deliberately. There are no coincidences with you. But it wasn’t like it is on E4. You weren’t after that. I’m fairly sure you weren’t. You’ve said as much.
You’re a very lonely man, I think. People need connection, physical touch. It’s not anything untoward. You are still a human being, whatever you may want other people to think of you. I know the truth. You’re not a machine. You’re more like a cat needing to be stroked; you like it when I touch your hair.
“You like it too.”
Do I? I suppose I do. It’s nice. Being able to.The way your eyes flicker shut. Pleasure on your face. I don’t know. It’s nice. What? Is that strange?
“You should have kissed me.” Goldfinger theme music is playing in the background.
“What? Why?”
“Because you wanted to.” Did I? I don’t remember that. You pick up the remote control and turn the volume down a little. That’s a real memory, not an altered one; you didn’t like the music. Too discordant, you said. Bad audio quality. It’s like a screeching harpy in a thunderstorm. I laughed; I laughed a lot with you. I haven’t laughed in months.
“You could kiss me now.”
I could. You’re looking at me instead of the telly. My face must be blue as well. The weird glow is changing everything, making it different than it actually was. A different perspective, a different outcome.
Did you watch me instead of the telly? While we were watching Goldfinger? I think you did. I switched off most of the lights, it was dark. Your face was in shadow. Just the blue glow. You watched me watch Goldfinger, your leg pressed against mine. Why?
Did I want to kiss you then? I don’t know. My memory of that night feels perfect: the movie, the popcorn, you making ridiculous deductions about fictional characters, me laughing at you. You laughing too. It was nice. Your leg was pressed against mine the whole night. Did you want me to kiss you?
“You saw,” you whisper in my ear. “But you did not observe, John.”
“No,” I say. It’s true. “I suppose I didn’t.”
It’s easy to imagine: maybe it’s easy because you’re dead. You don’t have a say in this. It doesn’t take much. Just turn a little, put my hand on your jaw. You lean forward, and that’s it. A kiss. God.
Your lips would have had a bit of butter and salt on them. You would have tasted like popcorn. Have you ever kissed anyone before? You must have. You must know how it’s done. I’m not sure; I don’t know. It might have been awkward. You might have resisted, or pushed me away, or mocked me. Or you might have sat stock still and let me kiss you. You might have learned as you went. You might have grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me back, all teeth and a salty tongue. You might have overwhelmed me. It’s hard to say. I didn’t kiss you then. I never kissed you.
It didn’t occur to me.
“That’s a lie.” You breathe into my ear, your hands gripping at the back of my jumper. “It occurred to you so many times.”
Well, all right. Once in a while, sure. When you crawl into my bed in the mornings. When you tell me you’d die before you let anything happen to me, your wrist pressed against my hip. When you have your hand on my neck, your breath against my face, reading over my shoulder. Once in a while. That’s just human nature. That’s just reactions. They don’t mean anything.
The program ends, and another begins. Some American comedy. I let it run, I just stare at it. None of it is sinking in. I’m still half in the dark with you, on a different sofa, your hand resting on my back, under the waistband of my jeans. What does this mean? It’s a warm place in the middle of the winter; I’m drawn to it. It’s not right. It didn’t happen this way. I miss you so much.
Did I want you then? Do I want you now?
No. Of course not. Wait: maybe. I don’t know. I can’t deny my own reaction to this. I can’t deny that. How long has this been going on? It doesn’t matter anymore: you’re gone. There’s no place for this.
Were you waiting for me to figure it out? Did you want this?
“No, not at all,” you say against my lips. “Of course not. Yes, of course I did. Obviously.”
Always riddles with you now.
You’re tucked into my bed with me, I’ve got my fingers in your hair. Your eyes flicker shut. Bringing you pleasure sends a ripple of pleasure through me. I should have noticed that. I should have seen what that meant. You’re warm; you’ve got a fever.
“Heal me,” you say. Not petulant this time; just a simple request. As if I could do that. I could keep this body here, keep it warm and safe, keep it away from Bart’s, from rooftops, from falls from a great height. I could kiss you and shelter you from what I know will happen. The sheet comes loose so easily, and you are never-ending skin. I can kiss you here, because it’s not real. It’s only a fantasy. It doesn’t mean anything.
You in a sheet and nothing else. Not even pants, I discovered later. Nothing at all. You got into bed with me, without any clothes, with no pants on, and I took your temperature. I stroked your hair. And I have to admit that I thought about it then, one little thought in the back of my mind. I thought about what it might be like: construction equipment. All bony elbows and knees, teeth and impossibility. Salty lips and urgency, your whole body demanding my attention. It would be strange, it would be ridiculous. It would be awkward and probably uncomfortable. You would be a bit of a disaster at it, wouldn’t you? I thought about it, I admit that. But it was verboten. You were off-limits, I would have been a trespasser there.
“I’m not a piece of property, John.”
“No, I suppose you’re not.”
“I’m not construction equipment.” I can feel the warmth of you.
“No, you’re not.”
There’s an invitation in this. There’s a fantasy here unlike any I’ve ever had. Is it appealing because it’s forbidden? Is it appealing because you’re gone and my life is upside down? Is it a way to snatch you back? Or is it appealing because I wanted this all along? I don’t know. I run my fingers along your spine. You move closer to me. You did that: in my bed, that morning, you moved closer. For warmth. Like a reptile moving into a bit of sunshine. I didn’t think anything of it. Was it an invitation then?
Was I sunshine to you? Did I read everything wrong? What am I supposed to do with this? I can’t have you. I don’t know what I’d do with you if I could. This isn’t what my life is like. It doesn’t make sense.
When did you change from being my best friend to being my biggest temptation? Is this a natural part of the grieving process? Is this an identity crisis, or were you my one exception? Your brain, your soul: it is so powerfully attractive to me, you are so powerfully attractive to me, I would find you attractive in any form you happened to take. I can’t deny that. Not now. The evidence is quite evident.
I switch off the telly. I’m not paying attention to it anyway.
I didn’t unwrap you from that sheet in my memory; that’s just fantasy. I need to keep these things separate.
“I’ll make you some tea.” That’s what I said. That’s what I’ll always say. I got out of bed. I left you there. So that’s what I do. I put my feet on the floor. It’s cold. You’re so warm. This is the hardest thing I’ll ever do.
“This isn’t fair.” That’s what you said then. And that’s what you say now.
No. It isn’t. It isn’t fair at all.