Eyes closed.
A staccato drumbeat of heavy rain over the taut fabric of a sheltering umbrella. Waves of white noise, tyres on wet tarmac, sweep left and right. A dull, musty yet sharp-edged smell of wet city. Chill raindrops sprinkle over skin exposed below the knee. The sore ache of feet and toes bound tightly in leather, lifted on unfamiliar heels. Cool, silky smoothness of my long coat's lining wrapping my bare skin beneath. Flutter of a racing heartbeat.
And something else.
Something conspicuously unfamiliar and new. Something light, cool, barely there, encircling my ankle, placed there by my loving husband, John, only an hour ago. I remember that moment, its significance and meaning. Heart heavy, bitter sorrow surges again in my chest.
Smiles and tears at our parting. An emotional wrench to turn and walk away.
I catch a sob and, with conscious effort, suppress it beneath a swell of nervous anticipation.
There was the long bus ride into the city, self-conscious of my attire among fellow passengers, anxious of premature discovery. The short walk through bustling, rain-drenched streets. I yearned to blend in. Each step was a new experience of stiletto heel strike, adjusted gait and hip sway, and momentum to unbridled breasts that risked unwanted attention.
And here I am.
Eyes open.
He's there, just as he said he would be. Through the cafe window, he raises a cup, sips, and turns the page of a newspaper. Something deep inside is urging me to cross the street to him. And yet, legs resist moving a body heavy with guilt. Puzzled, I look down at them.
Emotions spin and tumble like the autumn leaves caught in the swirls and eddies of rainwater flowing around my feet. My husband - my love - the centre of my life, and... This man. This opportunity to fulfil needs so long neglected.
Inertia quashed, rivulets trail across the floor from the cafe door to where I stand before him, coat and folded umbrella dripping, smile anxious and uncertain. He looks up. A welcoming smile dawns. He stands, offering a hand. We shake gently but firmly, and raindrops scatter from my sleeve across the table and his newspaper. Embarrassed, I laugh self-consciously. His laugh is warm, genuine amusement and he gestures to the seat across from him.
His consideration and empathy are notable: No intrusive invasion of body space with stilted hug or awkward air kiss, no showy, old-school chivalry with a chair, just that genuinely friendly handshake and invitation to join him at his table for two. And his glance - that seemed to try to take in my whole body - gives me a warm, tingly feeling.
We exchange pleasantries. He asks what I'd like to drink and steps over to the barista's counter to place the order. I watch the hazy to-and-fro of headlamps and brake lights through the window's growing condensation. The warm, bright interior contrasts sharply with the cold, grey, darkening day outside. A chill of doubt sweeps into my troubled mind. He returns with fresh, steaming cups. The first sip of hot, sweet flavour and his smile warms away the chill and the cold, grey mood. At least for the moment.
He's about the same height as John, I think. He's smart-casual today: an expensive linen open-necked shirt, designer jeans and tan leather shoes over a slim and healthy frame. He could be John's twin, an impression that's both disarmingly comforting and yet unsettling.
The air is filled with cafe chatter and barista shouts, punctuated by the frothy snarl of the hard-working coffee machine.
"I'm delighted you decided to come," he begins, his voice quiet, calming, and deeply resonant. There's an awkward pause as I stir my coffee, staring thoughtfully into the briefly rippling latte foam. He continues, "But naturally, I'm curious. What helped you to decide?"
"John trusts you."
"Thank you," he smiles. "That really means a lot to me." A thoughtful pause. "And what about you? How do you feel about us meeting today?"
His dark eyes convey a softness and kindness reflecting genuine concern.
"I... I don't know." I can feel him watching me intently, looking for some clue, some revealing truth. "I honestly feel a confused mess inside. So many feelings, so many things spinning through my head. They're difficult to untangle."
He thinks for a moment then says, "So let's see if we can find out where we're starting." He turns toward the cafe window and draws three cartoon faces in the condensation with a finger: a sad face, a neutral face and a smiley face spaced along an imaginary line. "So if this was a scale from sad and upset to happy and excited, where do you think your feelings are right now?"
Impulsively, I draw an 'x' between the neutral and happy faces.
"Thank goodness," he chuckles. "But let's make sure of something really important." He pauses to sip his coffee, choosing his words. "You and John mean a lot to me." He reaches across the table and places his hand lightly over mine, looking serious. "If there's anything today - anything at all - that makes you feel bad, or upset, or in any way concerned, then you say 'stop' and we stop. Okay?"
I nodded. Some anxiety lifted a little and I smiled.
"And it goes without saying that if I feel something's wrong, I'm going to do the same." He looks cautiously at me and continues, "Remember, I've not done anything like this before either."
We laugh together, nervously. And our quiet laughter rings out, unintentionally: it lands into one of those strange instants of silence that suddenly descended, as though a hundred unrelated cafe conversations have simultaneously arrived at the same pause. In that moment, I feel very uncomfortable, conspicuous and exposed as eyes turn towards us. The feeling persists even though chatter gradually returns.
"Hungry?" he asks. I shake my head. "Me neither," he continues. "I feel like I've swallowed a bucketful of live butterflies."
I smile. "Good to know that we feel the same."
After pausing again he continues, "I think we have a lot to talk about. How about we go somewhere a little more private to catch up?"
"Go where?"
"Perhaps my hotel?" he ventures. Then, spotting my wry smile quickly adds, "Don't worry, they have a big lounge area next to the lobby. Big picture windows overlooking the sea: sofas, dusty fake plants - you know the sort of thing."
We chuckle together, gather our belongings and leave.
It's still pouring. We hug together under my umbrella. His arm around me feels strong, firm, yet friendly, not possessive. Away from the coffee-infused cafe air and tucked in close, I catch the scent of something. He's wearing John's cologne. That's thoughtful of him.
It's a short walk through torrential, blustery rain to his boutique hotel on the seafront. As we approach the foot of the steps something compels me to stop. I stare up at the heavy, panelled door framed by ornate carved stone columns. Looking up, the building's Georgian facade looms under scudding dark grey rain clouds. Second thoughts course through my mind.
"Is something wrong?" He asks, clearly concerned.
"No... It's just..."
Patiently, he asks, "Would you prefer we go back to the cafe?"
"No. No, I..."
He turns to face me, his expression a curious mix of empathy and a little mischief. Holding my fingers gently - not my hand, just my fingertips - he takes a step backward toward the door, out of the shelter of the umbrella into the pouring rain. His arm is outstretched inviting me to follow. "Come inside and let's make those sofas in the lobby wet," he smiles. His hold on my fingertips is so weak that I could just shake him off and be free to turn and walk away, walk back to the bus, home and John. But I don't. There's something compelling about that delicate connection, his empathy, his sincerity to offer that choice. Almost without being aware of the decision I grip his hand and we hurry up the steps together and through the heavy door.
I sit on a large Chesterfield sofa in the lounge bar, surrounded by pots of those dusty plastic plants and muted decor hues. Cheesy bossa nova jazz quietly drifts in the warm air adding to the cliche'd environment. Blustery raindrops rattle across the bay window through which I stare, watching surging storm waves crashing over the beach.
Bringing two more coffees from the bar, he sits next to me and asks, "Don't you want to take that soaking coat off?"
I shake my head.
"Oh." He looks concerned. "Keeping your options open for a quick escape, I suppose."
He's right, in a way. That's partially true. But he's not aware of my secret immodesty. I feel a warm flush cross my face and another flutter in my chest, suddenly very self-conscious. But dressing as I have is the only way of ensuring that, if I choose to, my commitment would be decisive and clear with no risk of second thoughts.
We sit in an awkward silence for a moment, sipping the hot coffee. It's terrible. But at least it's hot. He's visibly shivering, wet shirt and jeans clinging, his dripping jacket discarded over the arm of the sofa creating a small puddle on the floor.
"Look," he begins, reluctantly, "I know we haven't had a chance to talk yet, but I really need to go and get changed out of these wet things." He looks into my eyes intently. "I'm really hoping that you'll still be here when I get back. But if you're not... It's okay. I'll understand."
With an uncertain smile, he stands and hurries out of the lounge.
Oh God! I really don't want to be alone. Not here. Not now. Being alone means I'll start thinking and... I don't want to do that. Uncertainty, guilt and shame wash in; an urge to flee home is only barely suppressed. I need to be reassured, guided, to be kept moving with momentum. I'm suddenly aware of wet cheeks. Not rain, tears. Emotions are as turbulent as the storm-roughed sea outside. A sharp, painful sob catches high in my chest. Oh, John...
"Thank you." He's smiling; fresh shirt, dry jeans, walking confidently toward me. "I'm so glad you..." His smile fades quickly as he sees my sorrow. He sits next to me, takes my hand. "Look, I know I have poor taste, but I didn't expect you to look at this shirt and cry!"
Sorrow punctured, we laugh, mood yanked suddenly upward again as he pulls me from chill waters. It's that strange, half laugh, half sob moment when you feel so ridiculously mixed up.
His smile fades to kind concern. "I'm sorry. I appreciate something is upsetting you. I can call you a cab if you want to..."
"No." I interrupt him. "No. I need to talk with you." I hastily wipe away tears, sniffing. Another conscious effort to recover and focus. His warm smile eases the effort. I continue, "We both know why we're here."
"Because John feels that you're unhappy."
"Yes."
"And he thinks that I can help with that."
I nod, hesitantly, my smile uncertain.
He continues, "But the important thing is - how do you feel about that?"
"I feel..." I'm struggling to find words. The empty place in my soul feels suddenly raw. "I feel... incomplete." He looks puzzled, so I continue. "I'm intensely, deeply in love with John." I close my eyes, recalling last night. "I love to feel his warm skin against mine, his tender touch. I feel safe and loved. He smells of love!" I giggle, realising how ridiculous that sounds, but it's true. "His kisses are delicious. They melt me..." I realise that I'm staring out of the window at the turbulent rising tide, and turn back to face him. "But I also feel... incomplete."
He's smiling, not pitifully but kindly with attractive wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. My God those eyes! Like John's they're so deep, dark, intense - they reach into my soul! A warm tingling betrays something deeply hidden.
I continue, quietly. "John understands how I feel, although we've never spoken about it. When we're together, close, I feel his intense frustration and sadness. He sees mine. He can't... Not any more. It's so awful for him. And he loves me so much." The words catch in my throat, tears welling. "So he suggested that I meet with you. To see if you could... To have a chance to feel..."
I tumble over the edge and tears flow. My chest and throat ache, filled with grief for John. 'In sickness and in health. Forsaking all others...' The words echo in my mind. My craving for fulfilment claws and tugs at my honour and integrity as a shameful betrayal. And yet, John has shown such incredible strength and courage. His solemn understanding and acceptance, of his frailty. His loving gift: the offer to feel complete again, without him.
My thoughts are pulled back to the here and now as this man leans forward and wraps me in his arms, drawing me to him. I weep into his shoulder. He holds me, firmly, silently, allowing my deep sorrow to run its course. I feel him tremor, a splash on my neck, and realise that he's weeping, too.
I lose track of time.
Eventually, there's a strange feeling of hollow emptiness inside and I can cry no more. With monumental effort, I drag myself into some semblance of composure, sitting up and wiping my face on a napkin. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to..."
"No," he interrupts, offering me a tissue. "You have absolutely nothing at all to be sorry about. You're an incredible woman. You're deeply in love with John and you care about him so much." He reaches forward, taking my hands in his. The tenderness of that simple contact makes me shiver. "Listen. You have no idea how humbled I felt when John explained and asked me to meet with you. And I have absolutely no idea if - or how - this is going to work out. But I do know that you both mean a lot to me. And you, in particular - I've always had a soft spot for you." He hesitates, looking away wistfully for a moment and I sense something, a reluctance. "Look, since my Jenny passed... There has never been another." He sighs deeply and looks into my eyes again, "I'm feeling pretty incomplete, too."
Although his tone is calm and understanding, his words hit home hard. I'm shocked by my crass, selfish focus. Damn my foolish ignorance! Why hadn't I thought of Jenny?
"Oh God! I'm so sorry! I didn't..."
"I know. It's okay," he interrupts, quietly. Those kind, intensely dark eyes smile again, although with a clear sadness. "Listen," he continues, "You know her. You know how close we were with you and John. I think she'd be happy that, whatever happens today, that we tried to help each other."