Aha, you got my note. Yes. I tap my pocket. Well we’re flower-arranging. She is in the shorts again. A shirt too, although different, not one I have seen before. The cotton rougher. We greet each other as we always have. At a distance. I want to move closer to her but don’t. Here, so the plan is, arrange these in the larger ones, you see. Along the far walls of the church, underneath the stained-glass windows, are large brass vases. What is it for? A wedding, there will be a wedding, tomorrow. Who? Who is getting married? Oh somebody, I don’t know, the vicar asked if I would sort the flowers, we have flowers in excess, I underestimated the job of course and thought you’d be able to help. I play dumb and fold my arms. You know this isn’t my skillset. Oh I know. A flicker across her face, she reaches into my ribs. They give her these jobs to ensure she feels important. She knows it, I know it. No doubt her husband’s idea, delivered to her by the vicar.

  It won’t take much arranging. I reach out and touch a rose now, peach, perhaps the variety the history teacher obsessed over. How so? Well they’re all roses, won’t they all just look fine together, doesn’t matter how we arrange them. That’s not quite true, there’s a certain art. Is this the author’s? To avoid the thorns I hook my fingers under the rose’s head and lift it free. That? No, I’m not sure I’d want her rose growing in my garden. Why not? I don’t know, it’s named after her skin, only men abide that sort of morbidity, or worse, think it’s romantic. She walks towards a pew and sits. I look closely at the colour of the rose between my fingers. I find it vaguely horrible, as all roses are vaguely horrible, love’s caricatures. I’m with you. Lightning. Thunder goes again. We are quiet underneath it.

  Moody out there. It’s nice. You like a storm? I don’t think it’s quite a storm, not yet, no rain. No wind either. A bloated stillness. The stained glass is stern in the failing light. The eyes of the saints cannot be seen. It is encouraging. I don’t mind a storm, I hope the weather doesn’t change, this weather has been a blessing. A blessing? Oh you know what I mean, if not, I mean it does change, this wedding will be a wash-out. She gets up again, wiping the backs of her thighs, moving towards me. They asked for roses? No but they will get what they’re given. I’ve not seen roses in church before. She doesn’t answer, perhaps she didn’t hear, she lifts two buckets then places them both back down again. You know, we need more light, I wonder where the light switches are. I follow her towards the back, near the room where The Girls ring the bells. She runs her hand along the wall.

  Perhaps in here. Beside the bell room is another door. She explains as she moves. The vestry, this is the vestry, where the vicar sweats it out. A desk. Two sets of robes on wire hangers. One embellished, red and gold. At his desk are two Bibles, bright Post-its growing out of each like weeds. There are handwritten notes. Sentences aggressively underlined. Two empty plastic bottles of water. Three dirty coffee mugs. Ah, here. She flicks each switch. Bulbs flare above the pews, brighter nearer the organ. Each archway has its own spotlight, a heavenly slight, as if the congregation might only be inches away from ascending.

  I stand next to her. She darts away, suddenly remembering my question, suddenly remembering my body. Roses aren’t so strange in churches, it’s associated with miracle, with miracles, it could be a miracle, the rose. How so? Oh I can’t recall the precise details, from memory I think various people slipped bread to starving Christians and when they were caught the stolen bread turned into roses. Handy. Yes, handy, and there was a saint, I can’t remember her name, you wouldn’t find her on stained glass, her dead body apparently smelled like roses when the tombstone was lifted. What were they doing lifting her tombstone? Hoping for a miracle, of course. Makes sense, what else could smell like death but roses. She smiles. I think of eating a rose, whole, a bud. Biting through the clutched petals as if it were a loaf’s heel.

  Do you believe in God? What a question! I lift one of the Bibles from the vicar’s desk. Do you? No, but I get it, I get why God works for some people. I try to read the vicar’s notes. His handwriting is minuscule, littered with exclamation marks. Why, what do you get, what is it about God that you get? You haven’t answered the question. I haven’t, have I. She sighs. No, yes, no, who cares, I rather like the look of God, well Jesus anyway, he has a charming aesthetic, that’s the whole idea, isn’t it? You know I’m not sure that’s yours to read. She nods at the Bible. I don’t put it down. Aren’t you interested? To see how a man of God thinks? I want to seem coy, intellectual. We know how he thinks, we listen to him three times a week. She reaches up and tries to loosen the Bible from my fist. It is playful, she is forced closer. Both of us have been looking for a way in. She does not let go, leans forward first, or we lean forward together, my memory has no chance, later I will be desperate to remember. It will fail me.

  She brings her hand to my throat, sliding up my neck, gripping below my jaw. Soft, but she threatens to tighten. The pressure of our mouths is not enough. Her desire is equal to mine, she shocks me. I thought I was alone, that I had lured her in, mistakenly assumed a passivity. Instead it is me she takes, in the half-light, the bright robes catching the edge of my vision. Her fingers at the base of my skull, pushing me harder, the full expression of her want. I stumble backwards. She moves with me. Her tongue so close to mine I almost choke. She whimpers. I open my mouth wider. Let her flex in and out, she starts her fucking here. Wraps a leg around mine and squeezes, my knee buckles. There is still enough storm outside. Static, peals of thunder. How she shocks me, stealing my breath. Her hand moves from my throat. She pulls back and forth between my legs. I did not think it would be so easy to submit. I did not know it was something I wanted. My body positions itself gratefully. For once I move before I think. Knees apart. Wrap my hand around her forearm. I release her, crack my chest, spread my arms wide across the desk, not yet touching her. Hips tilted, shoulders rolled back. She is encouraged. Comes to me. The electricity of a zipper undone.

  At first I can’t translate her whispers. Then I hear: yes yes yes. Not only said to me, but to herself, she creates a chorus. An expertise to her movements. She pushes inside me. More, I want more, it is not like me to want more. My hand back around her forearm. I hold harder. The widening ache of her fingers. More, I say again, more. I feel the bump of her knuckles. I take her other hand and push it flat against my chest. She wants my clothes off. I can’t, not now. The binder is a protective layer. Her palm flattens against me and moves across the fabric like water. She lets me keep it on, keep on the t-shirt. Doesn’t yet ask why I won’t undress. I know the questions will come, I am able to savour this moment, to live in the time before. Her fingers can’t move as deep as she wants. Move, get on the floor. I don’t respond quick enough. Please, get on the floor. Please. I shift downwards. On my knees I lean back, pause, try to adjust the rise of my jeans, she doesn’t let me, forcing me flat, guiding the back of my head so it does not collide with stone. Returns her hand to my chest. Her stroke, the pressure of a river. She comforts me as she thrusts, arching her back with each movement, her heat against my stomach. Is this OK? Yes. The size and shape of her. Three fingers, four.

  I am close, I don’t know how to come like this, I will learn. I pull her hand free and finish myself. She watches. Eyes circling my throat. Now I happen through her gaze. A heap of knuckles. I reach up and lick the sweat from her neck, behind her ear. All I have is the arch of her back. I try not to overthink her pleasure. Her finger against my lips. Silence has such a violent quality. This is what she wants, the violent quality. I steady my breath. The church hums, desperate for noise, for our noise. She presses her hips into mine. The humming lifts an octave, it becomes high-pitched, frustrated at our pinched breath, the hairs on end, the prickling skin. I lift her up, we switch, she opens to me. My tongue between her legs now, honeyed, large. I fuck her like this, with my tongue, until I am dizzy. Mouth swollen, muscles swollen. Hold her thighs. My knees purpling against the stone floor. She tightens around me. The silence has ended. I wait on all fours. She wipes my chin, my nose, with her thumb. Places her thumb in her mouth.

  Standing, she warms my hands between hers. My mind gone weak. I don’t want to return to it, my thinking. She speaks, her breath still heavy. Did you know? I can’t answer. There is a chance I will cry, what I suspected but had not yet experienced, that sex can transform faster, harder, than anything else, the sensation still moving through my body. The moment I start to think, the moment I answer her, I will abandon the transformation. I don’t understand how to hold on to it, how to carry it forward. My reaction will frighten her. I gather myself. Swallow. Did I know what? She pinches me. Don’t be facetious, I mean before, before the kitchen, did you know how I felt? No, I didn’t, I mean I thought about it, but I didn’t know if you were thinking about me, I didn’t think anything would ever actually happen. Why? Come on. What? You’re married, very much to a man, it didn’t matter what there was between us. So you wanted me. I don’t stand to meet her. She bends, runs two fingers down my ear as if it is her own. You wanted me too. Her nail digs into my earlobe. I want you too. Lightning, we wait for the thunder. She rolls her eyes. Calls into the rafters, as if addressing Him directly. God, how clichéd, to have a storm, unbearable. The turn of her watch. I’ll leave first OK. OK. Her sentence is almost a question, lifting before the last word, then flattening out into an instruction. I prefer it. She turns back once. I can’t see her face. The door closes heavily behind her. I feel its weight bang against my chest.

  The drama teacher wants to appear on the verge of tears but cannot actually cry. She addresses The Girls before the first dress rehearsal. Hands clasped and resting over her heart. Her voice manages to waver, as she intends, but the tears will not come. She blinks, hopeful, but her face remains dry. The Girls seem awkward, left out of the emotion she is desperate to include them in. They watch their shoes. A few glances swiped at The Girl closest, wanting to make sure the awkward feeling is shared. I am here early. Not by request but by error. I thought the performance started half an hour sooner. I wait once again in the theatre’s back seats.

  The Girls’ costumes are simple. Black tops, black skirts, black heels. All have dark-red lipstick. It has been applied carefully, in dense layers, making them afraid to move their mouths. The black lace veils are already in place. A few clutch copies of their lines, running fingers over their highlighted sections, last-minute checks. My darlings I’m so proud of you all, very proud, you’ve worked terribly hard. They nod. I wait for her, for Mrs S. She asked that I come, that I watch the dress rehearsal with her. It is not so odd for us to be together here. I was Pepe, she was Pepe. At last the door creaks open. She wears jeans, she is romantic. The jeans have been carefully chosen, an echo, me into her, the suggestion we are alike. She doesn’t wave at me. How long have I wanted her wave? I see her palm lift, the fingers almost flex, paused mid-thigh. Oh you’re here, how wonderful. The drama teacher grabs her hand. Wouldn’t miss the big debut, well almost debut. Mrs S places her other hand on top of their knot and squeezes. You’re very kind. The drama teacher rumples her face. Still no tears. It pleases me, to have noticed her malfunction.

  The Girls are agitated. If Mrs S is here things are deadly serious. This is the person to impress, more than their parents, more than their friends. Their lips twitch, expressions heavy under the make-up. Hello. Most greet her. The Girl playing Adela does not. She remains the largest personality. Her black skirt is cut on a bias, separating her from the rest. She bends her visible leg, tilts her hip. Behind the stage the enormous Guernica has been installed. Hanging from the ceiling, rippling slightly, moved by the opening and closing of the large doors. It has enough menace. Tenderness accidental, found in places where the paint has thickened or where one stroke has run over a boundary. I search for the parts I completed but can no longer remember what I did. Oh! Mrs S looks towards it. Oh! It doesn’t look half bad! The Girls agree through pursed lips. Yes! Not bad.

  The drama teacher has not yet undone the knot of their hands. She moves it up and down. It is marvellous, marvellous, oh you did a marvellous job. Thank you. Mrs S steps to the side, trying to pull herself free. The drama teacher lets go but quickly takes her by the shoulder instead. The Girls have been working so hard, we’ve had our ups and downs, but we’re there, we’re practically there. Mrs S addresses the group. That’s good, I’m looking forward to it. Yes, yes. Finally she is free to come to me. I have barely taken a breath. I do now, hard, becoming an unintentional gasp. Before she can sit down she is forced to re-engage. The drama teacher claps. No! No, we don’t start here, we start out there. She points at the door. Come, come. The Girls move to the side of the room and collect objects from the floor.

  I walk behind Mrs S, I did not see her shoulder blades, next time we fuck I will turn her around. Outside, The Girls wait at the top of the corridor. It is late but not yet dark. Black paper has been applied to the few windows. Mrs S brushes my side. Nothing is accidental anymore. I jolt. She does it again. The drama teacher snaps a lighter. I see what The Girls collected from the floor. Their fingers looped through matching candleholders, old-fashioned, the metal winking. She walks along and lights each wick in turn. The Girls are not relaxed. They hold the fire cautiously, as far from their chests as is possible, while also wanting to seem unafraid.

  We stand to one side, Mrs S and I. Behind us is the beginning of a staircase. Below our feet is the library reserved for the sixth-formers. There is nobody else around. At an extravagant nod from the drama teacher The Girls begin to process. Single-file, heads bowed. Rather than lift their feet they shuffle, keeping time with one another. The drama teacher is desperate to make eye contact with us, to make sure we are having an experience, that we are involved in her atmosphere. I avoid it. I look at the red tiles, moving sideways ever so slightly to be able to see Mrs S’s foot. She wears sandals. The sweet pile of bones, its hesitation. She crosses one leg over the other. The hem of her jeans rides up. Her shin, like a mast, oh God. She does make eye contact with the drama teacher. It is her duty. She is encouraging, not smiling, but bunching her bottom lip so she appears moved. Perhaps it is genuine. I don’t know.

  The Girls’ fear of the flames is distracting. They don’t dare look anywhere else for fear of setting fire to The Girl just ahead. Before the turn into the theatre they stop dead. The Girl at the front howls. It is impressive. She plays the tyrant of a mother. This procession is a funeral, or is at least funereal. The father has died, The Girls forced into years of mourning. Without sex. She howls once more. It manages to be paralysing. Even the drama teacher flinches, shocked, as if she doubted The Girl could ever find such a sound. The theatre doors are propped open. They go inside, processing, and gratefully blow out their candles, setting the holders on the floor. The task does not look easy. They have been required to do it in character, crouching, trying to maintain the tension from the corridor. We follow, the drama teacher sitting beside us, sighing loudly. The Girls line up, evenly spaced, and begin to recite the Lorca poem in Spanish. They have learned to roll their rs. It would have been better had they not, the effect is pretentious, their mouths flaking lipstick as they perform each syllable. The drama teacher sighs again and closes her eyes. She wants us, she needs us, to know every wave of sentiment that rolls through her body. Mrs S crosses her legs then uncrosses them. She knows I am watching. She spreads them wider. Puts her hands on her thighs and squeezes. The drama teacher sits right beside her, sighing, carrying on. She turns and whispers loudly. You won’t believe how long it took to get them here, I mean really, well you know, don’t you, you saw them before. Mrs S nods appreciatively. Her legs still wide. I hope she is only herself around me. That the rest, this nod, is not another version of her, but a farce. I wonder if we will fuck later, I am already wet, she could fit her whole hand inside me. Church stones at my knees. I will know her better than anyone.

  The Girls finish the poem. Verde que te quiero verde. The Guernica no longer ripples. It has been lit clumsily so only the horse can really be seen. They move to the sides of the stage and pull chairs across in a learned arrangement. Obviously we’ll have help, we’ll have backstage people, on the actual night. The drama teacher’s whisper grows even louder. This isn’t done to include me, she speaks only to Mrs S, she doesn’t care who hears, and so here I am, forced to listen. She sits half-slumped in her seat, hips thrust forward, more of that awful sentiment rippling down her stomach. Mrs S is required to nod again. I want to grab her chin and hold it tight, hold it still. The Girls move on to their dialogue. They cave into the chairs, each opening a fan, bodies languid in the phantom heat of Spain. The drama teacher sighs again. I could hit her. The feeling is strong enough that I clench my fist.

  I wait a moment before crossing the road. She is arriving at the church. Confident, her posture betrays nothing, unlike mine. Summer does not afford us much cover. A car passes and she does not flinch. I do. Even as she unlocks the huge doors, planting her feet on the ground and pulling them open with force, she does not look over her shoulder. Has she done this before? Our time together is rare. I want it to be perfect, to always say the right thing, to be more like her. I watch until she has gone inside. Another car, beeping furiously. I stand still on the tarmac, the driver staring at me in the rear-view. The gravestones glow orange. Soon I will be between her legs. All day I have been anticipating what I will do. I know she likes my tongue not on her clit but stiffened inside her, moving quickly back and forth, my face ready to disappear. Afterwards she will lift me free. Tease me with one finger, or tease herself, until she cannot resist, fucking me with her whole hand. All of her. I will have it.

 

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