ANTHOPHILOUSITY

‘Anthophilousity’

by Keith Elliott

What is it…?  Eight years?  Nine?  Ten, maybe?  Doesn’t matter.  Stasis doesn’t age.  Like vacuum doesn’t exist.  Why should anything matter?  Like being anonymous?  What is the justification?  She said ‘no excuses’, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

#

He crouched to dead-head a Geranium and plucked the energy-wasting spent blooms like the petals of a daisy in his prelapsarian childhood.  She loves me… she loves me not… she loves me… 

It was all in his head.  Everything; and nothing.  That was both the crux and the problem: his head: what was in it - brain, mind, synaptic connections… all that stuff.  Although, not per se: it was more that ‘all that stuff’ - his stuff - didn’t function properly – it was solely that it didn’t function properly It was a dysfunctional head he had been issued at birth or conception or whenever it had been assigned to him in utero.  

Or then again, maybe it wasn’t progeny.  Nurtured in the bosom of recidivist mankind’s inability to civilise?  Clawing for survival through the mire of humanity where greed and power and cruelty and shit all float to the top – yeah, that would do it.  

It was at least eight years and probably closer to ten; and no, things don’t matter; leastways not to him.  Nor did it matter that within those years of having known her, he had not spoken to her - they had not spoken - not once; not so much as ‘hi’.  

He could remember the first time he had seen her, nearly a decade ago.  He and his wife had just moved into their first home - the two-bedroom flat on first floor of Hayloft tower in the new-build Bluebell Meadows: convenient to schools and public transport; a short drive from the city centre; convenience store, Post Office, two banks and a popular home-bakery-cum-cafe on your doorstep.  Not quite the exurb planners had hoped for.  The convenience store was a Co-Op and had stalwartly withstood the ravages of recession.  The Post Office had since reorganised and buggered off to where it could provide a more efficient and streamlined service to its customers - or so it had claimed (just not Bluebell Meadows patrons evidently).  The banks… well there is a reason that bankers rhymes with wankers: the recession - just remember who started that and got away with it, back to their computer screens to anonymously rape more millions from the vulnerable.  At least they left a hole-in-the-wall in the Co-Op, in the guise of a stand-alone ATM within the shop; but, you know: people: once a hole-in-the-wall always a hole-in-the-wall.  The sign outside tickled him: ‘Free Cash’.

“Aditya!  Give me some money, please!” he couldn’t help saying with a grin on his face to the Indian owner the first time he had seen the sign.

“Hullo, bhaiya!” replied the amiable shop-keeper.  “Is this a stick-’em-up!”  And both men laughed at their own wisecrack.

“No, Aditya, your sign - free money!”

“Oh, bhaiya, no-no-no.  What that means is…

Still, the attempted humour had been worth a try.  

And the bakery-cum-café, the last to metamorphose, became a Chinese take-away; albeit one of some repute.  Having to wade conscience-deep through cast-aside polystyrene and clear-plastic food containers, white plastic forks, wrapping paper and drinks cans drove him to clear up the weekend detritus himself rather than wait until the 5pm opening time to have to have words with an unsympathetic proprietor.  And plastic bags?  So much for a 20p government environmental charge.  Stick a quid on it.  That might change a few lazy-bastard minds.  Then again…

He had been sitting at the window of his flat looking out across all the new houses and beyond, to the sprawling industrial park; but mentally gazing inward.  It had been a fine day, late Spring, and the window was open.  Warm issues of scented air rolled in and comforted him.  It was new-mown grass, very subtle, but new-mown grass nonetheless.  He presumed then there must be a dairy farm not too distant from the Meadows (residents had soon dropped the ‘Bluebell’.)  His foster parents - the third ones, the decent ones – had had a farm and he loved it.  He loved the smells and the sounds and the animals and hated it when he was told he had to leave, that they could no longer look after him, that he had to move on; again.  He had no idea why, or whose fault it was - people always need to find fault and ascribe it away.  He didn’t need to be told or consulted: he was just a child.  He understood that, children do understand things.

With the kids all at school it was quiet.  The few mums navigating pushchairs and grannies leading toddlers by the wrist never looked above eye-level: he was invisible to the world round him.  And it was good.  He heard a car approaching and his eyes drifted aimlessly down the street.  It was a convertible BMW, roof down, being driven by her - a young woman in her mid-to-late-20s.  She was listening to Neil Diamond at moderate volume and in the stillness of time he had had to admit: it was a beautiful noise comin’ up from the street.

She drove slowly, smiling and tapping her fingers to the song - red nail varnish matching her lipstick.  Passing beneath his window, she had thrown back her head to shake out shoulder-length blonde hair in the rush of air cascading over the windscreen into her face.  Because of that movement he caught sight of him, flashed her huge eyes, beamed a double row of bright white teeth and waved a hand with tinkling fingers like she was playing an air-piano.  She had looked the epitome of happiness that first time he lay eyes on her.

He raised a steady hand in response, and smiled too; and couldn’t help thinking clichés: a blonde in a convertible Beemer.  Although hers was a metallic shitty-green colour: how’s that for cliché-smashing?  If there was a soundtrack to the scene, if it was on the telly, the stylus would screech across the vinyl record right now and Neil Diamond would be halted abruptly before her green convertible ever gets the chance to dance to the beat of the lights.

And then she was gone.  To where?  From where?  Who knew?  Who cares?  Just stay happy.  That was the first time he had ever seen her.

His eyes fell to the tiny rectangular patch of ground below, between Hayloft and the road.  And that was the beauty of modern town planning: perfect rectangles.  More boxes, either to tick or in which to place things - how the bureaucrats love their boxes.  The rectangle of ground had been neither more nor less than a bloody eyesore to them, to him and his wife - a pitiful, shamefully neglected patch of earth.  It belonged to the ground floor apartment directly beneath theirs.  A couple of roughly similar age, not married.  He was the third of three fathers to her three children.  They were okay, said ‘hello’ when they met at the entrance door, that sort of thing.  She was the chatty one.  At times you couldn’t get a word in edgeways with her.  Probably why she was always getting pregnant and then getting left.  

She was attractive, with way too much make-up, and she looked after herself - her figure.  She had an attractive ambivalent attitude towards life and living and never - as far as he could make out - fixed an attachment on anything; including her men.  Her then current beau was a different proposition.  He gave very little away.  Not in conversation; not to cold callers collecting for charity; not to the council through the recycling kerbside bins and when he was asked about their rectangular garden he let it be known that he didn’t as much as give a fuck about that.  He sprayed it twice a year with weed-killer, that’s all the maintenance it required, and no, he didn’t want somebody sticking a load of fuckin’ flowers and shit into it.  Behind her partner’s back she pulled a face by way of apology.  Still, if you don’t ask you’ll never know.

“And while we’re talkin’ about it,” he had said, “I don’t want your mutt dumpin’ in it.  You know you’re not supposed to keep dogs here?”  It was more than a question, even a rhetorical one.

After his wife’s diagnosis, they had got a dog to keep her company: Skipper, a Springer Spaniel.  It was a demanding chore: house-training a manic puppy, having to scoop a hand under his warm pink tummy whenever he looked as if he was about to squat and pee and then run downstairs with him, a tiny jet of urine often following in their wake.  But both parties persevered and Skipper graduated with tolerable distress and soiling to show for the experience.  They both quickly grew to adore the pup and their adoration was reciprocated many times over with Skipper’s unconditional devotion.  Dogs - animals - so much more likeable and rewarding than people

He looked forward to Skipper’s turning 12-weeks old, when they could take him outside properly, and walk him and hopefully renew his wife’s stalled recovery.  But it wasn’t to be: she didn’t feel up to it.  He took to walking Skipper on his own; and enjoyed it.  They built it up to a mile, three times a day, and discovered the first Bluebells he had seen since they had moved in - albeit it was outside the Meadows and across the main road.  

Then one day, he saw the green BMW again - roof up this time.  There was no mistaking it.  How many green convertible BMWs do you come across?  It was her.  

He watched the car approach and tarried out of simple, mild curiosity.  When it was alongside him, he saw that she was reaching with her left hand to something - the stereo, no doubt - and she bore a look of concentration on her face.  He waved and smiled when he caught her eye.  She looked a little surprised.  There was, after all, no reason why she should have recognised him.  But she waved back nonetheless - her tinkly wave; and smiled - a more restrained smile this time.  She was probably going to work.  It was just after 7am.

When she had driven on from view, his smile was still on ‘play’.  He looked down at Skipper who was sitting, head cocked, ears up, looking back up at his master.

“What?” he said to the dog.  “Being neighbourly!”  And they walked on and he wondered about that.

He explained to his wife that Skipper needed a good long walk in the mornings, to pee and poo and get all the fresh smells from the night, to stretch his legs and exercise and set himself up for the day.  In turn, he saw her; by no means most mornings, she varied her timings quite considerably - perhaps she was the boss? - but often enough for them to wave and smile freely to one another.  And it was true what they said about owning a dog: you got to meet people, neighbours, other dog-owners - whether you wanted to or not - all out walking their four-legged friends.  Dog-walkers transpired in the main to be a forceful lot and just assumed that (a) you’re walking and (b) you have a dog, ergo (c) you want to talk.

Well, not everyone wants to talk, people.

Routes were devised to miss some of the gossips and bores and judicious road-crossings were enacted to escape others.  On one occasion he was forced into a sudden about-turn and stepped onto the road to conceal himself behind a Luton van.  Immediately he felt ridiculous, but there is a limit to the amount unadulterated repetitive shite you can listen to day after day and continue to feign a neighbourly interest.  And occasionally she slipped passed before he realised it.  That incensed him beyond all reason.

One evening he was talking with Les (although it had to be said one listened to Les more than talked with him.)  Les was a retired police dog-handler who had his retired police dog - a monstrously handsome and impeccably behaved long-haired German Shepherd, Zach.  Skipper and Zach politely ignored each other.  Les was interesting as long as you kept him off football.  They had been discussing the upcoming general election when he saw, over Les’s shoulder, the green convertible coming down the street.  The closer it got, the less attention he paid to Les.  The retired policeman, curious as to what was attracting his companion’s attention, turned as the car was upon them and raised a neutral wave.  It was reciprocated, equally neutrally, by the blonde woman who happened to be looking particularly well.  

Her look lingered on Les and then she was gone.  She hadn’t smiled at him.  No mussitated ‘hi’.  Nothing.  He felt something, vaguely, but he didn’t know what.

It was two weeks before he saw her again.  He was softening his eyes into a warm smile.  Then he noticed her face was set.  She looked straight ahead as if he didn’t exist.  And the car swung away; no acknowledgement.  Oh well, fair enough; he didn’t do infantile games, too long in the tooth for that.  He did wonder, briefly, what had caused the change in her demeanour towards him.  Had it really been Les, as it certainly seemed?  Could a mature woman behave so?  Prepared to slight someone for passing the time of day with another who may, or may not, have scorned her?  Or had there been some other malady to hand?

The Saturday before Christmas a large van pulled up outside Hayloft.  The frost was heavy on the ground.  It was early and the van had a noisy exhaust - that was what had wakened him.  He pulled back the curtain to have a look.  Emblazoned along the sidewall of the vehicle was: To Hire This Man & His Van – followed by a mobile phone number.  Exhaust fumes billowed out from underneath the belly of the van.  He dropped the curtain and got back into bed; Skipper jumped back up onto the duvet and circled several times and curled himself down for another nap.

“What was the noise?” his wife asked from the twin bed.

“Delivery or something to somebody.  Christmas stuff probably.”

The van was still there an hour later when he rose and showered.  He sipped a mug of hot tea and stood at the living room window looking down on the path below.  White van man’s constant footfall in the intervening time had banished the frost from a broad central band along the length of the grey paving slabs to the rear of his vehicle.  White van man emerged.  He was stripped to his t-shirt and displayed a musculature that owed more to a gym than van work alone. 

#

At the bottom of the stairs, the door to the ground floor apartment was wedged open.  The three kids were dressed for the weather and running about inside.  (His wife insisted that Skipper should always be dressed for the weather too, for his walkies, even though the poor dog hated the restriction of his dog-coat.)  The t-shirted younger man came out carrying a bulging black bin liner in each hand, bulging arms and looking quite relaxed.  He nodded as he passed by, and headed to the van.  The kids’ mother came to the door.  She was smoking and wearing heels and a short skirt atop knock-out, fake-tanned legs and smiling her tireless smile.  He noticed then that there were no Christmas decorations up.

“Are you moving?” he asked, somewhat awkwardly.

“I should’ve said to y’a ages ago to take that garden before the next ones move in.”

He nodded, unsure where to usher the conversation next.

“He left to look for work in the Midlands or the Middle East or somewhere.  Probably never see ’im again and good bloody riddance.  Dickhead.”  She drew on her cigarette and blew the smoke upwards from the corner of her mouth.  “Your wee dog looks fab in ’is winter coat!”

“Thanks,” he said, but before he could add anything else there was a loud shriek from one of the children.

She shook her head in dismay.  “Them bearin’s are doin’ my fuckin’ napper in this day!”  She stubbed her cigarette out on the doorframe and flicked the substantial butt out onto the communal hall floor and turned away.  “You an’ her have a great Christmas!” she said back over her shoulder.  “Sh’alright?  Tell ’er I said cheerio…  You three bloody stop it!”

Outside, it was cold.  He and Skipper did the ‘full walk’ as he called it; and sharpish.  Almost a mile and a half, two poos, two proper pees and countless territory-markings and they were back in forty minutes - give or take.  He saw the blonde-haired woman - driving a red BMW convertible now - but they didn’t interact.  The white van and its man and everything they represented for had gone.

Skipper shook himself vigorously the instant his dog-coat was removed and headed for the water bowl in the kitchen, where a radio was playing.

“Would you like coffee?” his wife called from the kitchen.  “Kettle’s just boiled.”

“No thanks,” he replied loudly so as to be heard over the music station.  He hated it when she said ‘Sorry, I can’t hear you. What did you say?” and never turned down the volume on anything.

“Okay,” she said.

“The down-belows have moved,” he called out.

“Have they?”  Disinterested.

Yeah, he thought, they have.

It had turned out to be a bitterly cold winter, but not a particularly bad one as winters go.  No storms, not much rain.  A retired couple moved in down-below at the end of January - a week later than they had scheduled: burst pipe and flooding apparently.  They were pleasant enough, more bland than pleasant really.  They traded neighbourlies.

In springtime, he began thinking again about the little rectangular garden.  It would be a good place to escape to, where he wouldn’t have to talk to people or play any role simply for the sake of it.  But he wasn’t just going to lay claim to it like some 21st century prospector.  There is always a way to do things, to do things properly.  It doesn’t take much, if people would only pause and think occasionally.  Like flying down the street at forty or fifty miles an hour.  Like referring the ground outside as the floor – he really hated that.  Like using imported Americanisms when we had a perfectly good language of our own; which, when we’re on the topic, they took from us and bastardised and now surreptitiously feed it back into our subconscious (if not altogether unconscious) youth, through a ceaseless output of mundane television and internet programming.  Western pop culture, wasn’t that it?

As it turned out the new down-belows were happy to have the garden taken off their hands - as long as there was still a space to keep their wheelie-bin.

The ground was still winter-hard.  But hey, it was a garden - his garden now.  His opportunity to bring some colour into the greyness surrounding them all.  And what he knew about gardening?  Would easily fit onto the back of the new spade he bought at B&Q.  It would be trial and error, suck it and see, his own blank canvas.  He loved the exertion, he delighted in seeing beads of his perspiration dripping from his face onto the spade or the soil and after a week or ten days the muscle pains eased as he became accustomed to the labour.  With the heavy physical demands came the unexpected benefit of ataraxy and things were good.

His wife watched from the living room window, thin and wan, as if etiolated from self-imposed confinement.  She wasn’t getting better.  They were fooling themselves.  She smiled thinly every time he looked up.  He tried to stop himself from looking.

He had no real idea what he was planting.  He went for colours he liked and they had to be perennial.  Height didn’t matter so much as they would be looking down on the garden but he considered the down-belows and, where possible, graded the sowing by height away from their window, like a tiered grandstand so they could get as much benefit as possible for no particular hardship to him.  Every so often they would come out with a glass of juice or water or a cup of tea or coffee.  He appreciated that and said so.  At the end of each session in the garden, be it half an hour or half a day, he liked nothing better than to sit back on Hayloft’s doorstep and admire his handiwork while drinking a cold beer from the can or bottle.

That first year, there was little to show for his toil; and little expected.  In the second year, things began to take shape.  And the shape he had in mind was a decorator’s colour-card for paint.  It wasn’t imaginative but it was colour.  Skipper found it necessary to apply an in-built timer for walkies - if too much time was spent with the flowers, Skipper barked.  It was an arrangement which worked for both of them pretty well, by and large.

The third year was good.  Some plants were ditched and replaced by others.  

His wife wasn’t particularly big into flowers but she took a keen interest because it was good for him: it lifted his mind and his mood which appeared to be sowing Vantablackus Melancholia or some such genus in the interstices of his mind.  She Googled plants and advised on growth and spread and longevity and such like.  Moreover, her health did actually appear to be stabalising that summer.  That bolstered him.  

Walking Skipper one afternoon, he was thinking about all sorts of positive possibilities, when a red car came out of a side street as they were about to cross the road.  He yanked sharply on Skipper’s lead to get him to stop and vacantly glanced into the car.  It was a convertible with the roof up but driver’s window down.  He heard music; didn’t recognise it; it was good.  The front passenger seat and the back seats were ablaze with bouquets of magnificently protrusive flowers.  The car pulled away the driver looked up at him.  His mind still elsewhere, he instinctively raised his hand in a half-wave.  She seemed a bit surprised but smiled nonetheless, waved back and drove off.  

He had forgotten that she was so attractive, or, at least, that he had been so attracted to her.  But he drew it all back in, sight and sound and scent, and filled his chest with it as he watched her tousled blonde hair recede from view.  It appeared the waveless hiatus was over.  Rapprochement really had been that simple.

The vulgar blueness of the down-belows’ wheelie-bin began to niggle him but the bin’s presence was firmly established and, what with their good-neighbourliness – to say nothing of it being their garden – he did not feel it would be right to ask them to remove it to the back yard where all the others were kept.  His wife suggested one of those wheelie-bin covers you could get, the stick-on ones printed over with flowers or hedging which covered all four sides of the bin.  They weren’t cheap but they were better than a neon-blue mini-tower dominating the garden, he reckoned.  And the neighbours had no objection when he said straight off that he would pay for it of course.

He opted for the ‘Rose Floribunda’ - the colours blended in well to that part of the garden.  He was pleased with the result.  It had been worth the £15.99 - provided the viewer was no taller than about forty inches.  Of course from their living room window on the first floor a person’s height was of no consequence.  Looking down into the garden, the bright blue lid of the modified bin was still deeply offensive to the eye.  A second ‘Rose Floribunda’ was purchased simply to cover the lid.

The garden matured and brought an element of pleasure to those who passed by it.  But it was nothing to the unqualified anoesis he wallowed in when submerged among the deep, heavier scented blooms.   He had been told that more than one person had changed the route of their regular walk so as to include the tiny rectangular garden in their daily routine.  Occasionally people would stop and talk with him if he was there as they passed.  Some gloried at the kaleidoscope of colour while others closed their eyes and opened their nose and mind totally, desirous of imbruement in the scent-fest rolling round them.  They would ask questions, perhaps seek basic advice and receive cuttings gratefully.  Window boxes began to appear in neighbouring streets.  All of this pleased him immensely.  His wife no longer watched from the window.  The online oracle became rarely necessary.

His friendliness with the blonde woman climbed to a new height: he no longer simply raised his hand to wave: he progressed to jiggling his hand from side-to-side a few times - virility in motion? - and she definitely appeared to be tinkling her fingers delightedly whenever she saw him and verily beamed the broadest, open smile of her sensuous mouth and large, almost bovine, eyes.  The recession had obviously taken a toll: gone was the red convertible too and replaced with a white van, customised with a local florist’s corporate logo and contact details and, lest the message wasn’t clear, a cornucopia of every colour and variety of cut flower imaginable.  

The front window of the van was bigger than that of the car and the cabin more spacious.  He could see her much more clearly: the full nimbus of blonde hair, her oval face and perfect nose, fine drop earrings and delicate neck chains and subtle pendants.  In the years of their confederacy nothing had changed about her, not a single strand of hair, and whether van or convertible, whether red or green, she had always been on her own.  That he desired the woman’s company was not in question; rather: how so.  He wanted to convince himself that his desires were genuinely platonic. He began to think about her.

He was reading the newspaper, the radio on low so as not to disturb his wife now more or less confined to bed, when Skipper yelped once, quietly, lying at the living room window looking out.

“Shhh, little man,” he said.  “Your mummy’s sleeping.”  He looked across the room and Skipper’s tail was wagging forcefully; his ears were up.  He rose, curious as to what his dog was watching, and looked out the window.  He was instantaneously overwhelmed by a concoction of fear and excitement and angst and youthful bewilderment; but mostly fear.  His heart pounded, he blushed hotly and felt an urge to urinate.  He sat down quickly.  What was he to do?  He hadn’t felt like this since… since school discos when he had relied on illicit gulps of vodka and Coke on clandestine visits to the boys’ toilets to restore his equilibrium.  

The florist’s flower-bedecked white van had pulled up in front of Hayloft, at the kerb, at the footpath, at the footpath to the entrance, the entrance where the down-belows’ Rose Floribunda wheelie bin sat, where his garden was, their garden, the down-belows’ garden, his garden, shit! the garden, the garden outside, below the window, and she was in the van, her!  She couldn’t have seen him - thank god! - she was reaching across to the passenger seat, it was her, that hair, what’s she doing? oh shit, this is it, excrement hits ventilation, why? why? why was she coming to his home? how was he going to explain it? he couldn’t, not without lies, or false allegations, he could ignore the bell, no he couldn’t, it would waken his wife, she would get up, she would ask questions, he would never –  

He heard the door-bell and blood rushed back up his face and sloshed about and pounded in his ears.  He glanced along the hallway towards his wife’s bedroom.  Her door was ajar but there was no sound of her stirring.  The doorbell again, she wasn’t going to give up - fuck!  It wasn’t his doorbell - it was the down-belows’ doorbell.  Ha!

Glancing over his shoulder, he edged towards the window.  He squashed his face against it - it felt cold to his still-smouldering skin.  He peered down, through the areola of condensation forming on the glass from his nose.  He saw her fabulous blonde mane and beside that he looked directly into a very expensive bouquet of long-stemmed Paul’s Himalayan Musk, Winchester Cathedral and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Sir Joseph Paxton - he of Crystal Palace fame.  That was one impressive bouquet of roses.  He drew in a long, hesitant breath and stepped back.  He heard a movement below - the neighbours’ door opening.  He began to relax and thought: Christ, is this how people having affairs feel all the time?  Can’t be worth it.  Balls-over-brains.

In however many years he had only ever seen her from the shoulders up, in a car or van.  Yet, there she was, standing outside.  Only feet away.  Was she tall or short?  Slim?  How did she dress?  Skirt?  Dress?  Or trousers?  Jeans and a top?  Heels or trainers?  Did any of it matter?  Was that objectifying her?  Had he already objectified her?  You can tell so much about a person by the way they dress.  Or in this case, maybe you could tell so much about the voyeur?  If he was quick he could slip out the back and make it round to the side of Hayloft where he knew he could get a reasonably concealed viewpoint to see her properly.  He grabbed his keys and made for the door and had to push Skipper back in gently with his foot.  On the bottom flight of stairs he picked up their conversation:

“Forty years, wow that’s amazing.”  Her voice was ordinary, that was good.  Local.  It was also the first time he had ever heard her speak.

“I suppose it is nowadays, but I’m very lucky, I got a good one.”

“Well congratulations, to both of you.  I think it’s lovely.”

Sentimental?  Romantic?  Mmm…

“Which of you is the great gardener, then?  Your garden’s beautiful.”

Well, actually, that would be me, but can’t stop to chat.  

In the dimness he slipped into the service corridor to the back door, the PIR sensor switched on the flickering light.

He assumed his vantage point at the side of Hayloft but someone had placed something up against it on the other side and blocked his view.  If he stepped out he would be in full view too.  Should he?  He could say hello, speak to her…

The two women were saying goodbye.  If he stepped out his wife might have come to the living room window, wondering where he had got to.  Had he wakened her when he left?  Could he take the chance?  His throat was dry, he felt like his inside was being vacuumed, his body crushing in on itself.  

She was on the path, walking towards the van.  He stepped out as she got into the driver’s seat and pulled the door closed.  The engine started.  He could hear music.  Her head began to mimic the beat and she drove off.

Three days later he took Skipper out a little earlier than usual for his morning walk.  He knew what street she lived on but he had never felt the need to know which house.  What he could possibly do with such information?  

The van should be easy to find, he reckoned.  And it was, very; albeit it was hidden by a tall hedge and he didn’t see it until he was right at it.  A frisson of excitement bolted through him.  He didn’t stop and hadn’t intended to but the van’s indicators flashed and the central locking shot open.  He glanced towards the house and she was walking towards him - or more precisely, her van - with an armful of folders and loose pages.  She wore a ring of fresh, very delicate, blooms on her head.  It gave her an ethereal look.

“Oh, hi!” she said.

He stopped.  He was sixteen again and stupid. “Good morning,” he said and thought: you dick - ‘good morning’? Come on!

“Your dog is gorgeous!  Boy or a girl?”  She crouched down beside Skipper and ruffled his head as Skipper rolled over onto his back for a belly-rub.  “Ah!  Boy! You’re not bashful, are you?”  She laughed and rubbed the dog’s belly. 

He looked down at her kneeling directly in front of him, making a fuss of Skipper.  Her ring finger was unadorned.  He put his left hand into his pocket and tried to look nonchalant. The flowers in her hair were pastels of blue, pink, yellow and white.  He felt energy pulsing into his groin and silently begged for her to stand up.  

“Loves attention, typical man,” he said, willing his mind away from the corporeal.

She stood.  She smiled.  He stared at her unwillingly: she had astonishing grey eyes, the craquelure effect a vivid duende of allure and mystique and opportunity, a vortex sucking him in, set in storm-cloud grey eyeshadow.  He forced his gaze upwards, to the flowers in her hair - safe territory.

“Oh god, those,” she said, glad to share the diversion.  “It’s a theme thing we’re doing.  I hope they’re okay.”

He nodded slowly and overdid the sincerity.  She opened the door of the van and set her paperwork in.  

“I really have to get a move on,” she said turning back to him.

“Yes, of course,” he said.  “Sorry.”  He gave Skipper’s lead a gentle tug.

“But I’d love to.” She blindly yet expertly pulled a flower from her headdress, a bloom of gossamer pale blue petals, and threaded it into a button-hole on his shirt.

He looked at with a blank expression.

She took his hand and began writing on it.  “My mobile, call me.  And no excuses.  If you wash your hands or something call the office!”  She jerked her pen towards the contact details on the side of the van.

No, no, yes.  I will, yes.  No, of course, he said – or something equally inane.

She winked playfully and got into the van.  Was there a movement at the window of her house?  Does she, too, have a shadow?  Was that an equaliser or a double complication?

Skipper at his side, he turned back the way they had come - no need for further pretence that he was simply out walking.  Her mobile number.  He felt more elated than was decent and more than he had felt for many years.  Later on, he had no recollection of the rest of the walk but at the junction at the end of her street, he had turned left.  A few moments later a vehicle pulled away from it in the opposite direction.  It was the van.  In an off chance he waved - there was a possibility she might be checking her mirrors.  Her arm appeared from the driver’s window and she waved back quite deliberately.

He smiled, then relaxed.  He breathed in deeply and exhaled noisily.  Her mobile number… 

No excuses, she had said.  They walked on.  What exactly did that mean? And how was he going to get out of this?

ENDS

6,000 WORDS