âIâM HERE FOR MY SKIS.â
I looked at him lounging against the doorway. Heâd rung the doorbell, an exercise in futility or good mannersâI wasnât sure which since both door and screen were open to catch the late-afternoon sunlight. Hugh was quite the lounger, particularly in othersâ beds. Searching for a snappy comeback, I said, âAnd howâs the stick insect?â
âFlowyrâs fine.â
Flowyr. Iâd been betrayed for a woman called Flowyr.
âMy skis, Jo.â
I stepped back. âYou know where they are.â
He straightened himself and ambled into the house, accompanied by a few yellow leaves. I tried not to watch. There was something about Hugh in motion, any sort of motion, that still did things to me, a sort of knee-jerk hot-wire to desire. My body was in no hurry to change its habits.
I heard him go into the basement. âHugh, while youâre down there, would you look at the traps?â
âI thought that was what your fucking cat was for.â Banging and thumping noises accompanied his words.
âHe canât empty mousetraps.â
After a while Hugh came back up the stairs carrying his ski gear. âNothing.â
âWas the peanut butter still on them?â
âChrist, Jo, I donât know.â He dropped his skis, poles and boots on the hardwood floor with a loud clatter. âI didnât look that close, okay? Itâs dark down there. Do you have my Ken Burns DVDs?â
I gestured toward the living room. âFeel free.â
I followed him in anyway, telling myself it wasnât for the pleasure of seeing his ski-and-tennis-toned body drop to a squat, only to make sure he didnât take the Firth-Ehle Pride and Prejudice. He liked Jennifer Ehle and her astonishing elevated breasts; I liked all the astonishingly unfettered penises waving around inside the menâs pants.
âSo,â he said, catching me gazing at his thighs, âthe thing is, Flowyr and I arenât together anymore. I told you it was a onetime thing. An accident.â
âAn accident? You rear-ended her?â
âDonât yell, honey, you donât want to go on the air sounding hoarseââ
âDonât call me honey.â
He stoodâwithout a tremor, quads in great shapeâclutching a stack of DVDs. âJo, Iâmââ
âI bought Shaun of the Dead,â I said, seeing it in his hands.
âFor my birthday, so itâs mine. Jo, Iâm sorry.â
Iâm sorry. The words you never expect to hear from a man. But was his apology for letting Flowyr run his red light or for depriving me of one of my favorite movies?
âIâm sorry,â he said again.
I dropped to the couch, putting myself at eye level with a relatively unfettered penis uncurling behind his khakis.
He had apologized.
If only a moment could be bronzed. Hugh dropped to his knees, laid the DVDs on the floor and shuffled forward. His hands landed on the couch on either side of me. âSorry. Iâve been so unhappy. I know you have been, too. I was dumb. I â¦â
This was all too familiar; Hugh making himself available, those lovely toffee-colored eyes with the long lashes, his mouth and a slight dusting of late-day stubble, all within easy reachâall the above-the-neck parts I found sexy and irresistible. And heâd apologized, although I suspected it was pretty meaninglessâHad the man no shame? Did he really want to keep Shaun of the Dead that badly? Wasnât I intending to kick him out of my life (again) with no happy or unhappy returns?
Well, yes. But.
A quick calculation. When did I think I was next going to have the chance of brainless sex with someone who knew what he was doing and knew what I liked? Shouldnât I be stocking up for the long famine ahead?
A whiff of eau de Hugh wafted into my brain, or crotch, or somewhere.
One of his hands moved to cup my hip.
Our heads swayed, angled.
His lips were slightly chapped. I hadnât been around to remind him to carry his organic hemp lip salve, and however much mindless screwing heâd had with Flowyr (Flowyr!)âwell, that slut wouldnât be concerned about his lips. Or she might like it rough. Rough skin, that is, rasping on â¦
Oh, my God. We were kissing and for a moment it was poignant and lovely before it became something equally lovely, but hot and driven. Hands delved into clothes, pushing up, aside, unbuttoning; the press and trail of fingertips, palms, as we became reacquainted with each otherâs skin. My T-shirt was up around my collarbone, my bra unsnapped and his tongue in my mouth, on my neck. I had to push him away so I could get rid of my clothes. As I struggled through the dark folds of T-shirt and disentangled my bra, his hands went to work on my jeans, and I lifted my hips to help him get them off me.
âSantaâs come early this year,â he commented at first sight of my panties.
Well, I did need to do laundry, it was true. I watched as his fingers splayed over the faded jolly old elf, and dipped under the elastic, where things were getting very wet.
I lunged at his shirt, unbuttoning, pushing it off him. âGet your pants off.â