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I hit the ground running.

She picked me up from the airport at nine - "Sophie and I are going to an opening tonight. So boring, but we know the owner, so he'll take care of us. Want to come?" She casts a dubious look over me; unmascara-ed and feeling Singapore's muggy climate a world away from frigid Melbourne. "When are you heading out?"
A little laugh and a disparaging wave. "Look at me! Do I look like I could go anywhere? I could hardly bear to call a cab! It's not a big night, so maybe... twelve? The party won't start without us."
She leans back and crosses barbie-doll legs. I think about the casual contents of my suitcase, more suited to poolside and shopping than being the glamorous centrepiece of a launch party.
"Can we stop at Zara first? I have nothing to wear."
L. sighs and checks her watch. "You can, but I'd really better get home if we're going again by twelve." She starts to riffle through her bag with Chanel-platinum fingernails, finds a card and half-working biro.  "Here. I'll write down the apartment address and you can hail a cab when you're done. Make sure they drop you in the basement, they'll try to just leave you outside the lobby but then you have to walk to the lifts."
Of course. Anyone who staggers about in size-too-small Louboutins ("The agency listed my shoe size wrong on the card! What was I supposed to do? They're Louboutins!") doesn't tote up the pedestrian miles.

She said.

This is what happens when worlds collide too forcefully. I run away.
L. skyped from Singapore on a bad day. Warm, sunny, lounging beside the pool while I shivered through work emails in arctic Melbourne.
"Ellieeeee, I'm bored. It's my birthday in two weeks. Don't you have a work thingy or something you can do out here so you can come stay?"
"I have a quiet patch coming up if you want to pretend it's really three weeks away. Depends on flights."
"Well, you can stay with me. Plenty of room," she sighed and slithered down the sunlounge, squinting at the screen. "As long as you can put up with all the kids." One languid hand waved at a father and two littlies splashing through the shallows.

"Yes, I can see the shrieking hordes rampaging through your sacred space," I quipped.
"Whatever. People just seem to hit this age where they want to breed."
"Or perhaps all the guys on their big contracts con their wives into dropping their jobs when they pull up sticks and they decide they've got nothing else to do."

L adjusts her sunnies and crosses her arms under her padded bikini bra."I'd like one of those."
She's only been a part-time student for the last seven years. "What, a job?"
"A rich husband, bitch!" But there's no malice in it, and we both laugh.

"Look, I have to go. Work in five. But I'll check flights," I promise. L sticks her lower lip out petulantly, but I blow her a kiss and a "Ciao, bella!" and zap my end of the call. I can always find a reason to spend a week in another country, and
five minutes is a long time. Enough, it seems, to find a likely-looking studio and type a quick notification of absence.

Plane travel

I have a knack for attracting the leftover teenager of a loud, obnoxious family, or the businessman complaining about being bumped and whatever will he do, this meeting was such a scheduling fuckup in the first place and now everyone needs to reconvene and why don't they show decent inflight movies, if I have to watch Sandra Bullock try to have a facial expression one more time...

So I'm prepared. iPad, virtual books, headphones and pashmina. I will sleep, I will type. Chuck Palahniuk had it right when he wrote about single-serve friends. Plane pleasantries are not my métier.

For once I'm pleasantly surprised by the blonde sitting in the window seat. She fills her economy space without spilling into mine, survival novel (Penny Vincenzi) and teeny-weeny iPod at the ready as the plane taxis and I snap my carryon into the overhead locker.

She opens with "I'm so sorry, I only shifted over a couple of minutes ago when I thought this seat would be empty. Do you want me to move?"

I'm already buckling my aisle seat belt and shoving my 24A boarding pass into my bag, unpacking my travel arsenal. "It's fine. I was a little held up before checkin, had to race and just made the last boarding call. I'd rather have the aisle anyway."

Actually, I hate nothing more than the cattle call of boarding lounges, the quick desperation of people queuing and then their shamefaced realization that we will all shuffle onto the tin can and along it's cramped aisles and breathe each other's air for the next eternity no matter who's third or thirtieth. It wasn't so much J's impetuous, passionate goodbye that occurred at the same hourly rate as a trashy motel room - damn airport carparks - that made me 'late' as it was the grande hot chocolate I nursed reading Cryptonomicon until I was paged by name.

"You sure?" She's just the right level of pretty to want to please, to be uxorious, and sure enough there are fine lines around her eyes and a left hand that announces her availability. I'd feel bad about checking her out if she hadn't already up-and-downed me during my struggle with the overhead, pricing my roomy leather shoulder bag and matching my ipad cover to my scarf. I travel in expensive monochrome.

“Really. Enjoy the view.” My playlist is keyed up, genius mix based on Clare Bowditch's cover of Fall at your feet ready to cover the groaning liftoff. My headphones are halfway to my ears, and I smile apologetically in that small, self-effacing way that professional women have with one another.
“Excuse me. Work things to catch up on. Got to hit this conference running.” She smiles a "Sure. Thanks about the window," understandingly and turns away, already untucking the corner of her blockbuster.

I’m escaping.

B. is for boom

Wow.

That’s all I can think when she finally slides past the teasing stage and I feel ridge after ridge curving inside me.  

Let’s rewind a little.

A package arrived on my doorstep today. I wasn’t home to meet the postman, or I might have invited him to stay to the grand opening. However, being the caring, sharing person I am, I promptly phoned a girlfriend to voice my excitement. The second she answered, I squealed “It’s here!”

“No! Really? Really-really?!”

“Mmhm.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Come over and see for yourself. I’ll cook.”

She did, although I didn’t cook. There was Thai. There was a bottle of wine. There was a lot of eye contact and fingertips-caressing-knowingly action. There may have been a short discussion about the impropriety of screwing around with a good friend, and what technically constitutes cheating, but let’s be honest, it was sketchy at best. Just another box to tick on the way to an inevitable seduction.

All of a sudden we got down to business. A quick bathroomy exit revealed its real purpose in a kerfuffle of packaging and unwrapping: the discovery of a magic wand. “So, you’ve tried one of these before?” she breathed into my mouth.

“I wish. You get to do the honors.” It was still warm from a hot-water blast, impossibly smooth and unyielding as it glided up my leg, sliding along the inside of one thigh to nudge the willing fabric of my skirt aside. “Round and round the garden…” she crooned, caressing with a fairy’s touch and the finest glass point, kinked and narrow as a fingertip.

All I could do was laugh, tickled as much by the sensation as the naughtiness.  She pulled it away and thoughtfully considered the business end.

“Hey! I was enjoying that!”

“Tough.” It’s a cluster of glass droplets above three larger spheres. “What’s it called again?” 

“The triple pleaser.”

“Hm.” She caresses it thoughtfully, and I move her hand to a more advantageous position; the glass slips smoothly over my panties and I draw breath a little more quickly, feeling the contoured little bumps send a quick wake-up call. “Lower?” She grins, bites her lip complicitly, and widens her circle. I nearly wet my pants.

“So, I think I need to get rid of these now.”

She raises one eyebrow, carries on twirling, even grinding a little, measuring her pressure by my steady pushing back. “Oh… No, I really need to get rid of these now.”

“Not yet,” she teases lightly.

“I don’t remember putting you in charge. Oh. OH.”

Boom, just like that, a subtle clitoral orgasm. Who knew glass could be so good?

Everything’s quite damp, and she turns the glistening wand thoughtfully between her palms, waiting for my breath to return to normal.

“I was going to ask where you keep your slippery stuff, but somehow I don’t think that’ll be necessary. You’d better save some strength though. I definitely want a turn.”

B. is for beautiful

Our family-friendly campsite has fallen silent, children napping in caravans while their parents sneak a leisurely afternoon Corona, the teenagers walking off their hangovers or loitering at the local store, trying to bum cigarettes from each other and talk up their marijuana experiments. 

The campsite across from us homes a contingent of hard-drinking surfer dudes and their identical, white-denimed blonde girlfriends, and with the boys out on their boards the girls have descended into a stoner reverie of low-volume Keisha and sipped Bacardis.

B.'s swabbing and tidying away  things that will be newly strewn about within five minutes of everyone's return, and my rereading of "Sing you home" is palling.

"I think I need a nap," I announce to no-one in particular, and slink off to my tent, conscious I'm being observed. It's only a few minutes before B. taps at the fly. "You okay?"
Propped on one hand I smile brightly, beckon her to unzip the flap. "Sure. Come in if you want. I thought I'd just rest my eyes a little, enjoy the peace."

She's too vulnerable: the blue eyes hood and inside her head she is straight away retreating, apologizing and finding somewhere else to be. Damn.
"Not you, you're peaceful." I pat the space beside me invitingly. Our tent is a combination of very small and a queen-size inflatable mattress: put simply, wall-to-wall bed.

"I could probably nap a little," she admits, and I scootch to one side to let her slide in beside me. I study her profile a few minutes as she stares at the sky-blue ceiling, hair tangled under her shoulders and fists clenched softly over her hips, nothing speaking of repose except her horizontality. I know how to change this, but what will I unleash?

Too late. I curl toward her and prop myself up again, freeing one hand to stroke her hair away from her face, threading my fingers through the wind-rough dreadlocks and teasing it from beneath her head and neck. She doesn't respond, except to lift her shoulders in compliance, and then I understand how this is going to be. How, perhaps, she needs this to be. 

I keep smoothing and plucking until B. is a sleeping beauty, letting her breath slow and spread from her throat through the sponge of her lungs, the flush of a sleeping child gradually appearing on her cheeks. Then I start on her face, lightly drawing her features as if sketching her, feathering her skin delicately and crossing the line into intimacy - the shivery territory of behind earlobes and the tender territory beneath her jaw, freckled from driving. 

She shivers a little, the hypnic jerk of sleep overtaking her, and I cautiously withdraw my hand, uncertain of what I've promised. It's impossible to sleep beside her, and I shimmy myself out into the light carefully, telling myself there is nothing untoward about what's we've just enacted.

Camping

It's one of those perfect afternoons; lazy and undirected. Finally the torrent of food we call lunch dribbles to a conclusion, cheese and olives then cups of over brewed tea ameliorated with too much milk and still somehow scalding. My appetite's always better camping, as if my senses sharpen and refine in the absence of stimuli. 

"Walk? Beach?"
J.'s suggestion, and in a couple of minutes everyone's moving, eager to be included. Extra layers, beanies; defense against the creeping chill of dusk and dimming light, and they're reconvening while I still drowse in diabetic bliss.

He caresses my head gently. In one smooth, familiar gesture he tugs my black beanie over my hair and tucks an errant chunk behind my ear, bending to kiss my forehead.
"Ell-bell. Coming?"

I cross my arms and slouch a little lower, squinting into the last sun.
"I'll stay. Ate too much. And B. just made me more tea."
At the sound of her name, B. looks up from the camp sink, shading her eyes with a sudsy hand and flicking blonde wisps away from her calm, Botticelli-angelic face.
"Oh, sure, you guys go ahead. I just want to tidy up a little round here. Maybe put a load of washing on while the place is quiet."
I tug on J.'s sleeve and tease "Maybe I'll put some washing on too - ready for you to hang out when you get back."

"Mmm, not so much of that would be great," he scoffs, then catches my warning look. The guys have had it pretty easy this trip, putting up tents and building fires like no tomorrow, undeterred by the mounds of dirty dishes and stacks of Tupperware from our lovingly home-cooked meals, oblivious to the queues for bathroom facilities and damp socks steaming up our tents.

J.'s clearly well attuned to my mood; that's all it takes for him to throw up his hands and start backing away, blowing a kiss and striding to catch the rest of our gang as they disappear through the gates of the camping ground, and B. throws me a small, self-conscious smile- almost coy- as she dries and stacks the enamel dishes. 

This is our history, the narrative we're writing ourselves into. An annual camping sojourn, a little escape from civilization, our clients, our families. The kind of tradition our grandparents relate nostalgically to the tune of our parents' scoffing. 

Winter's here.

These days are the kind I can't get enough of; the slow, lazy wake-ups and meandering about the house, pottering from one gentle activity to another sharing complicit glances and shy, sideways stares that end in giggles, silliness, enveloping bearlike hugs.

If every day of my life could be a lazy Saturday wearing catseye eyeliner and finding things to do to fill the time before going out I'd be a happy girl.
Let's just glide along the surface of who makes me happy, homebodying porcelain-framed tea and a thick book, pages dog-eared by favoritism, some cruisy nothing music bubbling in the next room. These days in and out of blankets pretending to convalesce when really we're wearing each other in all over again.

This is what always draws me back. Comfort like the best teeshirt you've ever owned, warmth under my skin better than cashmere leggings or peach schnapps, happiness flickering under my ribs and over my stomach when he smiles.

And I tell myself I would never give this up. Again, and again, a little firmer every time. There is no use wondering, there is no use wondering, there is no future in things burned and buried, there is no going back and no returning to the past and even if I could cross the same street twice (walk into the same cafe twice, board the same train twice, fall into the same bed and trap and vice) I would not.
I would have ended it.

I would have.

Ups and downs.

The thing about grief is it's stopping power. If I could bottle it I'd sell it as brake fluid.

I sit, and suddenly the big hand points in the opposite direction.

Two sips of tea, and there's a scummy layer of milk over the tepid water and my cheeks are just as clammy.
My body's a desert; water only flows in the cool of night, and only from my gritty eyes.

And then a day of peace; of blessed forgetting and skating through the pleasures of food, work.
A satisfying day with each thing in it's place and time for each event. My day, until I step on sun-warmed boards and hear the slide of graphite on paper and the click of a neighboring door.

I don't know what to do with this grief. It has no audience, no circle of commiserators. No low-voiced confidences to share and pass around like small heirlooms polished by our retelling. It circles repeatedly, can't find it's weight or rhythm.

Unwanted advances

When we sit to drink coffee looking out past the grey breakers he sits beside me, pulls his stool a little closer than I'd like. It's impossible to move it away without toppling myself from the weathered porch, so I hold firm and hope he'll tow the line.

The last time we were on this beach it was midnight, he was lost, I wanted to get lost, and it was so easy to let him work his usual magic. Today his steel-blue eyes leave me cold, and I want to let him freeze. Want to make him work himself through something instead of just misdirecting, distracting, running away and only returning when the pain's receded into a manageable throb.

In the fiasco of nodding and mm-ing his hand slides up my thigh, fingers seeking to tuck familiarly between my legs in the old gesture of reassurance, possession. A familiar precursor to intimacy, it should scoop my pelvis open with desire, throb my stomach and flutter in my chest. That I am still goose-pimpled by the wind and unlit within is bitterly disappointing, and I don't even need to push him away.

He can feel the lack of spirit. I don't talk about J., about Wolf or Boyd, about the way dancing makes me feel or how I've contracted a layer of scar tissue he can't slice away. He does all the talking, while his eyes gradually shut up shop and come to understand the wall's not coming down today. Perhaps not ever, and perhaps it's not just the tyranny of distance or his desertion that's built it.