A Confluence

His hand on my side, thumb grazing my breast. The other pushing against my lower back, slipping a little lower. As though catching himself from giving in to his impulse he dragged his hand up my back. His large palm moving gradually, index finger following the dip and curve of my spine. Grasping the back of my neck, briefly and in a smooth sweeping motion he gathered my hair in his fist. His left arm wrapped around me. Pressed tightly to his chest, he leaned forward, my back arched backward. Supported only by the crook of his arm, I melted against him. Moving fluidly, reacting to sensation; the tingling of my skin beneath his fingertips, the tug of my hair from my scalp. His strong, muscled arm holding me as though he wanted to merge. He needed to entwine himself with me; needed me to sustain him. The heat radiating off his body and mine, was all consuming. His tongue and mine gently teasing one another. Our lips reacted to the firm pull of the other, and then to light grazes against each other, as though it was always meant to be his lips on mine. We were inextricably drawn to one another. However, a confession weighed down my bottom lip. I pulled back suddenly, breaking us from our reverie. Straightening up, but not relinquishing his hold he stared surprised and yearning. Only then did Maya realise her nails dug deep into his chest and his chiselled jaw cupped in her hand. My eyes flicked from his lips to his dark brown eyes…

How do I tell him now?

* * *

Walking hurriedly, her red scarf billowing behind her, Maya was attempting to make it back to her town house before the drizzle turned to an absolute down pour. Already windscreen wipers were moving across windshields of drivers dreading the impending traffic.

She clumsily fumbled with her keys as she tried to get inside as quickly as she could.

She stepped into her cluttered hall way, heels click clacking on the hard wood floors. Maya inhaled the familiar smell of vanilla emanating from her many diffusers strategically placed around the house and immediately felt relief wash over her. Turning to examine her appearance in an ornate floor to ceiling mirror, Maya decided her fly-away’s’ and slightly puffy hair could have been a lot worse. Grateful she made it out of the rain when she did, she went straight to the kitchen and greedily reached out for the cake stand laden with brownies. She inhaled one... two.. three, and threw her head back relishing a fudgy mouthful. Feeling less starved, she turned on the kettle, glided into the living room and began tuning her radio. Between the staccato of radio static she caught snatches of dull radio hosts attempting to sound important.

'... You’re my favourite work of art..'

"Ahh" Maya exhaled as she tossed off her shoes to her favourite song. The arch of her feet ached as it adjusted to the flatness of the floor and she gingerly teetered over to the kettle to make herself a cup of tea. She entered back into the lavish room clasping the cake stand in one hand, tea in the other and carefully lowered herself on to the love seat by the window. Picking up her feet and stretching her legs across the chair she watched the rain gush down the window. Cosy and relaxed she revelled in her comfortable and indulgent evening.

A heavy thud echoed through the hallway followed quickly by a fast but firm knock on the door.

Confused and slightly annoyed, Maya walked toward the door and peered through the peephole in the door. She froze, unbelieving. She wondered how he had found out she was back so soon. She opened the door and there he stood chest heaving with anticipation. Words abandoned him and her gaze was pulled so deep into his eyes it was as though it had been a minute not seven years since she stood before him.

“Come in,” Maya said. Ezekiel obliged, “Hi,” he puffed “I was just at the Establishment with Jonathan and he told me you had come back from London and I.. thought I would come say ‘Welcome back’,” Of course, she thought. Maya realised she had forgotten about Jonathan. The way he slowed his speech as he justified his coming to her apartment made her think that he had not completely thought this through. Was he regretful already?

He had taken off his trench and hung it on the coat stand by the door and ran his fingers through his wet hair. His eyes had not dropped from Maya’s, nor hers from his.

There was hardly any space between their bodies and seven years was holding Maya back from embracing him but his chest, so familiar and yet slightly broader and more built made her long to rest her head against him.

“Thank you,” she sounded almost monotone. Embarrassed at the sound she had just made she shook her head and asked if he wanted anything to drink. When he had said whisky she was surprised, she was expecting him to say beer, but his change of taste made sense for this twenty-nine year old. She poured herself a glass of red and they moved toward the plush love chair by the window.

Maya wondered whether he could remember their bodies entangled together on this couch as vividly as she. She peered at him out the corner of her eye looking for any indication whatsoever. His body had tensed but that was more likely to be because of the seven years of silence that hung over their heads.

Suddenly conscious of what she looked like Maya sat up straight, to suck in her stomach, regretting the brownies she had just devoured. Joey’s eyes scanned the room. It was filled with many things that were familiar. However, a few photographs and artworks were new, and his eyes soaked them up; He was eager to learn how Maya was changed or unchanged for the time they had spent apart from one another.

“Is that you?” he asked intrigued. Maya’s eyes flicked up from her stomach to his face and was met with a perfectly sculpted 5 o’clock shadow that offset his cheekbones. He had evolved into an Armani model straight from the pages of GQ magazine.

She followed his gaze to a collage of black and white photographs.

“Yes. I worked as a burlesque dancer while in France for a few years,” Maya was a little short of breath. Even though he had seen every inch of her body, she felt so vulnerable sitting beside him as he absorbed her curves and edges.

A smile crept onto Ezekiel’s’ lips. “You have always loved being provocative,”

“I love the thrill. No one knew me there and I had never felt so free. It was almost as though it didn’t matter how reckless I was or could be, my actions seemed so inconsequential,”

The words had rushed from her. She wasn’t sure why she was repeating the lies she told all those years ago to her girlfriends. There no need to maintain the façade anymore.

Joey simply sipped his whisky. He always took his time responding, more so when he felt passionate about something. Maya realised she had begun to mimic his breathing pattern while she sat across from him, waiting. He was always so steady, always articulate she thought. Maya wondered if he always resented her vague excuses for not wanting to attempt long distance. A sense of defensiveness began to grow from the pit of her stomach. Annoyed his composure began to look patronising and impatience was getting the better of her.

“Inconsequential. I never would have had a problem with it Maya,” Joey spoke quietly and to his drink.

“All I wanted was to explore and experience with you. You know that. I want you to tell me what you couldn’t at twenty-one,” He was not angry, just simply speaking directly. He stared straight at me now.

Maya leaned back into her chair and drank deeply from her glass. Her heart had skipped, and butterflies tickled her stomach. She wondered why it was that, just his undivided attention could make her feel like this. It wasn’t as though this conversation they were about to have was going to be free from conflict. He wanted answers and Joey was patient. She knew he would not break the silence that grew between them.

“I left because I had found my little sister Aisha. She was in Paris; I was contacted by her roommate, that she had died of a drug overdose. I felt the burden of fortune. It was sheer luck that our circumstances weren’t reversed. I didn’t want to be here living a life handed to me on a silver platter. I felt guilt for being with you when she had been alone for so long. I had to go,”

I went on to explain what I had learned of little Aisha’s life; the trauma that was her lived experience.

Ezekiel’s chest rose and fell. She noticed a vein on his neck become prominent as he tensed his jaw, listening intently.

All that was left of her sisters’ was a little black book of names and twenty thousand dollars in cash. She had used the money while in Paris strategically to ensure she could stay and work out who belonged to the names Aisha had noted down and the subsequent code that she had written notes in.

Joey finished off his whisky, loosened his tie and began to roll up his sleeves.

“I’m closer to this story than you know,” Ezekiel stated.

* * *

Draped in a thick woollen blanket, I held the wheel tightly. Listening to my heart thud against my chest, I reacted from muscle memory alone. Not a thought crossed my mind. I found myself pulling up in the drive way. From the garage I entered home and a wave of emotion crashed over me. I breathed quickly and heavily, heaving. Hand on my knees I tried to calm myself, rationalise. Tears ran from my burning eyes and dripped to the floor with light thuds. I felt myself becoming overwhelmed and I hated feeling. I sprung upright and clambered into the kitchen. I picked up the butter knife and began to sloppily butter bread. Shoving the fluffy pieces of bread into my saliva filled mouth I kept going as though purposefully. Piece by piece, every slice of bread a desperate attempt to to cure the twisted and ever growing fear that was in the pit of her stomach.

As though in a haze I had finished the loaf. Panting I looked for more food to distract myself with. Something that I could busy my hands with, that would dull the sick sense of worry that threatened to overwhelm her. Stomach aching and head turning frantically around the kitchen, my knees buckled. I wrapped my arms around my stomach as it ached. Uncertain whether I would vomit or not I dragged myself up to the kitchen sink and clasped the tap for support; False alarm.

Feeling grotesque and defeated, I slumped back to the floor again. A sound foreign to me left my lips. A wailing of a child that couldn't articulate what it was they needed. Thoughts wouldn't formulate; they would almost be comprehensible and then evaporate. The sight of Ezekiel laying on the coroners' table was horrifying; it plagued me. Eyes open or closed, the tears that rose in my eyes, brought the image of his beaten face almost unrecognisable and blinded me from where I was.