FMIN: Privates

I can still smell her perfume on my hands. We laid down together, our hands touching, and her words played out as if in the distance. She tells me of a memory, her mother, a place she loved and then, being there again with her lover. I close my eyes to imagine. I cannot imagine.

The water surrounds us. From behind me waves, ahead of me waves. She rubs my hands as if trying to read them, to discover my secrets in the nub of thumb and warp of finger. I cast a glance around the room, its clinical panels hidden by white curtains and the smell of candles guttering.

It's late afternoon, winter is coming in autumnal shades, I guess. We try to get past performance, looking for that authentic moment. She recalls a time when she came to this loch, swam with her friends and the excuse was the slightest hint of warmth. Moments of intimacy spread out like the pattern on a quilt, or something. I am aware of the tension that I hold in my shoulders.

I can still smell her perfume on my hands.