Memory and Loss Pt. 03

I don't remember what we talked about, not much probably, just quietness together. No mention of the night before, some mention of her loss, and some idle curiosity from her about Rosie.

"You don't mind that she's overseas and meeting up with someone else?"

"Not really, he's been the someone else for a while now, and I've worked through it. Not sure I can really figure it out though."

Cathy looked at me with her pale blue eyes.

"She's fucking stupid to lose you, I'd have thought. You're a good man. I could do with a good man, mine turned out to be not so good."

She gripped my hand in hers, her cold hand. I touched her cheek, and her lips with my finger tip, but no more than that. Her cheek was cool, her lips hot. Oh fuck, here I go. Stop, now, she's coming out of a marriage, don't get in the way of that train wreck! But her lips are hot. Fuck.

"Look at that, the rain's coming up the hill towards us. We're going to get soaked. Come on, we gotta run."

So we ran for the car, laughing in the rain, both of us huddling under the rug thrown over our heads.

"Fuck it's cold, quick, let's get going so we can get the heater on."

The little gallery and its tea rooms were about half an hour away. As I drove I registered that Cathy had lightly placed her hand on my leg, not a word said. My red car is a manual, and the road windy and hills, and every time I shifted gear the light pressure of her hand came and went. But she didn't remove her hand from my thigh, just rested it there.

Cathy was a good artist, so the work on the walls of the gallery captured her attention. I love to watch someone come alive talking about and looking at things they love, things they are passionate about. Watching Cathy in that place, I could see a woman that many men could easily fall in love with, and there I was, falling in love just a little with this thin, heartbroken woman.

Is that what Rosie meant, when she told me to be kind to myself, too?

Rosie knew me, and knew my kindness, and perhaps knew that Cathy might find a bit of it too. Fucking women, looking out for each other in their sisterhood. We men just don't know how that all works, which is to our disadvantage. I knew that I didn't know, at least.

That afternoon though, sitting at a small table, a plate of scones and jam, two hot coffees steaming, I learned something about myself that I had not known before. I learned why I got on well with women, and why I found it easy to talk to them.

"You know what it is about you that's different to other men? I've just realised what it is."

"No, haven't got a clue. I'm just me, being me. I never measure myself against other men. What's the point? Generally there's not much to measure against..."

"See the waitress, what do you think of her?"

"She's a pretty girl, with a lovely smile. I'd come to this tea shop again, just for her smile."

"Yes, you would." Her eyes darkened. "I don't blame you, I would too.

"But you know what it is about you? Even though she's a pretty girl, and there's a sexy sway to her hips as she walks around, you don't notice that. Most men, my husband included, most men would be following her with their eyes even as they were talking to me.

"But you, you're here talking to me, and you're giving me your undivided attention. Your eyes aren't looking all over the room, they're not gazing at the pretty girl, they're not looking out the window. You're paying attention to me, giving me your undivided attention. Your gaze. It's just for me.

"And fuck, I love that. Men don't do that, not at all, you're the first man I've ever known to do it. You talk to me like a woman does. That's how women talk to each other."

So Cathy was the first woman to introduce me to the notion of "undivided attention". I was intrigued, but didn't think so much about it, not then. It was not until later, when some other women used exactly the same expression, that I realised that it was an unusual thing, in a man. Can't do anything about it though, because it's just me.

Later, I found myself watching women talk to each other, out in public, in the cafe, on the bus. And I realised that women talk together so differently to how men talk. That was it - women talk together, while men talk apart. So that's why women are a mystery to men - we men just don't pay enough attention, usually.

But Cathy. It seems that I was paying her more attention than I had at first realised, just by being myself. Was that a slow seduction, explaining her hand on my thigh as I drove, or was it her seducing me? I'm easy to seduce, I think, if a woman wants to do it. It takes longer the other way around.

Driving home through the southern part of the city, away from the mountains, her hand remained on my thigh, passive but possessive. Cathy was claiming me for this little moment, and I didn't mind. I hadn't expected it, but said nothing, for fear that I did not know where she might go, for fear that she might not go there.

As we got nearer home, waves of cloud and rain gusted over the car, bands of weather in quick succession. The skies opened and threw water at the earth. Even on the short run to the front door, and a fumble with the lock, we are both drenched, laughing and shivering in the cold. And the house was cold, an icebox.

"Quick, get yourself under the shower to warm up, I'll get the heater going."

"What a great idea, I'm freezing."

"I'm not surprised, you've got no flesh on your bones."

Cathy pouted, and then laughed. "You're right, there's not much of me at the moment. I really need to put on some weight." And laughed again. "That's not something you'll hear often, from a woman!"

She went straight to the bathroom, and I heard the slide of her wet jeans onto the floor, before I turned to the lounge and fussed with the old oil heater, a fast heat, thank God. Then through to the kitchen to put the kettle on for a coffee. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I heard the shower turn off, and imagined Cathy drying her skinny body, her long hair wet.

"Alex, come and have your shower, I'll finish making the coffee."

She had come from the bathroom, wrapped in a big, thick towel, another on her head, a turban around her hair. Even in the thick towel wrapped around nearly twice, she was so thin. But she had a warm smile, so today had been good for her.

I went into the bathroom and ran the shower as hot as I could bear it on my skin, giving myself a good soak. As I always do when it's cold, I finished with a thirty second blast of cold water, to close the pores in my skin. Fuck that's a shock. I threw another thick towel around me, drying myself quickly, and then wrapped the towel around my waist.

I banged open the door of the bathroom and took the three steps to my room, starting to unwrap the towel as I reached the door, so I could grab dry clothes.

"Fuck, you startled me," and I automatically said the dumbest thing, "what are you doing in my bed?"

Cathy saved me from my own stupidity.

"I'm so so cold, I just can't get warm. So what's better than another person? Nothing else though, it can't be anything else. Not now, not yet."

Astonished, I had dropped the towel from my waist when her presence startled me, so stood naked before her. Cathy was sitting up in bed, her towel still wrapped around her head, and her typical black tee covering her thin shoulders.

"Come on, I've got the coffee, we can snuggle up under the doona together."

I wasn't quite sure what was going on here, so I went for practicality.

"OK, didn't expect this. But yes, I'm always a warm body, and you're right, you're bloody freezing."

As I got to the bed she unwrapped the towel from her head, and snuggled down the bed, her back to me. I climbed in behind her, and wrapped my bigger, longer body around her. I could feel the knubs of her spine against my chest and belly, and her bony ass against my groin and the tops of my thighs.

"You're so warm against my back. God, that is nice. My own heater."

And, despite the idea of a semi-naked woman in my bed, I was able to wrap Cathy in my warmth and give her that simple human comfort, another body, without my prick gathering and getting in the way. It was as if my body, which normally would be in automatic and fully rigid by now, had actually paid attention to what was going on emotionally with this woman.

And we lay there, my warmth slowly working through to her frail bones, the ice slowly fading from her limbs, for maybe thirty, forty-five minutes. The coffees were forgotten about, and for a while it was just my warm chest and belly and thighs spooning her cold back and bum and legs, my arms around her neck and waist, her hands holding mine to the top of her chest. For a long while it wasn't sexual at all, just two people giving and finding comfort in each other.

Both of us were coming out of decaying relationships, she fast, me slow; and we both knew that this was just a tiny little healing moment, a comfort stop.

Cathy began to tell me of her man, and that was the strangest thing, wrapping this woman, this thin, wrecked woman in my arms while she spoke of another man. And then, and I sensed it from her movements before she did herself, she started to compare me to that other man, or to contrast me, or to remind herself what a man's body felt like.

Her fingers started an exploratory trail over my fingers. My hands were holding one of hers, palm to palm, palm to back, and the fingers of her free hand began to trail and circle, slowly, over the back of my hand. One finger tip lazily stroked down each one of my fingers, over each knuckle, as if sizing my hand and learning its span, learning the length of my fingers.

Then the fingers of her wandering hand moved to my forearm and traced her own patterns there, and it was slow. I remembered that Cathy was an artist, a painter, and it was as if her finger tips were drawing her memories onto my arm, remembering. And in so doing, drawing this memory onto my arm where it lingered and stayed, and is here today.

Buy yesterday, on that still, cold afternoon, two people in a bed slowly awoke. Her hand went from mine, and I could feel movement and a stretch of the cloth that was about her body and she must have been running her own hand over her own belly or breast, I could not tell.

And then her two hands went to the bottom of the tee, and pulled it shorter up her body, its cloth gathering, and she pulled it over her head and cast it to the floor, and her naked back, warm now, was against mine.

Cathy still lay facing away from me, her legs pulling up as if she was sitting sideways on a chair, and mine followed, so the backs of her thighs, her long thin thighs, were still warmed by the fronts of mine. She pushed her ass back into the cupped hollow of my groin, pushing back to find my heat, filling now but still soft.

She took one of my hands in hers, and placed it on her breast, my palm over a hard, tight nipple, and that's all there was, her breast was gone and I could feel the ribs of her chest. She held my palm on her hard nub, her palm pressing the back of my hand to keep the pressure hard, her fingers threading between mine.

"Oh fuck, press me hard there, remind me. My breast, it has forgotten."

She took my other hand and brought it up to her mouth, and made my fingers wander on her lips, and they were dry; and on her cheek, and it was wet; and down her neck, and it was long; and through her hair, and it was soft.

"I've forgotten gentleness. He wasn't gentle, not in the end."

She still lay facing away from me, my hands and fingers now on her skin and reminding her that a man can be gentle, doesn't always need to be hard. She kept her hand on mine against her breast, what tiny bit there was of it, and her other hand moved down her body. I could tell from the shift in her legs that her fingers were sliding between her thighs and without a word said, I knew she needed to go there by herself, to find herself again.

All I could do was hold hold her safe, a man's body at her back, just warmth and heat and strength. She trusted me, this broken woman, she trusted me to let her find herself.

And I held her in my arms, my palm held firm to her breast, my fingers on the wetness of her cheek, as she slowly brought herself to a slow, solitary peak, her fingers slow and then faster in her centre, reminding herself of her own pleasure. Except I do not think it was pleasure, that sad day, it was release.

For as she came, her own finger sliding wet, she was weeping, weeping for her grief, her loss, her man she had left. This thin, frail woman came in my arms but she was alone, all alone in herself, and I cried for her too.

She lay still for five minutes, facing away from me still. Then she rolled towards me, and we each smoothed the wet tears from our cheeks, and she held my face in her two hands, her eyes searching and questioning, and I don't know what she saw, but I can remember what she said.

"Ah, that moves me," the dark one said.

She kissed me, hard, her hand clutching the back of my head and pulling me onto her mouth.

My cock was hard against her belly, and she wriggled down to nestle her sex onto it, and I must have been an inch inside her when she pulled herself off me, and she pressed her body to mine, my cock to her belly.

"Oh fuck, sorry, I'm so sorry. I can't do that, I'm not on the pill, fuck, we've got no contraception. I can't take the risk. Fuck, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be here, in your bed."

"Cathy, Cathy, hey, it's OK. It doesn't matter. What's more important is you, right now. I mean, I can wait. Just come here, you're shattered, you don't know what you're thinking."

So I wrapped her in my arms once again, and held her tight, her hands one on my chest, one on my throat so she could feel the beat of my heart, and both of my hands wide and firm on her back. I could count all her ribs, but I could also touch the flesh between.

"You'll be all right, given time. But hey, right now what you need is sleep. So my shoulder, right, is to be your pillow, and my warm body is to be your bed. That's all you need, right now."

She trailed one last finger to my lips. I had convinced her, or she had just exhausted herself, that a man and a woman could actually give each other the comfort of strangers, and sometimes, that's all that is needed.

"Rosie said you were kind. But I don't think she'll ever know just how kind you really are." Her voice was quiet, just a whisper. "Fucking silly bitch, losing you..."

Cathy slept, and on the Sunday was subdued, and on the Monday, packed her bag and left for her new apartment, the keys finally available. When I got home from work, the spare keys were on the kitchen table, and there was a note:

Thanks so much for the care and attention, I don't know if I will ever be able to thank you. Thanks, kind man. Look in the bottom of the wardrobe, in my room.

And she had left me a drawing of the cat, curled asleep on the bed, her bed. She had even drawn the pattern on the quilt, so I knew it was cat, on her bed.

It's a shame, but when I finally left Rosie, she kept the drawing of cat and destroyed it, as a punishment, I think. Even though she was the one who betrayed me, I was the one who finally left, so I was the one who lost those bits and pieces.

So that was Cathy, except it wasn't, not quite.

Later that week, and of course, it was on a Thursday - Cathy arrived on a Thursday night and her final gift was that Thursday night - so she became my woman on a Thursday night.

It was dark, and I was settling down after a take-away dinner to watch more crap on TV, when there was a knock on the door. I wasn't expecting anyone and I answered the door to no-one I expected.

Cathy came in, dark and intense, dressed all in black.

"I wanted to see you, one last time. I won't see you again, it's too complicated, and you've been too kind to me. But it wasn't fair, what happened on Saturday. So I've come to make amends."

Frankly she was a whirlwind, and I had no idea what she was talking about. But clearly, she did.

Without much preamble, "thanks, I'm OK for food, I ate before I came here, but yes, a glass of wine would be nice," she dropped her coat from her shoulders. She coiled her long hair back in a twist around her neck and down over her breast, her flat breast, and she came to me, placed her hands on my back, and pulled me to her.

"Just kiss me, before your kindness kills me."

And I was taken by the surge of her passion, this thin woman dressed all in black with the palest blue eyes, she took my face in her hands and kissed me hotly, her hands in my hair, pulling my head to hers.

"Jesus, fuck, I don't know what I'm doing here. Come on, get to bed, I need to feel your skin against mine. Fuck, this is twisted. I've just left my husband, for God's sake, I don't need another man, not yet."

But she wasn't listening to herself, as she took my hand and led me to the bedroom. Once there, she pulled at the buttons of my shirt and peeled it from my back, and her lips and teeth and tongue sucked tight on my nipples. A small bite, and I gasped at the sharpness of it.

Cathy twisted from my arms and lifted the black tee from her body. Her torso was thin, ribs showing, and there was only the slightest shadow of flesh on her chest. No breasts at all, but her nipples weren't those of a boy, fuck no, they were long and eraser hard, thick dark nubs like the end of a little finger, sticking half an inch clear of her skin.

She gripped my head and pulled my mouth to those tight, rigid nipples, a rich dark brown colour. I flickered the long tightness of them with my tongue, nipping them in return.

"Yes, fuck, suck on them hard, eat my tits into your mouth."

I dropped to my knees before her, my head tilted high so I could suckle those tits, and she swayed before me, bending her back to keep her tiny mounds in my mouth. Her hands caressed my hair, holding me there. I looked up, and her eyes were closed in the sudden onslaught, her tongue licking her lips, flickering like the snake in the garden.

There was a fury in her, and her fingers snapped to the button and zip of her jeans.

"Pull them down, get my clothes off me. I need to be naked for you."

I pulled the dark denim down, her foot lifted to help, then the other, and she stood before me, her thin legs planted a foot apart, the thin cotton of her panties hiding a dark triangle of hair.

"Whoa, Cathy, slow down, it's OK, it's OK."

It wasn't, because she was clearly driven and tormented, like a wild woman. I had to sooth something in this wildness, before it wrecked her. So I just held my cheek against her panting belly, and cradled the thin flesh of her ass in my hands, and started to stroke her skin gently, like you would a scared bird fallen from a tree.

And slowly, I calmed her, my hands caressing up and down her body in long, slow sweeps, my fingers gentle on her skin. I carefully peeled the tiny cotton panties down, and caressed my cheek to the darkness of her hair. I kissed her belly all over, my lips circling her navel, and slowly I trailed my tongue down the centre of her belly to the top of her pubic patch.

Gently now, her hands holding my head and this time steering me rather than trapping me, she let me turn and place her on the bed. I put my fingers to her lips, sshhh, be still, and then ran my mouth down her long neck, over each peaked nipple in turn, and then down to her sex.

Before I opened her thin thighs, I stood back and peeled the jeans from my own legs. In the half light I could see her half closed eyes watching me, and when I stood tall above her, her thin, long body spread before me, I saw her eyes drop down to my crotch, and then back to my face. My prick was high and proud against my gut, and her eyes widened at the sight of it.