Terroir by Graham Mort Page B

brushing the dark hair. Then he was tasting her mouth, like the water, like the fruit that had seemed to melt inside her at his muteness.
    Zoscia found a fresh towel and led him to the shower. When he emerged she tugged the towel away and led him to bed. His hair was tousled and wet. Zoscia guided him, his eyes widening then closing. She pulled him towards her, into her, feeling his urgency and heat, his arms still faintly damp from the shower. He was gentle as he quickened and they came together in a little tremor that she knew might be the beginning of remorse. Then they lay in a band of mild sunlight that showed up motes of dust turning in currents of air. A dog was yapping faintly at the nearest farm.
    After a time he kissed her shoulder before rising to get dressed, smiling at her, pointing to where his watch should have been, that pale stripe on his wrist. When he left, Zoscia watched from the upstairs window. He looked absurd with his curls spilling, peddling down the lane towards the main road. Vishnu in a cycling helmet. Zoscia showered, then dressed in Carl’s old shirt, changed the sheets, and carried on working as if nothing has happened. She didn’t even know which language he might have spoken. She’d stroked his neck like a child’s when he came and sagged against her. She wondered when he’d last had a woman. Her phone beeped and she saw a line of messages from Carl.
    Zoscia collects the plates and the beer bottle and bottle cap and glass and neatens them on the old tin tray. It’d been her mother’s before her mind had flown away. She goes to the trellis where the fruit trees are espaliered and brings two plums, dusky with bloomed yeast, and rinses them under the tap. They’re sweet and warm from the sun. Carl takes one and bites into it. She thinks of the boy’s eyes, how dark they were.
    â€“ Will you get it finished today?
    Carl squirts the plum stone between his finger and thumb and it shoots into the shrubbery where verbena is fading and dropping its leaves.
    â€“ Maybe.
    He’d worn a surgical collar after the crash, his neck stiff from whiplash. They’d waited in the mist, listening to what was happening on their car radios as the fog gradually cleared. Over thirty cars and lorries had piled together. No one was killed, which seemed a miracle. A white horse had galloped past them in the field beyond the hard shoulder, snorting with terror. That had been two years ago, yet his mind still went back there to the bloom of brake lights, the soft crumpling of metal, to that woman’s face, and to the deer stepping across the road as his engine panted smoke.
    â€“ What about dinner. We could go out?
    â€“ We could. Is that what you want?
    They could walk to the new restaurant in the village. Paulo’s. It was owned by an Italian guy and his wife. He did the cooking and she looked after front of house. The food wasn’t bad and they could drink decent wine, find something to talk about, then walk home arm in arm. They’d pause to read the names on the war memorial, think about those three boys waiting to die, white - faced in the sun. They’d regret the new church, all concrete and stained glass. As if God would mind. The village would be settling down to sleep, curtains drawn, dogs calling from the farms. Then cities lighting up the horizon, shutting out the stars, reminding them how the world turned from sleep to waking, from waking to sleep.
    â€“ What do you think? Dinner at Paulo’s? My treat…
    Carl shrugs and stands up, stretching his arms, massaging the tendons behind his knees.
    â€“ I don’t mind.
    â€“ Don’t mind?
    A little cloud drifts into her face to darken it.
    â€“ I meant it would be nice.
    He smiles a little ruefully and she dips her head, remembering to call Anika in the morning, wondering if Michal will recognise them on the computer screen.
    â€“ OK. We’ll go out, then. I’ll ring to book