feel up to gaming, so he just lies back and watches the red hologram digits click over and over. 00:00. He can’t even be bothered to jerk off.
* * *
They leave the SkyBar at around midnight. Kirsten knows by the look in Keke’s eyes that she’s on her way to a booty call.
‘Watch yourself,’ Keke says, strapping her helmet on and inflating it. She flings her leg over her sleek e-motorbike, releases the kickstand, and revs the engine. Kirsten waves as Keke takes off with a roar.
Standing in the monochrome rectangular box of the almost empty, poorly lit parking basement, Kirsten feels restless, cocky, horny, and not at all in the mood to go home. If she were single she would go back to the bar, pick up some unsuspecting man and show him her talents.
She misses that, sometimes, the thrill of sleeping with someone for the first time. The feeling of a stranger’s lips on hers; lips that have nothing to do with love or affection. The first undressing, the first nipple-in-mouth, pulling of hair, and then the heady relief of that first swollen thrust. Just thinking about it, Kirsten feels her breathing deepen, and a general throbbing in the lower half of her body. James is a generous lover, but he doesn’t have the same nagging libido as she does. Add thirteen years of old-fashioned monogamy to that and it’s always tempting on nights like this, with booze in her blood, to accept one of the many advances made to her. After all, she reasons, no one would have to know, so no one would be hurt. She has never cheated on James, but at times like this, angry with him, angry with the world, she feels a hard, rebellious recklessness. A sharp chipstone in her fist.
The idea of meeting someone new at the bar, someone who doesn’t know any of her problems, Is tempting. She could pretend to be a different person. Be someone lighter: someone who didn’t think as much. Make up a fake name, live one of those parallel lives that loiter in her subconscious, if only for a few hours. Shake some yellow stars of adrenaline into her bloodstream. Have dirty sex.
But she knows she won’t do it; wouldn’t be able to live with the haunting guilt. She may have a dozen flaws, but she is not a cheater. Cursed at birth with honesty and loyalty. Not dissimilar to a Labrador, as Keke likes to say.
All relationships, she tells herself, have their rocky roads. She reminds herself to think with her brain, and her heart, and takes a definitive step in the direction of the late night bus stop.
In the distance a silhouette steps out from behind a car and Kirsten jumps.
Jesus! She thinks, scrabbling for her mace.
The figure slowly approaches her. Her beer-clumsy fingers can’t find it so she decides to run, but the parking basement is in virtual darkness apart from the exit, and the creep now stands between her and the light. Kirsten squints, shields her eyes, tries to see the face of the stranger.
‘Hello?’ she calls, pushing her voice deeper, trying to seem strong and confident. The figure slows down, but keeps moving towards her, gliding silently, also cautious. With a zinging in her head, Kirsten realises that this is the person who has been following her all night. She sweats: feverish with fright.
‘Don’t be scared,’ says a wobbly voice. Female.
‘What do you want?’ shouts Kirsten, an edge to her voice. She imagines herself waking up the next morning in a bath of dirty ice, with untidy green stitches (Seaweed Sutures) where her kidneys used to be. But that kind of stuff doesn’t happen anymore, she assures herself. They print organs now.
‘I have something for you,’ the woman says.
Kirsten can make out her face, cheek-boned but androgynous, with a matching haircut. Skeletal figure hidden in unflattering clothes: mom-cut jeans and a tracksuit top flecked with dog hair. No make-up on her dry lips or darting eyes. Clenched
* * *
They leave the SkyBar at around midnight. Kirsten knows by the look in Keke’s eyes that she’s on her way to a booty call.
‘Watch yourself,’ Keke says, strapping her helmet on and inflating it. She flings her leg over her sleek e-motorbike, releases the kickstand, and revs the engine. Kirsten waves as Keke takes off with a roar.
Standing in the monochrome rectangular box of the almost empty, poorly lit parking basement, Kirsten feels restless, cocky, horny, and not at all in the mood to go home. If she were single she would go back to the bar, pick up some unsuspecting man and show him her talents.
She misses that, sometimes, the thrill of sleeping with someone for the first time. The feeling of a stranger’s lips on hers; lips that have nothing to do with love or affection. The first undressing, the first nipple-in-mouth, pulling of hair, and then the heady relief of that first swollen thrust. Just thinking about it, Kirsten feels her breathing deepen, and a general throbbing in the lower half of her body. James is a generous lover, but he doesn’t have the same nagging libido as she does. Add thirteen years of old-fashioned monogamy to that and it’s always tempting on nights like this, with booze in her blood, to accept one of the many advances made to her. After all, she reasons, no one would have to know, so no one would be hurt. She has never cheated on James, but at times like this, angry with him, angry with the world, she feels a hard, rebellious recklessness. A sharp chipstone in her fist.
The idea of meeting someone new at the bar, someone who doesn’t know any of her problems, Is tempting. She could pretend to be a different person. Be someone lighter: someone who didn’t think as much. Make up a fake name, live one of those parallel lives that loiter in her subconscious, if only for a few hours. Shake some yellow stars of adrenaline into her bloodstream. Have dirty sex.
But she knows she won’t do it; wouldn’t be able to live with the haunting guilt. She may have a dozen flaws, but she is not a cheater. Cursed at birth with honesty and loyalty. Not dissimilar to a Labrador, as Keke likes to say.
All relationships, she tells herself, have their rocky roads. She reminds herself to think with her brain, and her heart, and takes a definitive step in the direction of the late night bus stop.
In the distance a silhouette steps out from behind a car and Kirsten jumps.
Jesus! She thinks, scrabbling for her mace.
The figure slowly approaches her. Her beer-clumsy fingers can’t find it so she decides to run, but the parking basement is in virtual darkness apart from the exit, and the creep now stands between her and the light. Kirsten squints, shields her eyes, tries to see the face of the stranger.
‘Hello?’ she calls, pushing her voice deeper, trying to seem strong and confident. The figure slows down, but keeps moving towards her, gliding silently, also cautious. With a zinging in her head, Kirsten realises that this is the person who has been following her all night. She sweats: feverish with fright.
‘Don’t be scared,’ says a wobbly voice. Female.
‘What do you want?’ shouts Kirsten, an edge to her voice. She imagines herself waking up the next morning in a bath of dirty ice, with untidy green stitches (Seaweed Sutures) where her kidneys used to be. But that kind of stuff doesn’t happen anymore, she assures herself. They print organs now.
‘I have something for you,’ the woman says.
Kirsten can make out her face, cheek-boned but androgynous, with a matching haircut. Skeletal figure hidden in unflattering clothes: mom-cut jeans and a tracksuit top flecked with dog hair. No make-up on her dry lips or darting eyes. Clenched
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