The Couple
by Bill Kirton
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: A story of compatibility... or not.
_____________________________________________________________________
People always make assumptions. She was as guilty of it as the rest and when she’d seen him in the hotel bar, attracted by his slow, controlled walk and the strange blue of his eyes, she’d wanted to get to know him. OK, his handsomeness was pretty conventional – thick black hair, regular features, dark, open lips, and … well, those eyes! But he also had a presence, an apparent self-confidence that implied he was more than a pretty face.
Two weeks later, she knew the truth. At first, he’d spoken of his twin passions, movies and rugby, but he’d asked about her too and seemed surprised that she was a writer and actually made a living out of her stories and articles. Most of all, though, they’d enjoyed the sex.
But, in the intervals between the sex, their conversations had become more and more one-sided. As he outlined the plots of the latest films or described the scrummaging tactics of London Scottish, she drifted off into metaphors, looking for the image that might encapsulate what they’d so quickly become. And they were all physical, tactile images, which turned the two of them into talons and fur, surfaces and intrusions. There was no ‘you’ and ‘me’ in them. The words in her head writhed, screamed, exploded as they groped to contain the creature she and he had become.
After a month, she’d had enough. The tedium of his discourse was too high a price to pay for their grapplings, however pleasurable they were. They were at what had become their favourite restaurant, a French place which did an exquisite céleri rémoulade. The coffees had been served and, unaccountably, he’d ordered two coupes de champagne to go with them. He lifted his glass, clinked it against hers, which was still on the table, and smiled as he sipped.
‘Blah, blah, blah, blah,’ he said.
She nodded and, in her mind, a stalagmite lifted from a dark green pool. She could almost taste the shining liquid that trickled down from its tip.
‘Blah, blah, blah, blah,’ he continued, smiling at his recollections.
She smiled back and watched as the soft darkness above the stalagmite began to sink towards it, dripping its own fluids to mingle with those on its surfaces. She felt an excitement inside her and failed to notice that his smile had gone and that he was now serious.
‘Blah, blah, blah, blah,’ he said, his voice soft, low.
A toneless music began to hum and echo in the cave, its rhythms regular, pulsing. The tip of the stalagmite …
She stopped. Something was wrong.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Blah, blah, blah,’ he replied.
‘No, what did you just say,’ she insisted. ‘All of it.’
‘I said blah, blah, blah, blah. Will you marry me?’ he said.
The stalagmite crumbled. She was in shock.
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘What a stupid question.’
He looked at her, frowning, his beautiful blue eyes hooded by his brows.
‘No offence,’ she said, ‘but ...’
‘No offence?’ he said, too loudly.
‘No,’ she said, looking round at a woman in a green dress sitting nearby who immediately looked away. ‘I just don’t want to get married.’
He put down his glass, sat back in his chair and looked at her. He was obviously angry. It suited him. He pushed back his chair and said ‘Fuck you’ before walking out.
She shrugged her shoulders, smiled at the woman in green and, with a sigh of relief, called for the bill.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: A story of compatibility... or not.
_____________________________________________________________________
People always make assumptions. She was as guilty of it as the rest and when she’d seen him in the hotel bar, attracted by his slow, controlled walk and the strange blue of his eyes, she’d wanted to get to know him. OK, his handsomeness was pretty conventional – thick black hair, regular features, dark, open lips, and … well, those eyes! But he also had a presence, an apparent self-confidence that implied he was more than a pretty face.
Two weeks later, she knew the truth. At first, he’d spoken of his twin passions, movies and rugby, but he’d asked about her too and seemed surprised that she was a writer and actually made a living out of her stories and articles. Most of all, though, they’d enjoyed the sex.
But, in the intervals between the sex, their conversations had become more and more one-sided. As he outlined the plots of the latest films or described the scrummaging tactics of London Scottish, she drifted off into metaphors, looking for the image that might encapsulate what they’d so quickly become. And they were all physical, tactile images, which turned the two of them into talons and fur, surfaces and intrusions. There was no ‘you’ and ‘me’ in them. The words in her head writhed, screamed, exploded as they groped to contain the creature she and he had become.
After a month, she’d had enough. The tedium of his discourse was too high a price to pay for their grapplings, however pleasurable they were. They were at what had become their favourite restaurant, a French place which did an exquisite céleri rémoulade. The coffees had been served and, unaccountably, he’d ordered two coupes de champagne to go with them. He lifted his glass, clinked it against hers, which was still on the table, and smiled as he sipped.
‘Blah, blah, blah, blah,’ he said.
She nodded and, in her mind, a stalagmite lifted from a dark green pool. She could almost taste the shining liquid that trickled down from its tip.
‘Blah, blah, blah, blah,’ he continued, smiling at his recollections.
She smiled back and watched as the soft darkness above the stalagmite began to sink towards it, dripping its own fluids to mingle with those on its surfaces. She felt an excitement inside her and failed to notice that his smile had gone and that he was now serious.
‘Blah, blah, blah, blah,’ he said, his voice soft, low.
A toneless music began to hum and echo in the cave, its rhythms regular, pulsing. The tip of the stalagmite …
She stopped. Something was wrong.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Blah, blah, blah,’ he replied.
‘No, what did you just say,’ she insisted. ‘All of it.’
‘I said blah, blah, blah, blah. Will you marry me?’ he said.
The stalagmite crumbled. She was in shock.
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘What a stupid question.’
He looked at her, frowning, his beautiful blue eyes hooded by his brows.
‘No offence,’ she said, ‘but ...’
‘No offence?’ he said, too loudly.
‘No,’ she said, looking round at a woman in a green dress sitting nearby who immediately looked away. ‘I just don’t want to get married.’
He put down his glass, sat back in his chair and looked at her. He was obviously angry. It suited him. He pushed back his chair and said ‘Fuck you’ before walking out.
She shrugged her shoulders, smiled at the woman in green and, with a sigh of relief, called for the bill.
About the Author
Bill Kirton was born in Plymouth, but has lived in Aberdeen for most of his life. He’s been a university lecturer, presented TV programmes, written and performed songs and sketches at the Edinburgh Festival, and had radio plays broadcast by the BBC. He’s written three books on study and writing skills in Pearson’s ‘Brilliant’ series and his crime novels, Material Evidence, Rough Justice, The Darkness, Shadow Selves and the historical novel The Figurehead, set in Aberdeen in 1840, have been published in the UK and USA. He's recently started writing children's stories and the first, Stanley Moves In, has just been published. His short stories have appeared in several anthologies and Love Hurts was chosen for the Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 2010.
His website is http://www.bill-kirton.co.uk/ and his blog’s at http://livingwritingandotherstuff.blogspot.com/.
His website is http://www.bill-kirton.co.uk/ and his blog’s at http://livingwritingandotherstuff.blogspot.com/.