Page 69 of What It's Like in Words
Virinder returned and handed me a glass of wine. He said that it was a dry Chardonnay. Don’t worry, he said. I tried it first and it was lovely. I imagined him swilling and gargling like the man in the self-serve wine bar. He introduced me to the table. Enola is a writer!
Fun! said a woman in a sheer pink dress. What do you write?
I’m working on my debut—a young adult book—with my agent.
Virinder’s mouth dropped open. Enola! Amazeballs! I didn’t know you had an agent. That’s the big leagues. My mum met the woman who wrote—oh, what’s that one with the fish on the cover? She met her in Waterstones. Oh, bloody hell, what was her name?
Virinder searched for the name, and I searched his face. His cheekbones were chiseled, his jaw square, and his dark eyes contained flecks of amber.
He put his hand over his face. What? Have I got a bogey?
I told him that I hadn’t noticed his eyes before. He laughed and said that they matched his highlights. I told him that I liked his hair. Does it move in the wind? He put his hand on the sofa, and his thumb grazed my leg. He said that my eyes were the first thing he noticed about me. They’re crazy! You look like a superhero!
We stayed in the pub for an hour, talking, laughing a little, and then after my second glass of the nicest wine I had ever tasted, a sixties melody from the speakers lifted me like the breeze had lifted my coat, and just as unexpectedly, I said: Do you want to come back to mine?
IDIDN’T CARE THATmy flat was messy or that I was wearing old bleached pants. Virinder told me that he had thought about this since the first time we spoke. He bit his lip and, holding my wrists, lifted my arms over my head. I didn’t mean to but I laughed.
What? he said.
Nothing.
But I was thinking about how many men had readFifty Shades of Greythinking that because it was written by a woman it must be what every woman wanted.
What do you want? he said. Tell me what you want. I told him that I wanted him to fuck me, because I did; I wanted to be fucked the way thatheused to fuck me. Virinder folded his clothes neatly: white shirt, chinos, golf socks. I threw mine haphazardly and pulledhim onto me. His warm, dry body felt alien on mine. His muscles were sculpted, and his skin was a hairless, soft brown. I tried not to think about how different this man was to the other. But then something unexpected happened; he was moving so gently, so slowly, that in the middle of pretending to feel intense pleasure, I actually felt it. I started touching myself.
Yes, baby, he said. That’s so sexy.
A sensation like elastic stretching started and started and started. He noticed a change in my breathing, and he started thrusting faster and deeper until—
Oh my god.
ISTAND UP TOOquickly, and everything fades to black, reappearing pixel by pixel. But before it does, in that quiet, dark second, everything is clear.
I scoop up last night’s clothes, take them to the kitchen, and shove them in the machine. In one hour and three minutes, myTHIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKET-shirt will be clean of last night.
Just a few things to say that I miss you and that I’m still quietly confident…—Virinder
When we broke up, Virinder said that he wouldn’t wait for me. And yet here he is, leaving gifts on my welcome mat. At the time, I wasn’t quite ready to be loved; I didn’t have the daily agenda of getting someone to want me, and feeling settled wasn’t something that I was used to.Idle hands, my grandma would say, like she was worried about something more serious than boredom. But maybe I’m ready now.
On our first official date, a poreless woman sat us in a booth by the window in a city bar where an app matched virtual surroundings to fifteen-pound cocktails. Virinder’s face lit up when he talked about sunsets in Mumbai and his aunt’s dal makhani, and I knew I wanted to see him again. The first morning at his, he led me up aspiral staircase to a roof terrace.The pancakes are almond butter, he said, pulling out a chair. At night, we sat up there under the stars. You could see the stars in Primrose Hill.
I go back to the bedroom and read the messages I’ve been ignoring:
I would love to talk to you. I’ll pop over on my break. V xxx
Hey, babe, I dunno if you’re getting these but I left you a surprise outside. V xxx
The last time I checked Virinder’s profile picture, he was skiing in the Alps. Now his hands hold the wheel of a boat, yellow tank top clinging to his leonine frame. His status appears: “online.” I write the words quickly, ripping off the Band-Aid.
Come over?
There are immediately two blue ticks and—
…
I’ll be over in fifteen?? Just round the corner in the pub! xxx
I check the time: just after seven thirty. I feel a rush of energy quickly followed by panic. I sweep the room for trauma, closing drawers and smoothing bedding. I return the elephant box to the wardrobe. I brush my hair and spray perfume. I dust my cheeks. Fill in my eyebrows. Fix my lips. The buzzer in the hall goes. I press enter on the intercom.What have I forgotten?The cereal bowl! I begin scraping out the soggy contents, but there is a knock at the door. I drop the bowl into the bin.
