Page 52 of People Change

Now

At midday on 4 January, Shirin arrives at Kian’s flat. He opens the front door with his hair dishevelled, wearing a grey hoodie and Adidas shorts, his feet bare. The way the hoodie hugs his shoulders is attractive, in the way Shirin thinks men’s bodies often are in athletic wear. He steps out of the way for her to enter and she removes her boots by the door. Without her platform shoes she feels especially small next to him, her eyes level with his chest now. She wonders if his heart is beating as quickly as hers, if being this close to each other for the first time since New Year brings back all the memories of their night together for him, too.

He asks her if she wants a cup of tea and Shirin nods, even though she doesn’t. He leads the way to the kitchen and it looks different from when she was here last, for his house-warming party. It appears bigger now it’s empty of people, the winter sun shining through the windows. The kitchen is at the back of the house, with ugly wooden cabinets from the nineties. And it is this that makes her feel a little less on edge somehow, this ugliness.

As Kian fills the kettle with water he asks her how her train journey was, back down to London, and she murmurssomething like,Okay – long. With his back to her, she thinks he looks tense, not at all relaxed, and again this calms her, like it’s not just her; all this spinning isn’t only in her head.

There is this thing between them now and it makes them awkward, the conversation mundane. They don’t look into each other’s eyes, until Kian flicks the power on the kettle and turns, leaning against a cabinet. It is only then that their eyes lock. And even this makes Shirin go funny inside, reviving a stirring within her. It is embarrassing, how much she wants him. How on the Tube over here, each time her mind wandered she imagined his hands on her body, his lips on hers. She hasn’t felt this strongly about someone in a long time. It is almost reminiscent of the way she felt with her first serious boyfriend, but she was clouded by first love, not yet hardened by failed relationships and situationships. So while she wants to indulge in this feeling, she knows leaning into it wouldn’t be wise, that it has never been easy for them, so why would that change now?

Kian bites his bottom lip, unconsciously, and her eyes flicker down and then back up again, meeting his gaze. The hiss of the kettle grows louder in the background. Before the kettle clicks, there is a sudden urgency between them. She is not sure who steps forward first, but his hands are around her waist, pulling her towards him, against him. She feels as though she needs him – needs his lips on her again, needs all of him.

They kiss and his hands move up to her face, his palms cupping her cheeks as they do so, while his hardness is pressed against her. And it’s this that makes her bite his lip alittle too hard, but he shakes his head, says, ‘It’s alright, it’s alright,’ a glazed, concentrated expression on his face that is very attractive.

When they make their way to his bedroom, she vaguely notices that it is neat, like he has just tidied it. They undress each other, at first slowly and then more quickly. The bed sheets are cool against their bare skin. There is the Kian she knew, growing up – the boy who was both sensitive and angry; the man she has been speaking to the past few months, who is confident, well adjusted to adulthood; and then there is this Kian, who she is seeing with fresh eyes. He is tender in the way he handles her, in the way his hands skim over her abdomen, in the way he touches her in exactly the right places, like he knows her body, like he has been with her many times before.

She can finally let out a breath when he begins stroking her, and it is like she has been holding it since they were last together, like she needs him to breathe now. She wants him so badly it feels like she might burst. When he enters her, he kisses the side of her neck and she thinks they fit together so perfectly, which makes her lift herself higher and wrap her legs tighter around his waist, wanting all of him – all of this – right now. He groans in her ear, his breath warm, her own sounds quiet and uncontrollable. She hates how right this feels, how she thinks that only in this moment does she feel most herself, unclothed with Kian atop her. It feels like such an unfeminist, un-Shirin thought, but it’s truthful.

‘I’ve missed you,’ she breathes, and she isn’t even sure what she is referring to, whether she is saying she has missedhim in the three days they’ve been apart, or during the ten years they weren’t speaking.

‘Shirin,’ he says, moving slowly. ‘I’ve not stopped thinking about you.’ His eyes bore into hers. She feels a bubbling within her, and the urge to say something that she thinks can’t be true, so she presses her lips against his to stop it from coming out.

After, they lie on his bed, her head against his chest. He smells of aftershave and sweat, his sheets of washing detergent.

‘That was nice,’ he says.

‘Very nice,’ she agrees. ‘When are your housemates back?’

‘Tomorrow. Will you stay over tonight?’

‘I could do, yeah,’ she says, having already brought her toothbrush, contact lenses and three-step skincare routine with her.

He smiles, a genuine smile, like this greatly pleases him. She feels high – it is an unfamiliar feeling, this kind of happiness. But unlike when they were having sex, Shirin can see their situation more clearly: that while she does feel herself when she’s with Kian, there is still the thing they’ve not spoken about hanging between them. The incident. The words that were spoken after, especially given what he told her about his brother, about the guilt he still carries. It is this thought that makes her pull away from him and reach across for her slip-dress. Without her tights or cardigan it looks more like lingerie. She puts it on and turns to see Kian lying there, frowning. His abs are tight – and she thinks how, even now,can she be such a pervert, how can her brain fixate on how hot he is?

‘Something wrong?’ he says.

She shakes her head, says no, and that she needs to pee.

It is just past 3 p.m. when they go back downstairs for food. Kian rummages in his fridge and retrieves grapes, olives, hummus and crusty bread. Shirin jokes that these are very middle-class snacks, and he tells her to do one. She wonders whether this food they’re eating now is something he’s bought especially for her, because when he transfers the food from the packets into bowls and plates, she notices they haven’t been opened yet.

He asks if he can paint her, properly this time. He says he has always wanted to, and as he says this the tops of his ears go a wonderful pink, and her pathetic heart goespitter-patter, which prompts her to say, ‘Okay, why not?’

On their way to the summerhouse he grabs her hand between his, lifts it to his lips and kisses it. A ginger cat is walking along the wooden fence that separates the gardens from each other, and Kian tells her the cat often comes into their house, and she is nodding but can barely concentrate, even his hand on hers distracts her.

The summerhouse is more homely now. The boxes are no longer there, and neither is the record player. He tells her it’s in the sitting room now, and in its place are a pair of black Bluetooth speakers on his desk. He unfolds a chair that has been leaning against the wall and indicates for her to sit on it.

Shirin watches as he sets up his easel and paints, a look of concentration on his face. She finds it enticing, seeing a personfocusing on something they are talented at. ‘You don’t have to stay in the exact spot or anything,’ he says. ‘But try not to move too much.’

The easel is now holding up a medium-sized canvas, and in his hand is a wooden palette, with various blobs of paint on it, ranging from creams to pinks and reds. He smiles to himself, his face half hidden by the canvas in front of him. The last of the daylight shines into the room, creating the patterns of the windowpanes on Shirin’s face as she poses.

‘That seems like a contradiction, but okay.’ She debates how to sit, never quite liking photographs of herself sitting down. She crosses her legs and leans to one side, looking off out of the window.

‘No,’ Kian says. ‘Look at me.’

‘I like my profile,’ she says. Her mum would always ask her to look down or away for pictures – something about her eyes being a bit too wild, not soft enough.

‘I want to see you, properly. It’s important for me to see your eyes.’

‘They are the window to the soul,’ she says with an eye-roll, though taking his direction and looking at him.