I point at her and then hold up two fingers, and she giggles, a warm, lovely sound that makes my innards flip.
I head towards my room, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face as I hear them talking.
It collapses when I get a brief flash of another face in my mind. Another beautiful girl, this one a teenager with long dark hair and smiling doe eyes I used to get happily lost in.
A girl whose head exploded like a burst watermelon all over me.
And another woman, cowering on the floor, hugging her pregnant belly in a futile attempt to protect her poor, doomed unborn baby as the gunman walks closer to her and lifts his gun for the millionth time that night…
After fifteen years I am long used to this particular auditory hallucination, so I don’t fall apart when I hear Mrs Oberman’s desperate, terrified cries, and then the loud, evil staccato of the M-16. But it does tighten my throat and steal my breath for a moment and make my heart race for far less pleasurable reasons than when Liaden was in my studio.
Still, it’s done what was needed. I’ve been thoroughly and brutally reminded, same as always.
Almost without realising, I lift the left sleeve of my henley and look at the one tattoo I did on myself because everyone else refused without me explaining what it meant. The one that brands me and reminds me never to let myself get complacent. Or happy.
This scrap of life I’ve been left with is my punishment. I reacquaint myself with that core truth: I’m being punished by living, I deserve it, and I always will.
You know what you did, you worthless piece of shit.
Liaden
I wonderwhat his stubble would feel like rasping against my inner thigh.
Grinning at the thought, I avoid my fellow lunchtime rush pedestrians as best I can while clearing my smart watch and checking my emails on my phone. Two questions from students, neither of which is an SOS-help-me-now. One meeting request from the head of department’s PA. One email from my mother enthusing about having booked a holiday to Tuscany to surprise my father for his birthday. And one invitation to appear on a BBC documentary about Chaucer as the father of English vernacular. No fires for me to put out, nothing that can’t wait until I get back to my office.
I flag each email with the correct colour coded tab and put my phone back in my bag so I can take the time to enjoy the walk back. Foxton-on-Sea has a terrific beach, and it’s a big bonus of the job at the university that I get to stroll along the waterfront every day. Pale sand, a clean ocean that glows vivid blue in thesummer, and even now in winter is crystalline. It’s gorgeous, and it’s invigorating.
Invigorating. That’s what it was like meeting the scruffily handsome man who’s going to make my ink dreams come true, too.
It’d be fun to fuck Dean Gastright on this very beach, To roll around on the sand like inFrom Here to Eternityand let our bodies do the talking. As languages are my jam, I never really saw the appeal of the strong, silent type before, but he could easily make a convert out of me. Besides, an estimated seventy to ninety three percent of all communication is entirely nonverbal, and, with his expressive face, I didn’t feel like our meeting was at all stilted or difficult.
In many ways, he’s a world away from the men I usually go for, because they populate my life and men like Dean don’t, generally speaking. I suppose it’s fair to say that my day to day life is conducted in somewhat of an ivory tower, with a dating pool consisting of bookish, heavily cerebral Colin Firth or James Purefoy types. My mother calls them ‘thinking woman’s crumpet’, the sort who’ll quote long passages of obscure poetry to you while they finger you adequately to orgasm.
And then there’s the sexy, silent tattoo artist, seemingly very much my cup of tea after all. Creative, obviously meticulous in his work - judging by the exquisite detail in his portfolio photos - andhot, in a rough-and-ready sort of way I’d never anticipate I’d enjoy so much. He’s refreshing. And fascinatingly mysterious, with his enforced silence.
I wonder if he liked me, too. There were a few key indicators that he did, like the way his breath caught ever so slightly when I shamelessly ran my fingers over his inked up arm. And I noticed the look in his eyes after I got him to zip up my dress. There’s no disguising involuntary reflexes, large pupils, smallmicroexpressions. I laugh to myself; I was probably looking at him in much the same way.
I’ll have to see how our first appointment goes at six p.m. next Wednesday, and evaluate if this was a passing fancy or if this nascent attraction builds. But there are definite possibilities here.
What fun.
My penis fly trap flutters a little as I consider them all and contemplate what sort of lover he’d be. Pure speculation at this stage, but I’m thinking he’d be gentle, yet very much in charge. A surprise alpha, and if he tells you to drop your knickers and spread your legs, he means right this second anddon’tkeep him waiting. I bite my lip as I start to tuck my hair into my collar to stop it blowing in my face. That dirty little scenario will be fun to think about with my vibrating wand this evening.
Speaking of vibrating…
My smart watch buzzes on my wrist, and I roll my eyes when I see it’s Mitchell, the Deputy Dean of Linguistics. Fishing my phone out of my bag, I debate rejecting the call, but I’d never hear the end of it. This particular Dean is a lot less fun to think about than the one at Wishbone Tattoos.
“Hello,” I say cheerfully, because being antagonistic serves no purpose, even if I can’t stand the man. I was taught as a child that it’s not two faced to show good manners. And besides, I know it pisses him off royally.
“You’re not in your office. Where are you?”
He says it as though leaving your office is a criminal offence. “I’m on my designated lunch break, Mitchell. Walking back to campus now.” In a fit of pettiness, I stop walking. “I’d say I’m approximately ten minutes away.”
“Youwillbe back in time for the AGM.” It’s not a question. “The agenda pack has been left on your desk, since you weren’t there to receive it.” Sniff. “Can I take it youareready todeliver your update to the delegates?” I’m a Visiting Professor whose salary is funded by a high prestige Trust, and the trustees will be present today. I’m required, under the terms of my contract, to give the department an update every quarter, and a longer, more in-depth one at the Annual General Meeting. I’m well aware that being employed by this Trust is a huge honour, and that working for the University of Foxton - one of the top five universities in the country according to many lists - is an undeniable feather in my cap professionally speaking. Having said that, given my qualifications, my employment background, my reputation, and the fact that hiring me was considered to be something of a coup for the School of Linguistics, I think he could reasonably be expected to speak to me with considerably more respect, and less like I’m an errant schoolgirl who forgot her homework. Lynne, theactualDean of my department, loves me. Mitchell is simply obnoxious, with an over-inflated sense of his own importance.
And he’s just sore because I made it clear during my first week of employment that I’m not into self-regarding, unctuous,marriedeejits, and that his smarmy advances were unwelcome and doomed to fruitlessness.
“Yes.” I study words because I love them. I’m not wasting them on a man who would even try to insinuate, with a straight face, that I wouldn’t be prepared for a known obligation well in advance. My speech has been sitting ready for two weeks now.
