‘You’ve seenIt Happened One Night?’
His head peeked around the sheet wall and he smiled, his best Clark Gable impression. ‘Only about a thousand times.’
He disappeared back behind the thin white partition, the light of the moon shining through the window and outlining his body against the fabric. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, thick thighs. It was almost as though he was putting on a show.
‘You took down the curtains,’ I realised, looking away. ‘But the moon’s so bright tonight, how are you going to sleep?’
‘I could sleep on the surface of the sun, don’t you worry about me,’ he replied. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m OK.’
Slowly, I peeled back the covers on the huge bed and slipped underneath. It had been a warm day but the night was cooler and I was grateful not to have to tossaside the comforting weight of the duvet. Almost as grateful as I was for his gesture.
‘Joe?’ I said, pulling up the sheets to my chin.
‘Sophie?’ he replied.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You are?’ His voice was rich with pleasant surprise. ‘What for?’
‘For throwing your things outside. Did you manage to find everything?’
‘Yes. I had to tangle with a very dapper badger to get my boxers back but aside from that there was no harm done.’
In spite of everything, a small smile forced its way onto my face.
‘I suppose you think that’s funny.’
‘Not really. I could’ve got TB, Sophie, badgers are riddled. But then he drove off in a Ford Model T with a toad and a mole, muttering something about weasels. It was all very dramatic.’
The pale moonlight streamed through the undressed windows, illuminating the fabric that separated us like a cinema screen. Joe’s silhouette moved slowly but surely, unbuttoning his shirt, starting with the cuffs then moving down his body, one button at a time. It wasn’t a silent movie and I held my breath to better hear his sound effects, the unexpected thrill of a zip followed by the schlump of his jeans hitting the floor. He bent down to pick them up and the fabric rippled as his angles changed, now wearing nothing but those silky black boxers. I waited for him to get into bed but he didn’t move. Instead he stood right by the sheet, the only thing that separated us, the fluttering, flimsy fabric.
‘Sophie?’ he said, the soft sound of my name filling the cottage.
‘Joe?’
‘Nothing.’
He climbed into bed, the sofa creaking happily as his weight tested the new springs and I stared up at the ceiling, wide awake.
‘Get some sleep,’ I said, not quite ready to let go of the connection.
‘You too.’
There were more rustling sounds, sheets moving across skin, the mattress yielding to the weight of his body.
‘Sweet dreams,’ I added.
‘I hope I have the same dream I had last night,’ he replied.
I moistened my dry lips and, even though I knew I’d regret it, cleared my throat to ask the question.
‘What did you dream about last night?’
‘You.’
It hung in the air, a statement, a confession. An invitation.
