Bitter chocolate,Cohen read,with hopeful gold sugar dust.
Before he had time even to smile, she was kissing him. Her lips were against his, her tongue pressing lightly into his mouth, and he pulled her closer, wrapping her small frame into the protective confines of his coat. Together they tasted like chocolate. Together they tasted like sweetness.
Together they tasted like hope.
And as River pulled away, pressing one final kiss to his mouth, Cohen could not help the smile that spread across his face.
Because he knew he was coming back here next Tuesday.
Chapter Four
Vanilla
Cohen practically floated on air from the ice creamery to the DLR, hardly noticing the jerky movements of the train, the screaming baby three carriages down or even the faint smell of booze emanating from the fast asleep drunk passed out on the floor next to him. When he got to Bank station he changed onto the tube effortlessly, before drifting through the throngs at Oxford Circus to catch the Bakerloo line up to Marylebone. The commute was effortless, and London seemed to shine in the early evening sky. Christmas lights twinkled from every window, matched in part by the stars above in a clear winter sky. The rain from earlier seemed to have swept away the usual London grime, and the city now seemed heavy with the warm smells of December, of cinnamon and mulled wine and coal fires. The air was crisp and cool on his face, and Cohen even looked fondly on the rain puddles that littered the ground, glistening like baptismal water in which one could be made clean.
That’s how good River’s kiss was.
It was only when he got past Marylebone, ducking into the Sir John Balcombe for a quick pint before he headed home, that he remembered the sheet of paper River had pushed into his pocket. He’d been so caught up in her kiss, in the delicious memory of her tongue in his mouth, of her body flush to his and the taste of happiness on her lips, that he’d forgotten about it.
Instantly Cohen dug it out, unfolding the paper gently, as though frightened of tearing it, of damaging it – and by default her and all they’d shared – in any way.
It was a printed sheet, the text slightly blurred from where River had clearly hurried it from the printer.Let’s get to know each other, Cohen,she’d scrawled across the top, in the same looping cursive he remembered from The Great Greenwich Ice Creamery’s door.
It was a questionnaire. The sort of document he recalled from his orientation days at high school and college. It was also the sort of form he occasionally still had to fill in on dreaded work team-building days run by Tarquin Fowler, head of HR for Roberts-Canning, and the thorn in Cohen’s working career. For a moment, Cohen felt his stomach sink. He didn’t want to get to know River through a tacky collection of queries like ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ or ‘Where do you see yourself in ten years?’ Although he still took delight in the memory of Fowler’s pasty face turning red when he’d seen Cohen’s flippant reply tothatquestion, hauling him in to HR like a wayward child to explain just why he thought it was appropriate to declare that ‘in ten years he’d probably be in prison for choking Fowler to death during a work juice cleanse gone wrong’.
But as he read through the questions River had chosen, the disappointed knot in his stomach turned quickly into a clench of anticipation. Because, as it turned out, River had quite a saucy idea of exactly what ‘getting to know each other’ entailed.
Where would you most like to kiss me?it began, and Cohen’s mouth ran dry. The words danced before his eyes, and he contemplated his reply while taking a fortifying sip of his pint. He’d never known a work questionnaire to begin quite likethis. Eventually, when the first of the alcohol had hit his bloodstream, he pulled a pen out of his pocket and put ink to paper.
Anywhere you’ll let me,he wrote.I want to start with your mouth, I want to suck on your lips. I want to run my tongue over your cheeks and nibble on your ears. I want to bite gently into your neck and lick the hollow of your shoulders.
He shifted in his seat. He’d never been a particularly verbose man. He was infinitely better at transcription, or at the small simple acts of writing his work demanded of him: hard words of warning, endless demands for more money or the brutal phrasings of mostly one-sided negotiation. He was unused to writing words of affection. Words of love. He nibbled on his pen, before going back to the paper.
I can’t use my mouth to tell you how much you mean to me, how much I want you,he stated truthfully.So, let me use my mouth to show you how much you mean to me, to show you how much I need you.
The second question made him shift even more awkwardly, an old feeling of guilt rushing down his spine.
My mama says you’ve been married before?
He ordered another pint, knowing he was going to need it if he was going to get through this questionnaire without dying of shame halfway through.
Sipping thoughtfully, Cohen considered her question, wondering how much honesty River was looking for here. Momentarily, he contemplated watering down his answer. Doing a light edit job so he wouldn’t scare her away.
But with another steadying sip of lager, he discarded that thought easily.
He wouldn’t lie to River. He wouldn’t be anything other than who he was.
After all, she was the only one who’d ever asked.
Yes, I’ve been married before.Cohen took a deep breath, a surge of anger going through him, as it always did when he thought of Christine.My ex-wife is an actress, although maybe I should say she was an actress. These days she mostly lives off my alimony payments. She never loved me; I always knew that. But without a doubt, she loved my money.
And God, did that hurt to write down. Cohen swallowed hard.I don’t hate her. Or at least, I try really hard not to hate her. Mostly, I hate myself for ever marrying her. I hate myself for ever thinking I could make love just another business transaction. Just another deal to negotiate. When we divorced, I told myself I would never marry again. That marriage isn’t worth my time or effort. Mostly I think I’m just scared to make that leap again. But lately … I don’t know.
Cohen paused.
Lately, I’ve been thinking that if I do ever marry again, it will be worth my time and effort. Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe I could make that leap again.
Cohen almost smiled.
