War and Peace 2 - Peace

 

He is out all day.
        She and I work quietly in our respective rooms.
        When it gets dark we take a shower.
        In slow motions our hands spread camomile soap over each other’s backs, shoulders, breasts and thighs. Touching anyplace else is not permitted. Our secret spots should be as safe as if he had locked our arms in bands of steel.
        But no man can match the softness of her body.
        There is no rush, no urgency, none of the male hard sweat.
        There is no agenda.
        There is nothing but our hands moving and our eyes smiling and our lips meeting and hot water splashing down our skins, steaming up the mirror.
        Her kisses taste of peppermint and her hair smells of Caribbean breeze.
        We cannot remember the reason we should stop when we both feel the tiny swelling between our legs.
        It can’t be wrong.
        But when our shivers subside and the water has flushed away the wetness seeping from within, we remember.
        ‘We shouldn’t have,’ I whisper.
        She embraces me.
        Battling our fate filled us with pain.
        Accepting it has made us sisters.
        It’s a fragile balance – if one of us lets go we all collapse.
        ‘It’s going to be all right,’ she says.
        I think of the night we went out together for the first time. He drove through the dark and we sat in the back, clinging to each other, wondering what he had planned – until we arrived at ‘Madame Elle’s’ and had the purple steal boned corsets fitted we lace each other into now.
        It’s going to be all right.
        A tad of perfume – rosé rose for me, lily of the valley for her.
        We go downstairs into the kitchen. Our feet leave moist traces on the carpet, like footprints of angels they evaporate.
        She washes the salad and chops spring onions and chives. I peel carrots; glace them in hot butter; sprinkle rosemary and thyme on golden potatoes. A layer of aubergines and sweet yellow zucchinis, grated cheese on top – it simmers hot in the oven.
        Together we cut strawberries, peaches and apricots, add lemon and a tad of the maraschino her parents bought for his birthday.
        The house smells of a summer holiday in Italy when he arrives.
        Her short hair has dried, mine falls dark and wet over my shoulders.
        He kisses me first while she watches – she has seen him kiss too many others before to be bothered. When he kisses her I look away. Generosity is a virtue he hasn’t managed to teach me yet.
        He opens a bottle of wine. She lights candles.
        We eat, sharing stories – his work, my book, her studies.
        Then:
        ‘Have you been good?’ he asks.
        We look at each other.
        Are we going to tell?
        None of us dares.
        In our silence he knows.
        He grabs my hair with his right and pushes my face into my plate. My cheeks burn against the food.
        His left hand reaches for his glass. I hear a splashing sound and from the corner of my eyes I see her hair as wet as it was from the shower.
        When he lets go we don’t look at him.
        ‘I’ve finished eating,’ is all he says.
        She cleans my face. I dry her hair. He grabs the newspaper and goes to sit on the sofa while we clear the table.
        When the kitchen is spotless we wait in front of him, hand in hand.
        He is in no hurry.
        Finally he nods.
        I massage his shoulders and stroke his temples he thinks are dark although they have turned grey years ago.
        She gets on her knees between his legs and opens his belt.
        A caprice of nature has given him bright red pubic hair – Scottish from the waist down.
        She closes his lips around him.
        When she swallows I smile.
        Some duties I’m happy to share.
        He invites us to sit next to him on the sofa. Our heads meet on his chest. Three shades of skin, like ice cream: vanilla, caramel and cream.
        We both listen to him breath. We both cannot hear his heart beat.