Gravity

I'm falling.' He said it out loud to himself, his voice sounding
strange in the odd acoustics of the office. 'When I think about you it
feels like falling.'

He stared out of the window at the trees, at the golden leaves
spiralling in the late September breeze. Students wandered across the
lawn, thrift-shop clothes vivid against the green. He wondered if he
might catch a glimpse. That soft blond hair alive with sunlight. A
dangerous gleam in those pale green eyes. He thought of opening the
window and leaning out ,just to see, but changed his mind. It wouldn't
be today. He'd have to wait.

He sat down at his desk, fumbled for a cigarette amongst the disorder
of books and unmarked essays. How long had it been? How long had he
lived with this feeling? He lit up and took a drag. The smoke was
soothing. He tried to remember.

The first meeting had been inauspicious. A cool 'hello' in the canteen.
Long lashes and European hauteur. The clothes looked expensive but the
scent was cheap. He'd felt no immediate pull. And yet the memory had
hung around, a flake of brightness in the grey.

Things were clearer the next time. In the quiet privacy of the
tutorial, leaning closer over the pristine pages of a hand-written
assignment. A smell of coffee, a freshly lit Gauloise. He'd felt it
then. Energy in the air between them. A subtle magnetism. Those lips
had been so close to his. A smell of soap on the pale throat. They
spoke quietly about Sartre and the Paris life. He imagined the Seine
reflecting neon into that face.

He accepted the drink when it was offered. Supermarket Chardonnay,
chilled and dry. The grass had been warm, smelt nostalgic. He'd been
thinking about his boyhood until the kiss stopped him. A soft kiss. A
light pressure on the mouth that made his blood sing. Like vertigo.
Fearing the fall but wanting it. They'd got up, brushed the grass from
their clothes, headed for the deeper shadows under the trees, the
places where they would not be seen.

Had it really happened? A dream thing. Undressed in the sun dappled
grass. All the soft sounds and the kisses that left the sweetness of
wine in his mouth. And above them, patches of postcard blue. Summer sky
made vivid by alcohol and sex. They didn't speak till much later.

Then heir conversations had been stilted. Words spoken haltingly and
without conviction. Sentences about Bookshops and possible meetings for
coffee. Or wine. He felt it then. Strongly. That 'standing on the
edges' feeling. Stepping out into thin air and falling. A force like
gravity pulling him towards what? Indifference only made it
worse.

So he watched the people passing under the window, gossiping their way
to lectures or lunchtime trysts. Looking down at the quadrangle from
three floors up, something heavy in his hands. Waiting until that
familiar figure came into view. Careless, laughing. Never thinking of
looking up. Never imagining that something so hard edged could fall out
of the blue.