Ready To Follow

Jonathan sat alone at his usual table. It was early in the day but
his head still throbbed from last night's booze. He stared out across
the crowded beach to the sea. The water was deep blue. The flash of the
sun on the waves was hypnotic. It was easy to sit like this, coffee
cooling in the cup. Easy to get lost in summer's brightness. He'd spent
lots of afternoons in a slow daydream until the shadows lengthened and
the horizon burned like hot copper.

Since coming down here from Barcelona, he had become a regular in the
sea-front cafes. He was on nodding terms with the waiters and the
nicotine-stained men playing backgammon in the shade. They smiled and
he smiled back, exchanging gruff words in Spanish, remaining strangers
all the same. Jonathan liked it like that. He liked to remain a unknown
thing, moving through life observing but never connecting. Touching but
never allowing himself to be touched. He lifted the cup to his lips,
eyeing the sunburnt tourists passing, the blackclad widows carrying
fruit from the market. His glances were designed to appear casual but
they were sharp like a magpie's. He was looking for the glint of an
expensive camera, the sheen of new money. He was thief.

He's spent his life passing through the crowds, fingers touching,
lightly touching the bodies of the stupid, catching hold of wallets,
coming across jewellery and the plastic shine of credit cards. He had
never worked but lived a good life, sunburnished. Warmed by other
people's cash.

In the evening, he headed into the centre of town for a beer. The bars
were lit up and colourful, alive with cheap music and the hubbub of
conversation. He chose a quieter place on the corner of the tree-lined
square. That was when he first saw her. She was laughing, drinking wine
with a group of Americans. Her dress was the colour of oatmeal. She
threw a glanced in his direction, the reddish light from the Chinese
lanterns making her skin gleam. She knew he was watching her. She
turned back to her friends and poured herself another drink, passing
long fingers through her honey coloured hair. Jonathan could see she
had a certain quality, could feel the slow warmth of arousal in his
blood. But his eyes had settled on the white stones that sparkled
around her neck. When she stood up, he tensed, ready to follow.

She moved quickly, a pale figure passing through the shadows under the
trees, the patches of dappled light, slipping through the crowds
spilling out of the cafes. He maintained a safe distance but never lost
sight of her, thinking all the time of her necklace. Diamonds perhaps.
A blue white-glitter against the tanned skin of her throat. She looked
back once, then disappeared into a sidestreet. It occurred to him as he
quickened his pace that she might be aware of him following, afraid or
flattered, imagining he pursued her for sex. The animal collisions of
afterdark strangers. And she did appeal to him. He could take pleasure
in her body but there was no thrill to compare with theft. He turned
the corner, keeping his eyes on her, her pale shape up ahead in the
dark.

The street was narrow and empty. The shop windows were dark but lights
shone from the apartments above. His heart was beating fiercely. He was
closing in, thinking fast. She stepped into the gloom of a shop
doorway. When he reached her she was smiling, her breathing light and
rapid.

'I know what you're looking for.' Her voice was a low whisper, her
eyes shining like polished stones. 'You can have it.'

The necklace glittered. Her perfume hung in the air between them, a
honeyed sweetness. She approached him slowly, put her hands on him.
Strong hands. A man's hands. Her kiss was bullying. Jonathan closed his
eyes and the world tilted drunkenly. Then he leapt back, the necklace
cold in his fist. As he ran, footsteps echoing on the pebbles, he
heard, or thought he heard, the sound of her laughter behind him.

He stirred and opened his eyes. The morning sun made a triangle of
brightness on the rug. He glanced at the clock then scrambled from the
bed. It was almost midday. Standing naked, staring down at the busy
street, he turned the necklace over, feeling the weight of it. The he
examined it carefully. It was a fake. Dumping it on the bedside table
he reached for his watch. It wasn't where he usually left it so he
roamed around looking. He could remember her hands on him, the woman in
the bar. Her laughter as he'd made his escape. A fast moment.
Lightening touches. His cygnet ring was missing, too. He sat heavily
down on the bed, feeling something like love. Cafeful, he thought, it
might be fake........