Sean Thomas - The Cheek Perforation Dance

— Still raining?

— Yeah

— Mmmmmmmyes – Rebecca is stretching her soft naked body under the duvet, her glossy nudity – I like when it rains, really rains …

Then she stops. Patrick listens, but she has stopped talking. All Patrick can hear is a lonely car slashing down the wet, empty, 2 a.m. Hampstead street, outside. Patrick listens to this: to the absence of traffic, that very unLondon sound. It makes him think about traffic, their difficult traffic, the contraflow.

He thinks, again, again, yet again, about the contraflow of their worrying sex life: why no climax? why hasn’t she properly orgasmed? wherefore not the smackrush? What is their problem? Staring at Rebecca’s unaware face Patrick frets: why does he feel she hasn’t entirely given of herself? why does he feel that he hasn’t entirely possessed her? and why does their sex feel like an unwinnable computer game? What is this? What?

To distract himself from these not so new, always perturbing thoughts Patrick leans out of her bed and riffles fake-lazily amongst the piles of books and papers she habitually stacks by her bed. Aztec books, predictably; Crusader texts, naturally; some poetry, of courseThen Patrick finds a charity form: a sponsorship form for a half-marathon intended to publicise Third World Debt.

Picking this form up, feeling playful, bitchy, grumpy, Patrick says:

—You’re running a marathon?

Beneath him:

—Yyyyeah half

His face moves nearer hers:

— For Third World Debt?

Still sleepy:

— Yessss …

— Hnn – He says; then he says – You know I could help you out with this?

She does not reply. He says:

— I could you know, I know a lot about Third World Debt, you should see the debts I ran up in the Third World last winter

Silence. Patrick:

— Coke bills in Colombia, unpaid whores in Bangkok

—That’s nice for you, darling

— Actually – On a roll now, Patrick says – I was thinking of starting a charity of my own, to help Third World Hunger – He moves his face directly over hers as she turns to stare at the wall – I was going to call it … International Fellatio Relief

She mumbles nothing. Patrick says:

— I’d go to Third World countries and get young women to give me head and swallow my semen, thus providing them with that valuable, hard-to-come-by protein …

Beneath him Rebecca turns over and buries her face in the pillow and starts singing a Celine Dion song. Pulling at her singing shoulder, Patrick says:

— Becs — Another tug – Becs? Stop singing? Bex!

At the third tug she rolls over, stops singing. She looks up at him, and grins, and reaches out a hand and strokes his unshaven chin as if to tell him to shut up. Then she tells him to shut up. Feeling a rush of responsive emotion Patrick stoops his mouth to the crook of Rebecca’s pretty neck, and kisses her lovely scented Rebeccaness. Subsequently he rolls back onto his side of the four big expensive white pillows and wonders if he is as hungry as he thinks he might be: whether they can nip down to her kitchen, open the enormous brushed steel door of her fridge, and eat the ice-cold white peaches the Jessels always seem to keep on that big blue glass plate …

Rebecca moves nearer. With a flinch, Patrick feels her cold feet press against his legs, her feet seeking the warmth of his calves. It is as if, he thinks, she is trying to attach herself, trying to lock herself on, trying to anchor herself: in him, in the shifting, unreliable sands of his soul. For a moment Patrick wants to shout out no, don’t do it, don’t be stupid.

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