Reflections on the puddle of life

This was my entry to the short story competition. The version below is the original un-edited version - it had to be trimmed quite a bit to make it fit the word count. I think, perhaps, the trimming went a little too far. Congrats to whomever it is that wrote The Myth of Generations on your win.

Cherry Blossom Girl

There’s a veil draped over the morning, it drifts across his face like the steam rising from the coffee. He loves this time of day when the house speaks in hushed tones, the yawn of the pipes as they warm the radiators, the whispered creak of the floorboards stretching. He creeps around in his socks, careful not to wake the sleepers upstairs. It is so quiet that he almost believes he is alone.

Quietly he sips his coffee whilst reading the morning paper. He flicks through the pages not reading, just filling the time with snapshots of other lives; violence, heroism, anguish, noise. The pictures offer a stark contrast to the orderly calm of his kitchen, and for a moment he imagines smashing it all up, ripping the cups from their little hooks on the walls and crushing them into the stone floor, but it passes and he returns to quiet contemplation. He sinks his coffee, folds the paper neatly away, slips on his shoes and coat, and exits with barely a sound.

Every day he walks through the park on his way to work. He takes his time, though there is no plant, no tree that isn’t as familiar to him as the creases on his own hand. There is the bridge which crosses the pond where children will gather to throw bread to overweight ducks. The path dips, then climbs up to the brow of the hill, to the right the playing fields stretch out vast and empty, to the left the trees huddle together in a brief, ornamental wood. Overnight the Cherry trees have bloomed; the blossom hang heavy on the branches, as yet none have fallen. Instead they hold fast, tight against the bud, clinging in the way that a newborn infant clings to its mother’s breast. He is unexpectedly touched by their innocence. He decides then to return later, to enjoy the sudden display while it lasts.

*

At 10:30am the phone rings, and he waits a moment just in case the caller has a sudden change of heart and rings off. They don’t. With a sigh of interrupted thoughts he picks up the handset. “Hello, Adam Norton speaking.”

“Adam.” it is Kate, Adam’s wife. Her tone is clipped, tense; he senses a transgression of which he is oblivious.

“Hi honey, what’s up?”

“It’s Emma’s recital tonight. Did you pick her costume up?” Adam groans quietly. The recital. He’d forgotten all about it, perhaps deliberately. Somehow the thought of watching a group of 13 year old girls prancing ineffectually around on a stage, while he is forced to show overbearing levels of appreciation, filled him with dread. Plus Emma is a terrible dancer, though her enthusiasm does her credit. Of course the costume still languished at the shop. Adam thought quickly.

“I’ll pick it up on my way home.” Kate tuts.

“So you haven’t picked it up then? Well, you’d better make sure you’re not late, the recital starts at six-thirty. Emma’ll be beside herself as it is.”

“I’ll be home in plenty of time, don’t worry.” Adam answers, his tone ironic.

“You’d better be.” Kate says, and hangs up.

Adam puts down the phone gently, sighing. Recently Kate has been on his back about everything and he is tired of it, tired of the constant accusations in her tone, tired of waiting for the button to be pressed, and their marriage blow apart. He returns to his work, at least in that he could forget about it. But then he’d been doing a lot of forgetting lately.

*

By lunchtime the park has grown busy, but Adam manages to find a quiet, shaded spot beneath the Cherry trees. He lays down a plastic bag on the still damp ground and flops himself down onto it. The park takes a different tone at this time of day. There are people passing through on bicycles ‘ching-ching’, joggers with the thud, thud, thud of feet, and intermittent beat of the music that dictates their rhythm and speed. In the sky the sun is fat and curious, spreading out its searching fingers, illuminating. On the grass opposite a group of girls, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, play football in mini-skirts, laughing and scrabbling after the ball, without hint of the customary self-consciousness of their age. Adam munches on his sandwiches as he watches them play. They seem somehow tireless, as though the energy flows directly into their limbs from the sun. He remembers, though the memory is an echo shrouded in the shadow of passing years, when a similar energy flowed through his limbs. He envies their youth. With a sudden rush of pique he turns away, unable to follow the game which moves too fast in a puzzle of legs.

Instead he contemplates the trees, looking up into the quiet canopy. There is a slight rippling of the branches, but its activity is slow and calming. The fresh taste of spring brushes his lips with the breeze, carrying the scent of cherry blossom; a promise, unspoken, of life and renewal. He closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply, hoping that somehow the air could blow out the curtains of his dark, stale life, bringing in light and purpose. In the midst of this quiet contemplation he doesn’t see the ball heading in his direction. It whacks him squarely on the head and knocks him to the floor.

In his confusion he rests there for a moment lay against the cool earth, his cheek stinging from the blow. Somewhere in a far off place beyond the ringing in his ears he hears a voice, young, breathless. He thinks it says something, he listens, hears this time the words, distinctly female “Oh, I’m really sorry, are you okay?”. A shadow falls, a cool hand touches his cheek. He looks up, and an angel is standing over him.

He sits up, and the girl jumps backwards, startled. He stares. She is slender, long-limbed yet sculpted, shapely. Her hair is long, black and poker straight, it flows upwards to a perfect face, heart-shaped, full lips, almond eyes, a drizzle of freckles over the nose interrupting the otherwise flawless tone of her skin. He is captivated. She is spring fresh, perfect as a freshly opened bud. He resists an urge to reach out and take her, cup her in his hands and drink in her scent.

A nervous smile crosses her face as he rubs his chin, “I’m really, really sorry.” she stutters, rubbing her hands together.

“No problem.” he smiles “No permanent damage done.” He reaches over and grabs the ball, tapping it from one hand to the other. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Natalie.”

“Hi Natalie, I’m Adam, nice to meet you.” He holds out the ball. “You’ve got a good kick.”

“Thanks.” she giggles, and takes the ball, their fingers touching briefly. For a moment she waits, awkwardly, “Um, well, goodbye then…Adam.” then turns in a rush and runs away. Her movements are fluid, graceful, like a waterfall; he imagines what it would be liked to be soaked by her, he imagines that it would be wonderful, a pleasant slow drowning. He doesn’t pause to think what these feelings mean. He watches her until he is late, and lunchtime is over.

*

He is late home; Kate is waiting by the door, huffing. Emma sits on the step, obscuring her face, but he knows she has been crying. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Adam protests, costume in hand, “I got dragged into a last minute meeting. Look, if we set off now we’ll still be there on time.” Kate throws him a look.

“Go get in the car Emma love.” the tone is gentle, but fortified with steel. Adam can feel it slicing through his skin. Emma gets up and walks past him without looking up, Kate follows. Adam waits a moment, composing himself. He can smell the cherry blossom on his suit, breathes it in and forgets everything.

*

Two hours later and Adam feels he has done his duty. He endured Emma’s stumbling performance, smiled his most encouraging smiles, applauded beyond his guilt until Kate dug him in the ribs to stop, and now it is almost over. The parents start to flow out of the room, chatting, smiling, sharing their pride. Adam struggles to his feet. Kate has softened during the course of the evening, she hooks her arm in his, touches her head against the soft flesh of his upper arm. He relaxes, kisses her softly on her forehead. “I’ll go and get Emma, why don’t you go warm up the car.” she says and wriggles away. Adam watches as she slips behind the stage then turns and heads towards the door, but as he turns something catches his eye. There, framed by the doorway is the girl from the park. She is talking to one of the teachers, animated, glowing with youthful energy. She is wearing a simple shift dress, pale pink, nipped at the waist, stopping just above the knee. The teacher moves away and for a moment she is lost, not used to being alone then she sees him, smiles, and time stops.

For a moment there is just the two of them, her eyes locked in his, the thud of his heart, her breath meeting his in the gap across the room. She drifts over like a flower falling from the tree until she is standing in front of him. He cannot move, he can only smell her intoxicating scent, feel the warmth that radiates from her fragrant flesh. “Hi…Adam.” she says.

“Natalie.” the name clogs like honey in his mouth.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

“My daughter was in it.” he stumbles, guiltily. She giggles, there is something knowing in the tone of it. He feels suddenly exposed, could she know his feelings? “Umm, I have to go.”

“Will you be at the park tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, maybe I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

*

That night he dreams he is lying naked on a bed of grass. Above his head the cherry blossoms shiver, losing their grip, falling onto his skin. He wipes them away, his fingers contacting with skin. He turns his head, and she is there Natalie, lying in a bed of petals. They cushion her small breasts, trembling against her pink, pink nipples. He reaches out, and she slips further and further into the flowers.

*

He meets her the next day in the park, and the day after, and the day after. He finds himself thinking of her pure skin, the gentle tinkle of her laughter. He has not touched her, though once her hair brushed against the skin of his face and he was rapt, unable to wash in case the washing would take the feeling off. He longs to stroke his fingers against the warm skin of her arm, run his hand across her belly, feel it move beneath his touch. Instead they play chaste games, he discovers her secrets, the many ways to make her laugh, the peculiar quality of her smile. Day by day she edges closer to him on the blanket on which they lie beneath the shedding cherry trees. They throw petals at each other, and when he gets home they drop out of his shirt showering his room with their delicate scent.

Kate knows something is wrong. He is too quiet, happy in contemplation. She tries to draw the secret out of him but he keeps it close. He makes love to her, often. Their lovemaking takes on an intensity neither has experienced in years, he explores her mounds and folds eyes closed, imagining Natalie lies beneath him. He goes to sleep and makes love to her again in his dreams, while Kate lies awake, wondering.

They have been meeting for almost two weeks when Natalie asks him nervously to meet her after he has finished work. He is surprised at this change in their routine, excited at the possibility of a change in their relationship. He rings Kate, tells her that he will be in meetings until six, and to expect him home late. She offers to pick him up but he declines.

Natalie is waiting outside. She is wearing the dress from the recital, he notices with pleasure that the top few buttons are undone, and her pink flesh is exposed down to the small crease between her budding breasts. They walk, talking aimlessly, for a while heading towards the park. Time passes. Nothing happens. Inside Adam the agitation grows, they reach the park gates and he can take it no longer. He pulls her aside “Natalie, tell me why we’re here.” She looks away wringing her hands together, then stops almost as quickly. There is resolve in her eyes.

“For this.” she says

She leans forward and kisses him.

It should have been magical but instead her dry, juvenile kiss, so reminiscent of those given infrequently by Emma, was an instant turn off. He understood, instinctively, that she was still too young, that the depth of connection he needed was too deep, too uninhibited, too intense for her. In his mind he had placed this young face, this fresh body, and imposed it onto Kate. Kate with her moist, devastating kisses, her tongue snaking into his mouth seeking out the dark pits of desire, and finding them. He missed those kisses, the tease of her hair, her gasps like an overflowing river, the supple charge of her body sliding against his. He missed the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her body in sleep, the way she would seek him out in the darkness and nuzzle there. It was Kate that he wanted. They had grown so far apart he hadn’t realised that all he had to do was step back, and close the gap.

He pushes Natalie away.

“I’m sorry,” he said “this isn’t right.”

“What do you mean, I though this was what you wanted?”. The moment is awkward. He avoids her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

He turns away, runs through the park heading for home, moving so fast he doesn’t notice that the blossom are all but spent, the last blooms crushed into the mud under his feet.

*

He arrives home breathless but ready. He knows what he has to do. The house is quiet, unusually so and he hesitates a moment before closing the door. He looks around but sees nothing different yet the house feels uninhabited though Emma and Kate should both be home. His sudden confidence gone, he walks uncertainly from the hall to the living room. On the table a cup of coffee steams quietly, and to the right, just slipping into his view, Kate holds her head in her hands. He rushes over “Kate…Kate,” he whispers, gently moving her hands from her face “Kate, what’s wrong?”. Her face is blotched from crying, but there’s an unnerving certainty in her eyes. He is too late.

“I came to see if you needed a lift, but you weren’t at work,” she says “I saw you at the entrance to the park, I saw you with that girl.”

“It’s not what you think, it was nothing.”

“It isn’t nothing, not to me.” she pauses, looks away “We’re leaving.”

He doesn’t try to stop her.

The steam from the coffee rises silently into the darkened room, it is so quiet that he can almost believe he is alone.