Lying - a true story

This one was shortlisted for the Aesthetica Competition and published in Aesthetica Annual 2009.

I lie here.

I lie with my nose inches from your neck. My elbow points out further, touches the curve your spine makes as it sweeps away from me. My knee is in the crook of your knee: your popliteus.
And nothing is quite right. We don’t quite fit together. I can see that in the dark. In the light that neither of us could be bothered to switch off. The light that murmurs in through the cracks round the bathroom door. The door that neither of us could be bothered to close.

Your shoulders are not quite broad enough. Your hair is blonde: a fake colour. It makes you look a little cheap and it turned me on. Your arms are slightly too short. They are slim and fragile. Your feet are too compact and I don’t know where you bought those pointy-toed black shoes. The shoes that I pulled off.
I need to make some sense of this, so I go to the bathroom and wash the sweat from my forehead. Outside, the constant trip of feet, delegates returning to their rooms. Giggles and shrieks. I can hear through the window. The window that both of us struggled to open, laughing as we tugged at the clasp, my arms along your arms, naked.

There was no way to turn off the heat.

On the way back I knock out the bathroom light. I clamber over your limp body, back to my position.

Nothing disturbs you.

A burst of laughter outside. They are trying to throw a girl into the pond. Conferences bring out the worst in people.

I envy your unconsciousness. But in the blackness I can see everything more clearly. I see how we first smiled at each other, innocent and friendly, at the registration desk. I see how we talked, by coincidence, in the coffee break. I can see us in the shabby ballroom, drinking another glass of free alcohol. Champagne reception and networking opportunity. I leant across to test your perfume. It was the wrong flavour.

And later, your saliva tasted wrong too. And you kiss wrong. You have a way of twisting your mouth. You sort of wriggled underneath me. We didn’t move together.

And now, I am frozen in this heat. Naked to inspection. Exposed on a slab. Nothing is quite right. You are not her. Nothing will be the same again. I can’t lie. I cannot live under the spotlight of guilt.
There is no hope of sleep. I kick the blanket off my legs and go to the desk. This laptop glows a warm halo into the room. One of the anatomy graduates is singing now. Perhaps I should growl through the window, tell them to shut the fuck up. My heartbeat increases at the thought. I don’t like to make a fuss. I don’t want to draw attention. And they are not the reason I cannot sleep.

So I type these lies, staring at the empty bed.