And I wanted that. I wanted him to look at me the way he was looking at her.
I wanted him to push his fingers inside me, and cover me in wax until I squirmed… and use the C word… and make me feel so bad…
I wanted him to tie me up, and make me spread my legs for him… and make me feel so dirty… teach me to be so dirty…
“Fuck me, Mark… please…”
And he did.
Oh God, how he fucked her. Not softly like he’d taken me, but hard and brutal, slamming into her. He pressed her knees to her breasts and his tummy slapped against her skin and she struggled in her bonds but moved nowhere.
I loved the noises he made, familiar yet alien, and the way he used her body and made her his.
“I love you like this, Mark… I love you… I love you so much it hurts…”
And so did I.
I came before the video was over, and the guilt hit me as soon as I was done. I wriggled in my seat as I caught my breath and in panic I closed out of the video.
No more.
But there were so many pictures to look at, of them together, of them kissing, and naked, and making love. Of him taking her. Of him loving her. Of him sweaty and ragged and collapsed on top of her body.
I closed out of the whole thing and I felt sick. I walked about the place and wondered if he’d be able to tell I’d looked. If he’d know I watched. Maybe even know I’d played with myself as I watched him fuck his dead wife.
How could I ever explain that?
Maybe he’d even ask? Maybe he already knew? Maybe it was a test?
A test of what? Purity? A test to see whether I’m really as dirty as the pictures I showed him?
A test of trust. Of privacy.
And I’d failed. I’d snooped around his private memories and I’d soiled them and used them and felt jealous over them.
And that was disgusting.
I was disgusting.
Maybe he wouldn’t know?
But I’d know.
And that would never do, because I’d always feel weird and icky and bad. I’d always feel like I’d betrayed him and let him down.
I’d feel like a fraud.
I dropped on the sofa and pulled my knees to my chest and my heart was thumping and my mouth was dry.
And I waited for him.
***
Mark
“Helen?”
It felt so weird calling a woman’s name as I crossed over the threshold, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It wasn’t unpleasant at all.
I kicked the door closed behind me and made my way through the house, elbowing some jars aside to clear space on the countertop for my shopping bags.
“Helen?” I fired up the hob, took down a pan from the wall and set it on the heat.
She appeared in the doorway and she looked pale and tired, just as I expected she might. I gestured to the bags and smiled.
“I hope you like a full English. We’ve got bacon, and sausage and eggs and mushrooms, all from the butchers up by the Top Cross.” I held up a loaf. “From the bakery. Smell. It’s so fresh.”
She took it from me and held it up to her nose, and I took the opportunity to pull her to me, and squeeze her tight and cover her neck in kisses as she giggled.
But she didn’t giggle. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her body to mine, but she didn’t giggle.
I tipped her face up to mine. “Everything alright?”
She nodded. “Just… I dunno.” She smiled but it was nervous. “You got all this for me?”
“I suspected you wouldn’t have snooped hard enough in the kitchen to locate the muesli.” Her eyes widened and I laughed. “I was joking. How do you like your eggs?”
“However they come.”
“Much of a hangover?”
She shook her head. “Not so bad.”
I flicked on the kettle and grabbed some mugs. “Sorry, Helen, I don’t even know how you take your coffee, or tea, do you prefer tea?”
She blushed a little. “I don’t… I don’t like either…”
I pulled a face. “You don’t drink tea or coffee? Extraordinary girl.” I reached for a glass instead. “I’m assuming you like juice?”
She nodded. “I like juice.”
I handed her a drink and busied myself with breakfast, browning the sausages off before adding the bacon and eggs, and toasting the bread just enough to crunch.
“We’ve got so much of this to cover, Helen. So many likes and dislikes, and food preferences and pointless trivia.” I flipped the bacon. “What’s your favourite food?”
She propped herself against the wall. “Potato waffles.”
“Potato waffles?”
She nodded. “With baked beans.”
I soaked her in like I’d never seen her before, seeing her youth through clear vision, and it was pure and intoxicating… and addictive. There was such beauty in her innocence, in the simplicity of her answers, without pretence or front or any kind of showmanship. No pompous detailing of quail’s eggs and truffles to sound like more of a grown-up, just potato waffles, because that’s the truth of it.