You read in one of her books once the line, “The sun poured over the world like honey.” At the time you had laughed at such romantic tosh. But now as you make your way to the shed at the bottom of the garden you are bathed in such warm golden light that you see what the author meant.
The rays of the sun are so tangible that in each shard of light cutting through the overhanging trees dance a million billion spec-like faeries. Where the sun falls on the lawn it is a vivid green that contrasts with the darker cooler tones of the shaded lawn and feels as if you are living in a children’s movie.
The year is yet young so walking through the shadow you are chilled a little, only to be roasting a moment later as you step back into a pool of light. Light and shade, cool and warm; just like your relationship you muse.
At the door of the large shed you pause and listen. The shed is old and smells of ancient pine and creosote. Through the open door you can see an old machete hanging on a nail. Your grandfather had used it to prune the roses; a relic from his war in the Far East.
“Did you kill anyone with it?” A bright-eyed six-year-old had once asked him.
“No,” the old man had laughed. More a cackle even then, “But I pruned a lot of roses.”
At six you do not see the joke. You imagine for years that far off places are all rose gardens and all wars there are all fun.
Then you remember her waiting inside. Some wars are fun, you realise. Then you sigh; time to get into character.
Pushing back the door you see her standing as far away from the door as she can. Her posture is all knocked-knees and nervousness and she is biting her finger nails. You can almost see the teddy bear dangling loose in one arm, but it is not there. Teddy sits on a shelf in your room where she left it after she moved in.
At 36 six she is too old for such things, or so she believes, although you tell her it is cute. But you know when you are away sometimes; Teddy creeps off the shelf and cuddles her.
“I told you to be standing in the corner when I came didn’t I?” You sound angry.
She nods and bits her lip. Her hands steal to the small of her back, perhaps in a parody of standing at attention or maybe she is tentatively testing her behind for its resilience.
“Well,” you snap a growl at her.
She jumps and works her mouth.
Silently you ask the question again with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes,” she whispers, the word half swallowed.
“Do it now, as I told you,” you say firmly, your voice retreating from the anger.
She visibly gulps and offers up a cute blush. Then her hands fumble at the button on her denims, black cotton ones that have faded to blue. Her red hair tumbles over her face as she stoops to slide them down her thighs.
“Not fair,” she mutters childishly.
“Shall I go then and forget about it,” you snap back.
Her head shoots up, her eyes wide, “Ooh no,” she says in panic, “I was only…”
She needs this but cannot say, you both do, but to speak of it would break the spell.
You don’t reply and she bites her lip again. Then after a slow drip of time she slides her knickers down to meet her jeans at her ankles and quickly turns to face the corner. Her bottom catches the sun from the door and glows back at you like treasure.
You sigh, a tight tickle tugging somewhere around your stomach.
Outside a pigeon coos, followed by a twitter of some other unnamed birds. Somewhere a cuckoo begins to sing and you are transformed by its spell. The first of the season, you realise. Should you phone the Times? Do they still even do that?
It is an inconsequential chain of thoughts that fill your mind; all part of this perfect moment.
“Why did you do it?” you ask.
Both question and answer are irrelevant.
She shrugs a little and that annoys you. It means she is shy, but you can’t help reading it as defiance. You are as much a captive in your role as she is.
“I see,” you say. You sound serious and all knowing.
What does she feel as the metallic chink of the buckle touches her ears? Can she hear the slide of the leather on cotton as the belt slips through trouser hoops?
You fold the belt and test it on the palm of your hand.
“Move away from the wall and bend over,” you order her.
She doesn’t move and you snap the command again.
“Hands flat against the wall,” you add.
She obeys; her back dipped and her bottom curved towards you in supplication.
The belt lashed across her bare bottom with a blazing sting that even you can feel. She gasps and presses into the back wall with her bottom thrusting up and her head turned so that you see her grimace.
“Ouch,” she says in a tone like the sunshine on the shed roof.
It is the same tone she uses when she says ‘thank you.’ It sounds like sorry. It sounds like a promise.
You strike again and add to red mark so masterful placed on her bottom.
“Ouch,” she says again, this time pouting a little as her role demands.
Ends.
