“I think of the night before. The soft feel of her skin. Her adept and elegant movements. The tender groans which broke from her exquisite lips. Merely thinking about it sends fervorous surges throughout my body.”
I told her about my pretty mundane 20 years of living this life, too, of course. We arranged to meet the following Saturday (last night). She invited me over to her apartment for a home-cooked dinner and some wine. We had roasted cod, spiced potatoes along with a colourful side of veg.
“That was magnificent!” I tell her. “Where’d you learn to cook like that?”
She laughs daintily. “My mother. We cooked together all the time when I was growing up,” she says, staring into some void point of space in the room, then, suddenly turning to me, she continues: “so naturally, I picked up a lot of her recipes and techniques.”
We swig at glass after glass of wine, and chat at length as the gears of time shift on perpetually. We talk about serious matters, funny memories, random happenings – everything and anything.
For a moment, a light silence lolls between us. She’s sat with one leg crossed over the other while her right hand steers a half full glass of wine to-and-fro her lips. Her long, dark-blonde hair rests to one side on her left shoulder. I peer slyly at her for a while. Nicely rounded face, perfectly symmetrical. Small, firm breasts mildly poking through her grey Umbro top. The enticing outlining of her curvaceous hips and well-formed thighs. A pristine build for her tender age of 18. I almost want to tell her how sexy she looks. But I of course don’t.
It gets to around 11pm when it occurs to me that I’d better call a taxi soon.
“Well, you know, I don’t mean to be too forward or anything, but I mean, if you’d prefer to stay here for the night and set off in the morning when you’re sober, that’s totally okay with me,” she utters.
I stare blankly at her for a moment, then sheepishly ask, “I said that out loud?”
She laughs. “Yes, you did.” I laugh a little too.
“I don’t wanna be a bother, I mean we hadn’t pla–”
“Nonsense.” she interjects loosely. “It’s not at all a bother for me. The woman who rents out the room upstairs doesn’t mind, and her husband comes here for a couple nights every now ‘n’ then, so she can’t complain.”
My tipsy self mulls over her words for a while, but my vocal chords construct no form of response. “I’ve got spare sheets and stuff,” she continues. “like, if you’d rather sleep on the couch or whatever.”
“No, no, that’s not it. I was just thinking about something.”
Well, if you’re sure it’s not an issue, I guess I can set off in the morning, for convenience’s sake, I say to her. Amber and I talk a little more over one final glass each, then we decide to call it a night. She offers me the baggiest top she owns to sleep in. Amber then cuts the light, and we position ourselves in her cosy double-bed.
Due to my fairly drunken state last night, recollections from that point on become rather hazy. We had sex, of course – three or four times in fact. All I remember was her sitting herself atop my body clothed in only a t-shirt and a silken lingerie as I laid on her bed. Her lips pressed intensely against mine as I slipped off her top and undergarment. And then the magic began.
Her movements were supple. Competent. Ardently amorous. All in all, it was some of the best sex I’d ever had, no doubt about it.
Once we finish our tartines, she pours us both one more cup of coffee.
“Could I ask you a favour?” she says, as if all of a sudden remembering something she’d had on her mind.
“Yeah, sure. What’s up?”
She hesitates. “It may sound a little strange, but, would you mind coming with me to that art gallery? You know – the one we first met in.”
“Of course not, I’d love to,” I say this without really giving it much thought. But hey, she gave me a cosy bed to sleep in, great sex, and fed me twice. I’m sure I can reschedule whatever (if anything) I have planned.
She smiles. “Whenever you’re free, though. Doesn’t necessarily have to be today. I just feel I need to go back.”
After piecing details together and asking a myriad of questions, I manage to discover that the painting, Visser in grijs – or Fisherman in grey – was actually a portrait of Amber’s great-grandfather, painted in 1925 by a Frenchman. Amber’s great-grandfather was half Dutch. He was an avid fisherman and sailor, living his entire life either in or by the sea. Amber never knew her grandfather on her father’s side, and so the next best thing, she thought, was her great-grandfather, who happened to be a fairly renowned fisherman and sailor in Germany before the Second World War.
That explains her attachment to that painting, I say. Aloud.