He said write about it. Evenings spent on a dirt road, in a little cottage, past a hobby vineyard. He's offensively good looking. His charm charged with three decades in France, an accent, blue eyes, the wisdom of having ex wives, plural, and shrugging off attention from generations of women. The art of conversation as provocative as breathless kisses. Despite an outdoor toilet, he pissed in the bedroom in a red bucket in front of his yellow painting, his naked body shivered at the final drips, like the last gasp of an orgasm. The mattress was propped up with hardcover books. A collection room of sculptures made from tree roots or marble. The first time they'd attempted intimacy in her bed he said he had to get home to make sure the painting he'd left drying in front of the fire hadn't caught alight. He'd rushed, then lost his urgency, buried his head in her hair and sighed. They'd said they hoped it wouldn't ruin their friendship. The next time he pounded her till she bled. The doctor said the cervix was sometimes like a nose bleed. But the third time, at dusk in his cottage, she whispered 'be gentle with me'. He took her with grace, like time had no meaning. Pleasure opened up, stroked into existence. He'd once said there was a French saying 'hide your play'. Days later, she shifted on her chair, and felt the vibrations from where his fingers had been. She clenched her thighs tight together, looked out the window and revelled in his phantom touch.
