Homecoming

You’ll have to excuse me for a moment while I indulge myself. Very sorry in advance. Truly. You see the past year+ has been, for all of us, an extended exercise in managing isolation, navigating distance and as a result, getting in touch with ourselves. Some of us may have done the latter more than others. Speaking for myself… I’ve managed to really deepen that very important relationship. I’ve had the most insightful conversations with myself, I’ve taken myself on long, romantic walks. I’ve done one or two other things with myself that have been so profoundly enjoyable I daren’t repeat here. A lady never tells, after all.

So while I’ve been in lockdown, I’ve been dating myself, essentially. This time and space, much much further away from those I love than I would like, has resulted in a lot of time to think. That thinking turns into daydreaming, that daydreaming turns into fantasising. You catch my drift. I’d like to share with you one of my recent daydreams. Inspired by both spring and impending freedom for so many, I couldn’t help but enjoy myself one lazy Sunday morning. The hazy morning sun had roused me from my sleep, and was dancing across my bedroom as I lay in a dappled mess of sun flecked fabric and skin. The thoughts which ensued in my dreamlike state are as follows:

Thick, balmy air breezes across my shoulders as I walk along Hinde St. It’s summer in London, and I’m on my way to you. My anticipation, barely containable, quickens my breath more than usual during a brisk walk. Trees sway, people bustle and the atmosphere is palpable. I’m cool. Wearing a sun dress and linen jacket, I’m warm but refreshed. But when I touch my neck, it is softly sticky. Just the slightest amount of sweet sweat glows on my tanned skin. I arrive at our place, and you’re already there. A waiter shows me to our table, but before he can pull my chair back for me, you’ve leapt up to do so yourself. The waiter laughs at your eagerness and steps aside, the moments anticipation not lost on any of us. Between that swift chair slide and my seating, you pull me into a familiar yet enthralling embrace. We both breath in, deeper than either of us ever have. A wave of nostalgia engulfs us both and our scents combine and memories come flooding back. Finally. At last. Here we are.

We sit, and compose ourselves. It’s needed. I’m giddy like a school girl, and you’re hard as a rock. I felt it when we embraced. The intense emotional electricity of the moment mixed together with the raw sexual frustration is intoxicating. I feel myself ache between my legs. That familiar throb of desperation. The best kind of desperation. How will we ever make it through this entire tasting menu, without disappearing to the toilets like literal teenagers?

But, we do.

The three hour endeavour feels like one. I’m lost in your eyes and you’re lost in mine. After dessert (it would be rude not to indulge to the max), we go for a walk around the city which we both adore so much. We talk about our travel plans, we scheme up itineraries, intermittently googling each country’s current rules and regulations regarding the now almost non existent lockdowns. And even though this city is my hometown, in this moment I feel like I’m a million miles away from it all. I may as well be in India. I’m more present than I’ve ever been, as that cooling night air wraps around my neck and ankles, the smell of summer and the city suspended in it like smoke. You sense a shiver from me, and nobly sacrifice your jacket. You drape it around my shoulders and pull me in closer. As we kiss by the river, we know it’s time. You hail a cab as we run down the street, tumbling into it in a mess of jackets and delirium. Our cabbie chats to us about where we’ve travelled from and asks how long we’ve been married. We giggle like school children as you squeeze my hand.

On returning we do something crazy. As we sit at the darkened lobby bar, we decide why wait. With it being viable at last, and with everything we’ve learnt over this past year, why not now. We book a Eurostar for the first thing next morning. With four hours between now and then, we decide that the sensible thing would be to get some shut eye. Beauty sleep would be more than needed for the journey ahead. But sensible isn’t always the most fun now, is it. We both glance at our half finished drinks. Unanimously, without saying a word, we’re gathering our things and heading to the elevators. The thrill of the evening, the unbridled joy at the concept of stepping onto French soil, of summer in Paris, it’s all just too much now. As the lift ascends you look so deeply into my eyes I swear I could have climaxed there and then. We don’t say a word for the first time all night. As we approach our suite, you turn to me and squeeze my hand again. The pressure is at boiling point now. You give me this cheeky, knowing smile. And as perfect as the moment is, the animal in me is clamouring to be let out of her cage. I snatch the key card from your hand, and I open the door. You laugh suddenly and hard, and then you stop. Things are about to get very very serious, after all. For about three hours. Until the sun rises.