Page 21 of Torn
Walt was leaning forward—to kiss me, I was pretty sure—when two women emerged from the bar.
They were in their twenties, one a brassy platinum blonde with voluptuous curves, hugged lasciviously by the tight, cropped T-shirt and mini skirt she wore. And the other was an even younger woman than the first. I cast her in the role of wingwoman. She was a little on the dowdy side, with very dark straight hair, glasses, and wearing a pair of shorts, a blouse, and flat sandals. Her friend wore towering red heels. The women were chattering and smoking. The language they spoke I barely recognized, despite being certain it was English. Words like “banging,” “slapper,” and “creps” came out frequently. So did a reference to “fags,” but I don’t think they were being homophobic.
Walt leaned away from me and stared straight ahead. He dropped his hands between his knees and blew out a big sigh.
“Frustrated?” I asked.
“As hell,” he said.
“Want to get out of here?”
“Got a place to go?”
And once more, we were confronted with the same dilemma we’d had in Brighton. I was simply not a “my place” kind of guy, at least over here. “Again,” I responded, “I’m not alone. I don’t think either of us wants a repeat of what happened in Brighton. Well, I do, some of it at least, but not being caught with our pants down, as it were.”
“Do you ever get a room of your own?” Walt laughed.
“Not on this trip. Not on my budget.”
Walt leaned close and whispered, “Could I coax you into my car, then?”
“Do you have a candy bar?”
Walt nodded eagerly. “It’s six inches long and has two nuts.”
“I think you’re underestimating yourself. Sounds like an Almond Joy to me.”
“Oh, I think it might bring you some joy.”
“Some?” I asked.
Walt raised an eyebrow. “A lot.”
I stood, and the girls peered over at me. The blonde batted her eyelashes and said, “Brilliant night, innit?”
I looked over at Walt for a translation. He shrugged.
“Either of you lads got a fag you can spare?”
I couldn’t resist. I took Walt’s arm. “Yeah, I’ve got one right here. But I can’t spare him, sweetheart, so bugger off.” I did know some Brit slang, after all.
The good-natured laughter of both women followed us as we left them.
“How far is your car?”
“Just a block or two over.”
WE ENDEDup driving only a very short distance—down to the parking lot by the Bath Spa train station. The lot was nearly empty this time of night, and Walt parked at the edge. The River Avon spread out before us, a magical flow of shimmering black.
We silently took in our river view. I noticed how the moon reflected on its current like a silver wafer out of which someone had taken a bite. It was serene, and there was, for once, blessedly, a bit of chill in the air. A slight odor of fish rose up from the dark waters. In addition to anticipation and lust, a sense of contentment also crept in, a feeling of being at home.
The passage of a small boat, its lights on low, cut through the night.
“Beautiful,” I said.
Walt turned to me. “You are. I don’t know when I’ve come across a man so beautiful.”
“I bet you’ve come across a few,” I quipped. “I’m not all that.” I stared down at the floor.
