P&P CHALLENGE / BODIES OF WATER

Kisses in the Church, Questions on Sunset Beach

Too late to know we shouldn’t be doing this

You pull up outside of my house, parking your little red car blithely, not quite in the space but not out of it enough for it to be worth adjusting. You’re sitting with a grin on your face, you open the door, your foot touches the ground, and you walk over to my front door where I’m standing waiting.

Hey, I say.

Heya, you reply, carefree. Gesturing for a hug which I accept as you pull me in tight; tight enough to remind me how we used to be more than friends, and how it’s been long — too long, maybe — since we last saw each other.

You come in and we have a cup of tea with my mum sitting at the kitchen table. You’re bubbly and I like that, and I can’t help but admire the dexterity with which you handle casual conversation, deftly stepping from topic to topic as if you were a child playing hopscotch.

You’ve met my mother once before. She liked you then, and it’s clear to me from her face that she likes you now, some months later — she too admires your ability to navigate the necessary social niceties we put in place for ourselves.

Shall we go? I suggest.

You nod and finish the dregs of your tea as you stand up, then walking over and gently placing the cup in the sink amongst the rest of the washing up things.

We get in the car and belt up. Where do you want to go? you ask.

How about the old church nearby? I say, suddenly worried it might be too tedious for you. It’s bleak — I think you’ll like it, I add hastily.

Sure, you say, nonplussed. Just direct me.

We drive out of the village — you adroitly changing gear, me admiring you as you do so. Your hand looks soft but pale like marble against the black plastic and faux leather of the gearstick.

Your eyes are focused on the church as we park up alongside the railings in front of its gate. You look intrigued which makes me feel relieved and validated in my choice of place. I was worried you wouldn’t like it.

You push open the ancient and heavy oak door, slowly before it swings open with momentum of its own. The place smells old and of decaying wood and dust. It is silent, other than for the low hum of activity from the nearby dairy farm.

It’s 12th century, I say.

You nod, approvingly, and pivot on your feet — turning your body and head as though to take it all in, your mouth slightly open as you focus on the ancient masonry and stained-glass windows.

We walk up and down taking pictures and admiring the ornateness of what remains.

I say, I come here sometimes, when I want somewhere peaceful. I just sit on one of the pews in silence and take it all in.

I can see why, you reply.

I even found an old shilling down there, I continue, pointing.

You smirk in silent appreciation, telling me you’d like it to be silent for a few moments longer. I oblige.

A small prayer card in a crevice catches my eye and I walk over to pick it up, gazing at the picture of a saint I’ve never heard of and reading the message overleaf.

What’s that? you ask.

Just a prayer card, here, I say.

You look at it and hand it back to me after reading and I place it back where I found it. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice you looking at me, smiling — not quite a grin, but a cute, content smile. I know exactly what it says, but we’re not supposed to be doing that, so I look away again, gazing at nothing in particular.

Only you’re closer now — closer than I realised—and that smile is still on your face. I look at you and I smile the same smile back, and our lips press against one another’s and lock together. We stay there for a while, just kissing, and you move your hands under my shirt and onto the bare skin of my back, pulling so that it’s taut.

We both know we shouldn’t be doing this anymore, we agreed on it. Though I suppose it’s too late for that to matter now.

We leave the church, retracing our steps and getting into the car. Where next? you ask, looking over to me sitting quietly in the passenger seat.

How about the beach? Looks like a great sunset.

Okay, you say, and we drive down the dusty back roads, an expanse of fields in view either side, populated with cows in one direction and sheep in the other.

We stop and the sky is spread before us, all aflame, full of exquisite reds, oranges, and yellows. The tide is out a long way and the wet sand reflects the light. Our entire vision is occupied by this one magnificent sunset.

It’s beautiful, you say.

It is, like you are, is my reply.

You give me a look which tells I’ve gone too far. But how can that sentence go too far? We’ve already kissed. How can me telling you something you already know take things too far?

I respond with a look that tries to say this — a slight smile that acknowledges the reality of the situation in which we now find ourselves. It says that truthfully, I’m happy this has happened, and that if you let me, I’m going to kiss you again.

I take your hand in mine and face you, looking at your skin, all soft and pink like candy floss.

This story is a response to Prism & Pen’s writing prompt Bodies of Water.

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