4b

Her eyes are wide and unassuming. She is obviously aware of life in all its colours, if not (perhaps) in all its shades. Her voice resembles lark song. She makes him wince with joy and anguish all at once. He wants her, wants to touch her, to have her, to own her; he wants to take her to himself but cannot (for fear of hell) get close enough to do any of this. He cannot (because of laws - of nature and the state) enclose her as he would, enfold her as he would with he himself.

He must, in conscience as much as condescension, refrain from attempting what the universe, in all its wise hypocrisy, endeavours to persuade him is acceptable.

She smiles at him, a hollow, enigmatic Mona Lisa of a smile: a barricade. He tries at once for more, but coyly, knowing in his heart that she will ever remain, however resolutely fucked, inviolable.

Impregnable as wind, he thinks.

Untouched.

Pretend you do not know this, he remembers. Pretend to be enmeshed.

"I was sort of thinking," he says, through terse lips, "I might try the Navy. I've always had a mind to travel, and wouldn't mind the discipline and such. At least" - his mouth meets hers - a moment of ecstasy, of unbridled emotion - his mind an oscillating wireless dial - "at least" - a second try, more forceful than before, but with a voice that trembles - "I don't - think - I would," he almost-not-quite gasps.

Her response, as always, violent, irreligious, harsh; pouring over him with lips, but nothing else. She keeps her body to herself, making him strain to (almost) reach her. Silent as a worm. Infuriating.

"Aren't…..you…..going to say something?" Wheezed out like a geriatric, her breath and his, intermingled, as their hearts should be (he thinks, with optimistic hand stretched out to paw her breast - pushed back, with icy firmness, clam-like). No response.

"In that case" - a cough resisted; heart rattling like a snoring woman - "will you marry me?" He almost laughs, inside, where reality lies submerged and deadly like a stonefish. ("Will you marry me?" it seems a thousand voices mock. He quivers under siege.)

"Yes, Albert," replies Imagination, callous in contempt. But - the wind deflects against his face. Revival.

"Say that again." An emaciated whimper.

"Yes, Albert."

Her lips move (apart from his). Her eyes light up (too briefly).

And time is all at once submerged beneath the welter of the waves of craving which assail him.

"Are you - ?" he begins, but swallows like a guppy. Far too irreverent, he ponders. Far too irrelevant.

Her eyes his executioners.