Woman Last Seen(25)

Love’s first imprint is precise. This is the when. This is the where. I will never understand the why.

He is wearing a crisp white shirt, and a dark blue tailored suit. He is lean, tanned. His blond hair is just long enough to suggest rogue, rebel, but not too long so as to alienate his wealthy clients or powerful peers. I think this man most likely does have both wealthy clients and powerful peers, my guess is lawyer or merchant banker. I wonder what he was doing so far from the city at—I check my watch—at 4:15 p.m. The lateness surprised me. I should be back at the office. How have I let time slip away from me? But I don’t rise to go. Something about the sunshine, the sweet scent, the sexy smile stops me.

He does have a sexy smile. He is a coiled man, ready to spring.

He holds the roach out toward me, as though we are old friends. He raises his eyebrows, questioning, daring. I shrug, all insouciance, and take it from him, draw on it. First time ever. The smoke hits the back of my throat, leaving me feeling excited and scared. And I know, just know that this is our pattern carved out right in this moment. Everything that happens from now on will be a repeat of this simple action. This is who I am when I am with him. This is who he makes me be. Who he allows me to be. A woman who tries things, who takes up dares. A woman who smokes a joint, who takes pills, who talks to strangers, who drops to her knees to deliver a blow job in a public loo.

I don’t know how I know that the rules have all been thrown out of the window, but they have.

The smoke passes down my throat, wraps itself around my lungs. It is as though I am taking my first breath ever. As I breathe out, I feel the tension pour from me. I look to the ground, expecting a steaming pile of fear or regret. I am surprised to see nothing other than a paving stone, a small insect scurrying, popping up from one crack hiding down in another. I take another drag. The air is warm. A huge cocoon. After an afternoon in the sun the skin on my face is tight, slightly seared.

“Do you want to go for a drink?” he asks. I nod. “I’m Daan,” he says.

“You have an accent,” I comment clumsily. It could have been worse. I could have blurted that I like accents.

“I’m Dutch.” He nods at the roach, as though his nationality explains everything. He doesn’t really believe he is breaking the rules by smoking this in public, although of course he is because the law is different in the UK. His shrug suggests the rules are beneath him, provincial.

“I’m Kai.”

“Cool name.”

He stands up and I note his powerful build—he is way above average height. Six feet four, maybe five. He stretches his hand down to me and pulls me to my feet. He doesn’t let go of my hand but threads his fingers through mine and I let him. It should be odd, but it isn’t—it’s the most natural thing in the world. He leads the way. Mentally I accept that is pattern two set in stone. He leads, I will follow.

He knows a place. I like that. It’s refreshing to meet a man who has ideas about what we should do and where we should go. I find myself on a rooftop bar; the view offers flashes of buildings in the throes of regeneration and gentrification. I feel dizzy thinking about how exciting it is to be up above. Looking down. Money allows that, I suppose. By 5:30 p.m. we have already drunk a couple of gin and tonics each. The music thumps around me. I feel it in my head, chest, knees and between my legs. Or is that him I feel inside me? Not literally, of course. Not yet. But I think that is where this is going. Where we are going. There is an immediate and intense sexual attraction, the sort that is rare and coveted. It feels as though he has climbed inside me. That I’ve accepted him.

Everyone is younger than I am on this rooftop, in their twenties and early thirties. Daan tells me that he is thirty-five. I throw caution to the wind and tell him my age; he seems delighted. “Ah, an older woman.” He smiles wolfishly and buys me another drink. We move on to tequila shots. We lick salt off one another’s hands. Who am I? I don’t know. Not myself. No one.

The rooftop quickly fills up, dating couples mostly. Glamorous women with hair and nail extensions, full makeup and scanty dresses; men with groomed beards, obvious intentions, business expense accounts. These people smudge up against each other.

“I love meeting new people,” I tell him, giddy, drunk, high.

“I have such respect for people who do,” he replies. He moves closer to me, bends to close the gap between us, so I can hear him clearly. I feel his breath on my cheek, and it blows my sense away. There is nothing but sex all around us. New and perfect. Old and established. Burnt-out, burning bright, angry, pitiful, grateful, unclassifiable.

“There are so many people. I feel the ache of being only one of them and want to be more,” I tell Daan. It is a dramatic thing to say. Something to do with my father’s death, or maybe the hash. Both. A combination. Chicken and egg.

“What do you mean?” He looks interested. I am interesting for the first time in a long time. Maybe ever.

“Well, the problem with being only one person is you can disappear. You can be snuffed out.”

“That’s a sad thought.”

I shrug but decide not to tell him about my father. How I am entitled to have sad thoughts, this day above all days. I am thinking about mortality, about the meaning of it all. Why are we here?

“Do you fancy another drink?” he asks.

I do, and I feel entitled to another drink. Several. Too many. We talk, he has a lot of interesting stories. He comes from money, made through fiber optics and oil. He doesn’t impart this information in a crass way, simply through dribs and drabs, asides to the main tale he is telling, and yet I know he is trying to impress me. I’m flattered he’s bothering.