Triangle: figure bounded by three lines.
I watch my beloved, but he doesn't see me. He doesn't see me watching,
because he's too busy watching Him. And He doesn't notice either of
us. Lately, He's been... different. I've noticed how withdrawn He's
become, as if He's waiting...
As time passes my beloved is becoming more and more obsessed with Him.
The less He responds, the more obsessed my beloved becomes.
On the few occasions that I've seen my beloved lately, he's hardly
noticed my existence. Not even the usual, friendly banter, the jokes
about Canadians... about curling. I miss that. It wasn't much, but
it made me feel as though I existed. As though I meant something to
him. At least he was aware of me... But now all he does is watch Him,
hovering around Him, desperately seeking his attention like a jealous
lover.
They aren't lovers, at least I can be sure of that. If they were, I'd
know.
Can a triangle really be a triangle when the other two sides barely
notice the existence of the third side?
Rectangle: four-sided plane rectilinear figure with four right angles,
esp. one with adjacent sides unequal.
So this is what He's been waiting for... His beloved is back. Did He
know? I can't tell. Perhaps He simply sensed it. I've seen this before...
He has an uncanny knack for knowing things like this, even though He
doesn't seem to be consciously aware of it. He's aware now.
I've only seen them together briefly, but the joy simply shines out
of Him. Yet His beloved seems... edgy. Perhaps it's just the aftermath
of the danger he's been in for so long. Living another man's life.
Returning to find somebody else has taken over his life...
My beloved is hurt, angry... barely able to contain his resentment
at being ousted from His side. And I am more invisible to him than
ever. We are both set aside, unnecessary now, and not even united in
our despair.
Point: a zero dimensional figure.
They've all gone. It's difficult to believe it could have ended this
way. My beloved has gone with Him to Canada and I may never see him
again. What was He thinking of? I know He feels nothing for my beloved,
nothing besides friendship. Perhaps it was simply for comfort, now
that His beloved has also left him.
That, too, was a shocking development, one that I could never have
imagined happening... he has gone to Florida with my beloved's ex-wife.
Now my beloved has what he wants, and I am alone.
I exist.
Line: a two-dimensional object that has no endpoints
My beloved has returned, so changed I can hardly recognise him... And
he's alone. I don't know what happened, but it must have been bad.
I don't dare ask him. If he was insecure and angry before he went,
now he seems completely lost. It's almost like having a ghost for company.
It was a week or more before I even knew he was back, then, one day,
he simply arrived at the Consulate and fidgeted around the reception
desk for a few minutes before leaving abruptly. Still, he keeps coming
back. I don't know why. It's not as though he talks to me, or appears
to take any pleasure in my company.
What has He done to my beloved? Reluctantly, I acquit Him of deliberate
cruelty. I've seen His dark side, sometimes, though he controls it
rigorously. I've worked with Him for over two years, after all... but
He would never deliberately hurt a friend.
Eventually, I discover what has happened, when my beloved's ex-wife
returns from Florida with the news. My beloved is even quieter after
that. No doubt he is humiliated, as well as hurt. To lose his ex-wife
and Him, both to the same man... But He was never my beloved's to start
with.
I try to reach my beloved. I ply him with cups of tea, and talk endlessly
about the Queen, curling, ice hockey... anything to draw one of his
sarcastic responses, but I don't think he even hears me. I thought,
when he was gone, that I was empty... lost. He is far more lost, far
emptier than I.
Somewhere I read, once, that the shortest distance between two points
is a straight line... in desperation, I decide to tell him that he
is not alone, that there is someone who loves him. Only him. Not as
a substitute for another. The thought of it terrifies me. I am not
good with words, especially when it concerns matters of the heart,
but I must do something.
I search for a way to begin, and can't think of a thing to say. It
doesn't help that we're being continually interrupted. My beloved is
becoming restless. I know the signs... soon he will drift away and
I won't see him again for a few days. By then my resolve will have
crumbled. I grab his arm and draw him, protesting, up the stairs. Someone
else can watch the desk for a while.
I daren't think too much about what I'm doing, or my courage will fail
me. I drag my beloved after me, fleeing from the noise of the Consulate,
instinctively seeking a safe place. I find a door and pull him through
it. A large room, with furniture covered in dust cloths. The Queen's
bedroom. Oh... gosh.
My beloved stares at me. It's the strongest reaction I've had from
him since he returned. I can do this...
I can't. The words stick in my throat and I watch him, mesmerised.
As I'm leaning against the door, he can't leave, but he's fallen silent
again. We stare at each other in a silence deeper than the vacuum of
space. Suddenly his eyes drop. He licks his lips nervously and half
turns away. I can't speak.
My beloved turns back to me, his eyes rising no further than the centre
of my chest, and lifts shaking hands to unbutton his shirt. I freeze
in shock. Surely he doesn't think...
But he does. The shirt drops to the floor, leaving him bare-chested.
He kicks off his shoes and reaches for his belt. I want to tell him
to stop, but the words won't come. I fold my arms across my chest in
a self protective instinct, and his eyes widen slightly.
He is so thin... more so than usual. So fragile looking, even when
he's fully clothed. Naked, he's a heartbreaking sight. Beautiful and
vulnerable and wounded. He's waiting for me now, just standing in front
of me waiting. I should do something, say something, but I can't, except
that my arms fall to my sides as though I'm no longer able to control
them.
His touch is light. He unbuttons my epaulettes, with a sureness that
could only have come from practice and I flinch. He falls back slightly,
but I don't believe for a moment he's changed his mind. This is going
to happen, it seems, whether I choose it or not. I continue the task
my beloved has begun, unfastening the Sam Browne belt, lifting it,
and slipping the lanyard over my head.
Once I've removed it, I stop. I don't know what to do next. After a
moment's hesitation, he takes the belt from my grasp and puts it on
himself. This, too, is obviously familiar to him. My mind reels, but
he is looking at me now with a painfully uncertain expression on his
face, and I cannot bear to hurt him by refusing to continue. Somehow
I manage to unbutton my tunic and shrug it off.
The thought of my tunic, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor distracts
me. For a moment I frown and can't think of anything else, until my
beloved touches me. He slides the braces off my shoulders and pulls
my undershirt off over my head. He seems to expect me to leave it all
to him, so I do. My mind cannot focus on what's happening and I drift,
coming back to the present to find he is leaning against me, his forehead
resting against my shoulder, breath hot on my skin. His hands are...
oh...
He begins to stroke me. Quick strokes, with no gentleness, only efficiency.
My beloved is very efficient. Soon I am breathing harshly and clutching
at the wall to keep myself upright. My beloved moves away from me,
towards the bed. I follow.
Beyond shock, I watch him climb onto the high bed and kneel on all
fours. I should stop this. How can I do such a thing, especially here,
in the Queen's bedroom? How can I not?
The leather straps are very dark against my beloved's paleness. For
the first time, I reach out and touch him. He is burning, his skin
soft and smooth, but he flinches away from my fingers. I put my hands
on his hips and move up close behind him, allowing my erection to press
against him. He moves impatiently. I enter him.
All my doubts melt away in the heat of his body. He does not want tenderness,
that much is clear. I show him none. I am soaring. I am drowning in sensation.
I am as lost as he is.
Afterwards, we dress in silence. I don't know how to reach this man.
I don't know him... I don't even know myself any more. I would never
have believed that I could do such a thing as we have just done.
He moves past me, to the door. He is leaving and I don't know if he'll
ever come back. Panic breaks through the fog in my brain.
"Your apartment. Tonight." It's all I can manage to force
out of my mouth and my voice sounds strange.
At the door, he hesitates. Then his head turns towards me and he nods
briefly. The door opens and closes behind him.
Circle: perfectly round plane figure whose circumference is everywhere
equidistant from its centre.
It is not late, but my beloved sleeps beside me. My presence here breaks
all the rules. I know this, even though the rules have never been spoken
between us. After sex, he has always made it very clear that he expects
me to leave. Until today, when, exhausted by three days of around the
clock investigation, he has fallen immediately asleep.
I cannot sleep, even though I, too, am tired. I am not sleeping well
lately and my back stings where his nails have scored me. I lie on
my side, watching my beloved. He is also lying on his side, facing
me, his hand resting by his cheek, the fingers curled inwards. He looks
like a child. Greatly daring, I touch his hand with my fingertips and
he doesn't stir. I touch his cheek, run my fingers lightly over his
hair.
I hate what is happening between us, but I'm afraid to break those
unspoken rules. I dare not lose him. He is my centre. I have given
him my heart and he doesn't even know it. I cannot tell him for fear
of driving him away.
I am being as careful as I can. He stirs slightly as I continue my
stroking but does not wake. I want to touch him. I want to hold him
in my arms and make love to him. His eyelids flicker suddenly and I
freeze, but then he settles with a quiet sigh. A tiny smile curls his
lips. My heart is pounding. I should leave. Now.
Leaving is impossible. I look at him, at that slight curve of his lips.
It's because of my touch, I'm sure. What is he dreaming about? Or,
rather... who is he dreaming about? I'm afraid I already know the answer.
I will never have him, never have more than his body, and when he is
ready to be alone, to look for a new love, he will not look at me.
Tonight may be all I'll ever have of him... I can't leave. The knowledge
emboldens me. I stroke his arm lightly. If he wakes and sends me away
forever, at least I will have had something other than our usual impersonal
coupling to remember.
My beloved doesn't wake. I touch him the way I've always wanted to...
like a lover. Still sleeping, he responds to me, moving closer. Dreaming
of Him, no doubt, but even that thought can't stop me now. I have no
pride left where my beloved is concerned.
Soon he is so close that our bodies are touching. I slide my arm around
him carefully and draw him still closer. He tenses slightly, then relaxes
into my embrace. I cradle him against my shoulder, content only to
hold him. His arm slips around my waist as though it was always meant
to rest there.
I must have slept. It's dark now, and my beloved is still in my arms.
I luxuriate in his warmth, his scent, the touch of his skin against
mine. The air is getting colder now. Gingerly, I reach for the covers
and manage to draw them up one-handed. He makes a quiet, satisfied
sound and snuggles closer. I wrap both my arms around him and kiss
his hair, before surrendering again, reluctantly, to sleep.
Morning has come too soon. I woke with the first light, and soon, surely,
my beloved will wake too. Perhaps I should go now, but I doubt I could
do it without waking him, so I might as well enjoy this to the end.
He is very close to waking now. I stroke his back and link my fingers
through his, pretending to myself that he really is my lover.
His body stirs against mine and I hear his sudden intake of breath.
I wait, sick with fear, for his reaction. For a long time there is
none. He lies unmoving in my arms for what seems like an eternity before
he lifts his head from my shoulder and looks at me. I smile, but I
can feel it waver. He turns away from me, and rolls on to his side,
facing away from me.
The minutes pass and neither of us has spoken. He is still there beside
me. He has not ordered me to leave, or left himself. Screwing up all
my courage, I roll over to lie against his back. My hands lift of their
own accord to touch him, and still he doesn't make a sound. I caress
him as a lover would and his body, again, responds to me, moulding
itself to my hands.
I need to know. Gently, I grasp his shoulders and roll him onto his
back. There are tears in his eyes, though he doesn't let them fall.
I caress him again, stroking his chest, down his side to his hip. I
touch his cock and he moans helplessly. My fingers drift lightly along
its length, over his belly, up to rest once more on his chest. Our
eyes meet. His hand comes up to touch my cheek and his fingers are
trembling.
I wait. For what, I don't know. I only know that it has to come from
him. Finally, his hand slides around to the back of my neck and he
pulls me closer. I go, willingly. Our lips meet for the first time.