Sunset: For Her

Should I? No. It's appalling and rude. Really?

I was confused again, my mind awash with uncertainty just the same before I pushed the duvet off and stood up, ready to face the challenge, naked in front of the window. I had been powerful and eager to get the show on the road, for better for worse, for the voyeurs. And here I was back to that angry at everything, ready to snap and retaliate over the smallest silliest things. I could feel the panic rise in my chest.

I took a deep breath and gulped mouthfuls of cool water from the glass. I was in charge of my body, my life. I was strong, athletic, toned, sweaty... Powerful and commanding for God's sake, not sweaty, where had that come from? I shook off my irrelevant questions and sat at the table. In silence I ate a lovely bacon sandwich, let baked croissants melt in my mouth and swallowed freshly squeezed orange juice.

Fran waited until I had finished eating before lighting up a cigarette. I watched the grey, blue tendrils of smoke swirl in the air above the kitchen table and felt an unexpected pang when the smell invaded my nostrils. I hadn't smoked for over a year now, the craving and urge just left me around the same time we... The breath caught in my throat. Had it been that long? A whole year since the last time we were intimate.

On impulse I reached across the table and snatched up Fran's pack of Royals. Before I could react to my own shocking actions I had lit one up and inhaled deeply. Fran looked at surprised as I was. With a shrug I took another drag and flicked a stub of ash into the ashtray. I'd had a year off, this was my reward. So what?

In silence we smoked. The mid morning sun bloomed through the kitchen, making it seem like a mini fog bank had appeared inside the house. An automatic calendar was turning in my head. A year since we'd made love, give or take a few weeks. Fran had moved to the opposite side of the house, the Wing we called it, guest wing with 3 bedrooms, it's own kitchen, living room etc. That meant it was only two years ago when we actually moved into the Long House. After waiting for the endless building work to be completed we only enjoyed the house together for a year? Just one year?

It felt much longer than that but even as I recalculated I knew it was right. In the last twelve months the only contact we'd had was for work purposes. We were civil, polite and professional. At the rear of the house we had a purpose built office, our own desks and so forth. We made a lot of money but it seemed that wasn't enough. We weren't stupid, just because our personal lives happened to be a mess it wasn't a solid reason to throw away a perfectly good business relationship. That much we agreed on at least.

Something made me wonder about the timing, with Christmas only a couple of weeks away, and here we were trying to make something, anything work between us, it felt ominous that it was a year since we parted. Maybe it was a good sign, an omen of positive things to come, a much needed change for the New Year.

But it meant one of us actually speaking! I stubbed my smoke out when it hit the filter and swallowed refreshing orange juice.

"Lovely breakfast, thank you," I said. It felt strange to split the silence but it had to happen.

"My pleasure," Fran replied with a genuine smile. "There'll be some talk in Crafthole this afternoon I think."

I laughed softly. Crafthole had three shops, a butcher, baker and tiny supermarket/post office. Even before Long House was complete we lived in an old battered trailer in the garden, one that didn't have a freezer. So every other morning before the builders arrived we would cycle the eight miles to Crafthole, pick up ingredients for breakfast and cycle back. We got to know the shop keeps very well. New couple, building work, very much in love, moved out of the city to start a new life and family...you know the kind of gossip that drifts through small villages like Crafthole.

However, we hadn't cycled anywhere since our parting, let alone arriving at the bakers at 6.30am, sweaty and smiling and hungry for fresh baked croissants.

"You cycled there?" I asked with raised eyebrows.

Fran nodded. "It's surprisingly warm for December," Fran replied. He shrugged. "I just felt the need to ride out along the cliffs, take in the scenery and be refreshed, you know?"

I gazed out of the window. I did know, very well. "I get like that sometimes," I said. "It's that feeling of being free again, leaving your problems trailing in the wind far behind. Refreshing is the exact word I would use too."

"Second best way since the shower in the Wing is pretty crappy compared to yours, it's like a standing under a McDonald's straw than a mountain waterfall," Fran said with a smirk. "Refreshing it ain't!"

I chuckled softly. It was funny how we lived in the same house yet referred to various bits as your or mine. I had never made it clear he wasn't welcome anywhere, we just lived in separate areas. The reference to the huge shower brought back the night of the voyeurs, a flash back of that night swam into my mind, a montage of clips nudged all other thoughts aside: the steamy shower, rolling across the bed, leaning against the boxes with Fran deep inside me, seeing the voyeur lads across the road, arching and leaning back to suck on Fran's tongue...

I shook my head. How could one simple, none sexual comment summon up such filth? I realised I was biting my bottom lip. I had to get a grip.

"You know you can use it any time you want," I stated, hoping I wasn't sounding like hard nosed bitch but a comforting friend.

"Really Jane? Oh thanks so much," mocked Fran with a roll of his eyes.

I realised it was a dumb thing to say. Of course he could use it whenever he wanted, but he was a gentlemen. The lines had been drawn and he wasn't going to cross them.

"Sorry," I replied, feeling the moment and the day slipping away. "That was stupid." I struggled to find a way to rescue the conversation. "Reckon even the en-suite isn't as refreshing as the morning breeze on your face as you push along the cliffs."

At this Fran gave a nod and after a pause for thought said: "Not a truer word spoken."

Our passion for cycling brought us together. Ever since we had known each other, and regardless of our work load, we always found time to cycle every other day. Every day felt like a chore, something you had to do, but every other day felt out of choice more than a need to exercise for health and fitness reasons.

Silence descended on the kitchen. I watching a single cloud drift across the sky, as if moving with purpose whilst feeling free to float when it desired. I thought I was in the right frame of mind for a confrontation, upstairs in the shower, standing before the mirror I held the potential discussion in my head like a fortune teller on firm ground. Down here though...the energy and enthusiasm was pouring out of me, leaving me feeling painful and empty.

I could think of nothing to say, no way of bringing out problems out in the open. It appeared Fran was struggling too, he lit up another cigarette and breathed deeply. I didn't blame him, if I was still addicted to that sweet nicotine I'd be there with him, sucking and praying it would make everything a-okay.

I realised Fran was still wearing his cycling shorts and the bright yellow Dash hooded fleece top I gave him on our first Christmas at Long House. Just recognising the clothing prompted a yearning I had not felt for too long. I wanted to feel the rush of cool air on my skin, my legs pumping the pedals and pushing me along the cliff top road. I could almost feel the sensation of freedom on my face.

The desire to be out there, cycling along and chasing that freedom, has so instant and shocking I made a sudden decision and stood up, knocking the chair back across the floor. Fran jumped and glared up at me, his eyes questioning yet not angry, no anger at all. I stared at him, a faint smile on my lips, my fingers fidgeting with the buttons on my pullover.

"Is mine still in working order?" I asked Fran.

"Tip top."

He didn't need to ask what I was referring to. Had he worked out what I was going ask based on his attire? Based on our conversation about bacon and croissants? Intuition? Or had he just read me like he used to do? Just as intriguing was how he knew my cycle was in good working order... ahh, because he had maintained it for the last year when I haven't used it. But why...?

"I want to go," I told him. "Out. Along the cliff road."

Fran nodded but didn't commit himself. I came close to turning and leaving him sat at the kitchen table, smoking and reading the paper. I hesitated.

"I'd love to come," he stated.

A grin flashed on my face and I forced it away in a hurry. "I'll change first," I said, tugging at my pullover.

"Meet you out front."

We left the kitchen. I headed up the creaky oak stairs, rescued from a derelict sail ship during our remodelling because they had character, perfect for Long House, a beautiful blend of old and new. White walls, deep oak rafters lined the ceilings, solid timber frames, leather sofas, subtle lighting and ancient wooden floor boards soft under foot. The rescued stair case, I like to think of it as a pirates stair case, always reminded of everything I loved about Long House.

In the bedroom I stripped, threw my clothes across the floor, pulled on my favourite blue Lycra cycle leggings, enjoyed the sensation when they snapped taught across my bottom. I found an Adidas sport bra I hadn't worn for a long time, it felt snug. Finally I shrugged on a light weight Puma windcheater and my Reebok trainers. It all fit perfectly despite my worries that I had bulged from no exercise. In the kitchen I fished out my Sony Walkman, checked to see what tape was inside, and the batteries were fresh. I wrapped the earphones around my neck, clamped the Walkman to my waistband and left the house.

Fran was outside waiting patiently. I didn't insult him by giving my cycle the once over. If he had maintained it then it truly was tip-top. We left the driveway and turned left, slipping into our usual route -- keep the sea to our right for the eight miles to Crafthole, make a circuit of the village green, grab a drink and admire the view then back home with the sea to our left. The road hugged the contours of the land, dips and rises all the way to Crafthole, and it was incredibly smooth, no cracks or rough patch up jobs, a fantastic ride all the way. It was never a race between us, but we had delighted in over taking another, building up speed at the top of a rise and dashing past each other in the dips.

I clamped the headphones over my ears, gave Fran a nod and set off to the sound of Whitney Houston singing One Moment in Time. I found my rhythm without effort and before breaching the first rise I was sailing along, legs pumping away like I hadn't missed a day. I looked out over the ocean, at the waves lapping on the sand, gulls floating on the up-drafts and the breeze, oh that was an unforgettable feeling as it tugged my hair out behind my head. It was cold but not unbearably so, the heat from the low sun was just enough to warm me.

Fran caught me on the next rise, steaming alongside a man possessed, speeding over the crest and disappearing from sight. I switched gear just I reached the top, as Whitney filled her lungs to treat my ears with her last powerful vocals. It was like old times, as if the last year of distrust, anger and pain had been nothing but a daydream, gone in a moment.

Halfway to Crafthole I found Fran stationary by the worn stone steps of the old church, abandoned a couple of hundred years ago and left to decay. There was a tourist information board half way up the path where we would often sit and eat a sandwich whilst looking across the bay. I coasted to a stop next to Fran and gave him a broad smile.

"It's so clear today," he said and pointed. "You can see the light house on the other side."

It wasn't often you could see the red and white striped light house from the church, once or twice a year maybe if you were lucky. Mist, fog, general haze from the sea spray shortened the view distance considerably. It was as if the air had swept across the coast, ridding it off debris, forcing the landscape to be clean and tidy, reborn and fresh. It had rained during the night, the road was wet in places. The environment had decided today was a good time to have a clean up, wash away the dirt and grime, and breathe new life into the world. The sun was on its low arc toward the horizon. It would be setting soon.

"How you doing?" Fran asked.

"Good," I replied and frowned. "No. Better than good. Amazing."

Fran smiled. "Same here. Like I said, simply refreshing."

"Not a truer word spoken," I said with a wink.

"Shall we?" he gestured to the road.

I pressed the Play button on my Walkman, Phil Collins and his Groovy Kind of Love made me smile. I kicked off from the ground and sailed down the dip, pushing hard against the pedals until I climbed the next rise. Fran caught me up and we stayed side by side. I shrugged my ear phones down around my neck, it's not that I didn't want any music, Phil had had his moment at the top of the rise by the church. It felt wrong somehow to be listening when Fran was right next to me, and that felt better than listening to music. I could hear his steady breathing next to me through the whistling wind. I caught myself checking out his legs and looked back at the road. Moments later I was glancing over at him, his thighs were muscular, his shorts stretched over his skin and...

I slowed down just a fraction so Fran moved ahead by a couple of feet.

...his bottom was just fine! Smooth, lean, I would say exquisite. He was in perfect shape, perhaps even better than before. It had been a while since I'd seen him... Was it really that night? The night of the voyeurs? No way was that the last time I'd seen him naked. It can't have been that long. As we traversed the cliff road I pulled an imaginary calendar back and forth in my mind, making calculation yet again, and arrived at a surprising and slightly unnerving answer.

The night of the voyeurs had been exactly 2 years ago today, and our parting had happened 1 year ago today. That was just weird, full stop. Coincidences were all well and good when they happened but stuff like this was too exact, pure oddness and no mistake. It must mean something, like an omen for good times, God I hoped it was for good times. I have longed for a resolution to our problem for months, and there and then I desired for a positive result, a joyous time to end the dark nastiness that drove us both to despair.

Before I could dwell on the situation further we rode into Crafthole. As if in a daze I climbed from my cycle and followed Fran into the tiny supermarket. The journey left me hungry and thirsty, more than any previous excursion. Fran bought bottles of Lucozade from the supermarket and from the bakers next door he bought 2 freshly made cheese & pickle bread rolls.

We headed out of Crafthole to a place known locally as the Stump. Where the road turned away from the coast toward Crafthole a small trail led further along, dipping down out of sight until it came to a plateau of hard sand, rocks and tall dune grass. Two benches set in concrete faced the sea.

The Stump was considered a multi-purpose place according to the shop keeps of Crafthole. Referred to with a frown by Mick the elderly baker. "Tis a disgusting mess of a place where them lot goes to do their drugs. It ought be off limits." Although quite how he knew anyone did drugs was a mystery since he was close to 70.

"At night they been there, everyone knows what for and why," Josie, from the butchers told them once. "I seen em once too, when the car broke down top of the trail." I remember Josie's cackling laughter as she recalled the event. "My head lamps was like putting them on a stage. Two on them, both naked as the day they were born. Like rabbits staring up at me they were. I'll not be forgetting how quick they dressed and scampered away. Not till they lower me in the ground."

When we mentioned these amusing stories to Kathryn, the plump rosy faced owner of the bus shelter sized supermarket, she laughed and nodded as if acknowledging an ancient fable. "There's truth in many a rumour I dare say. Take your pick. In the sixties there was a camp-site at the other end of the trail, not no more, erosion see? Was washed away in '82. Poor souls."

Kathryn rolled her eyes at our confusion. "I got to spell it out for you? It were a naturist camp-site. The Stump gave that section of the beach a barrier, kept it separate from the rest of the usual families and so forth. Naturally them on the top of the Stump took to spying down at all them nudists displaying their flesh."

We ate in silence, admiring the view. It was easy to where the camp-site had been. The cliffs weren't so tall on the left of the stump after a vast section had sheared away, crashing down onto the beach below. I wondered what it must have been like back in the sixties, free love and flower power. Shedding your clothes at a naturist beach at a time like that, displaying yourself, naked, for everyone to see. I almost giggled to myself. The night of the voyeurs came back once again. That event was lodged in my mind, apparently unwilling to settle back into the pages of history. It seemed today was an erotic high point in our lives, destined to be the centre of passion and desire which the rest of the year fell away from.

"Penny for them."

I came out of my daydream. "Oh just thinking," I replied. I nodded at the mound of rocks at the base of the cliffs where the overhang had collapsed back in '82. They were red now in the evening light instead of beige. "Wondering how people got up the nerve to go naked at places like that, even these days too I guess."

"Way of life for some," Fran stated. "Probably feel no more different naked than we do wearing clothes."

"Guess it's how you look at it," I said in agreement. I tittered and added: "Wouldn't be able to resist looking at it all the time at a place like that."

"You asking or making a statement?"

I spotted the glint of mischief in Fran's expression. "The statement could mean I've got sex on the brain," I replied carefully, knowing it wasn't far from the truth today. "Whereas the question could imply I'm eager to know if you would indeed be looking at it so I could either mock or agree with you. Tricky, tricky you are. But I saw your trap."

"Then my answer would be: indeed I would be looking, not too obviously but with keen interest in the goings and comings of naturist camp life," Fran said. He swigged from his Lucozade bottle and waited for my response.

"Ha! The trap has been sprung," I said with a giggle. "I shall mock you, sir. For you are nothing more than a horny voyeur with one thing on his mind. Tut tut."

Fran gave me a false look of shock and a second later we burst out laughing. It was long overdue more then welcome. There were so many things we had not done since we parted or personal lives a year back. That was a good quality joyous moment where nothing else existed other than the laughter. When we finally caught out breath I was thirsty and gulped from my bottle.

"Everyone's a voyeur when you get down to it," Fran said.

I considered this. "If everyone's a voyeur then surely that makes us all exhibitionists. We're all watching and showing off at the same time."

"Sounds like a fact," Fran said.

"Theory at best," I replied. "Wonder if anyone's researched it."

"More than likely," Fran said. He stared at the ocean. "I know we have."

I nodded along. Sure, probably some weedy gaggle of pale faced scientist types in white coats asking an endless string of volunteers sexually ambiguous questions. I imagined them hovering in darkened corners, voyeurs themselves, clipboard in hand, watching their volunteers stare through a two way mirror at other volunteers having sex in the opposite room. Recording their volunteers arousal time, making endless ticks in boxes on meaningless forms, all the while itching to relieve their own desires as....