Your kitchen and living room is half greenhouse, half rustic cabin; the high beams recycled from some pier outside of Melbourne. The lush green of the plants hanging from the ceiling remind me of villas tucked away on small tropical islands.
Guitars and banjos are mounted on the rough wooden walls, and your couch is a large suede piece of art, sitting proudly under a wintry-coloured paint-pour piece you made yourself.
Of course you made it yourself.
I’m in awe, and I feel so young—so unaccomplished—as we sit on the opposite side of your kitchen island. We try the gin you distilled. You tell us about the plunge pool you and your dad worked on in your backyard. You gift us some ceramics mugs that you threw on the vintage pottery wheel you salvaged from hard rubbish.
Earlier in the night, I knelt on the rug as I inspected more of your unglazed ceramics. It felt right to be on my knees, to be lower, to worship. I didn’t say anything to hint at why I was on the floor, and I don’t think you even noticed as you busied yourself in the kitchen.
But now, we’ve moved to the couch after eating Thai food and tiramisu with S sitting between us. My fingers curl as my impatience bubbles. I’ve waited long enough for you to touch me.
Fuck being kissed on the cheek. Fuck safe, polite hugs we give people we don’t really give a shit about. I want more, and I know you do too, but I’m not high or drunk enough to make a move—even after sipping your cannabis infused gin.
I remember telling you a few years ago that I was a sure thing. That all you had to do was invite me over and give me a look and I’d slide to the floor and unbutton those worn jeans that hang low on your hips.
There is no sign from you. No look.
S is the bravest of us. “So, is it time for us to make out?” he asks, and I thank the fucking gods that I have a slut of a husband who is as keen as I am.
You say, “Sounds good”—the tone both casual and gracious—and that’s the only green light I need for the bossy imp inside me to come out and play.
“You two kiss first,” I command, and S doesn’t even hesitate. God—I love him so fucking much for his eagerness to please. He leans over you and takes your mouth, and the sight of your tongues peeking out as your lips lock turns my cheeks hot.
Your hands rove over S’s chest and shoulders, up into his hair and I’m watching your fingers twist around his brown waves. He’s arching his back like he wants to meld with you. Your breaths deepen, and my nerve-endings light up like festoons.
And then S goes to the bathroom, and I sidle up next to you. You wrap your arm around my shoulders and tuck me into your side, and the teenager in me wants to squeal. We both don’t speak; we don’t even look at each other. I’m just basking in finally being held when your nose nuzzles my ear and your big hands whisper across my chest and around my throat. My whole body expands and contracts as I shudder when you flick your tongue against my jaw. You do it again just below my earlobe and I make a fucking embarrassing squeak.