Confluence of Hedonists

He glances across at her. She looks nervous. No, more than nervous. His eyes want to linger on her face, but he’s afraid that if she looks up and catches him watching her, she’ll see her fear reflected back in his expression.

He looks back down at his copy of The Independent. The headlines are barely intelligible, the text little more than a blur. What were they thinking? What was he thinking? In an instant, her panic leaps into him. He inhales slowly, deeply, allowing his mind to retreat into the comforting hum of the arrivals lounge. Gradually, his pulse slows to its normal, steady beat. The sense of unease diminishes with the restoration of rhythm.

He doesn’t look up again until he’s sure that his expression is calm, measured once more.

Her gaze holds his. “Why are we doing this?” she mouths to him.

He glances about them. The immediate seats are empty, but there are people within ten feet. Even with the background noise of the airport, he doesn’t feel comfortable discussing motivations here. There’s a bar a hundred yards away. Its darkened interior looks more suited to such conversations. He stands up and holds out his hand.

“Let’s get a drink.”

He orders a double vodka and tonic for her, a plain tonic water for himself. He has to drive back into the city yet, and a rush hour journey demands sobriety. They could have taken a taxi, even the tube, but the chauffeured approach seemed more appropriate.

The bar’s not a huge place, and it’s not even half full; a few scattered drinkers sipping glasses of Chardonnay and chilled lager straight from the bottle as they while away the minutes until the people they’re waiting for arrive. Even so, he leads her towards a table at the furthest end of the room. They sit down, satisfied that the space they’ve created around themselves is sufficient to guarantee them discretion.

He sips his tonic water, enjoying the bitterness, the effervescence cutting across his dulled taste buds. The sensation is not dissimilar to the piquancy of a woman’s moist sex. The thought reminds him that in a few hours, he may be permitted to taste afresh.

When his glass is half-empty, he says to her, “Ask me again.”

She looks at him quizzically, then says, “Why the hell are we doing this?”

He smiles, almost to himself. “Excitement. Pleasure. Desire. To feel alive.”

She snorts. “We can’t find all of those things here?”

“We haven’t so far.” Their eyes lock and hold. Memories of fruitless searches, unsuccessful meetings, wasted time, hang in the quiet air between them.

“Perhaps we just haven’t been looking hard enough. Or in the right places.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“The right person’s here somewhere.” But her voice betrays her own disappointment in their failures, and her lack of conviction in the accuracy of her answer.

“Perhaps she is.” His gaze narrows fractionally. “But there are no guarantees, are there? There’s nothing to say we wouldn’t still be searching in six months, or a year. Perhaps longer.”

She looks away, but not before he sees the gleam of resentment in her eyes. “You want her, don’t you?”

“I’ve told you that I do. But I only want her with you. I want you to have her too. I want us to share her, and to share ourselves with her. I want the three of us to gorge ourselves on one another.”

“Why her?”

He picks up his drink, drains half the remaining contents at a swallow. He swirls what’s left slowly around the bottom of the glass. “Connection. Compatibility. Her needs and desires are so close to ours, it’s uncanny.” He thinks again. “She’s exactly what we’ve been looking for from the start. My instincts tell me the three of us would be good together.” He shrugs. “I can’t explain it any better than that.”

“For a wordsmith, your vocabulary dries up at the damnedest moments.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

She sips some more vodka. “And you’re positive that she really wants this?”

He nods. “Aren’t you? You’ve read the same messages that I have.”

“What does she know about me?”

“I’ve already told you-”

“Just humour me.”

He breathes slowly, working hard at keeping his impatience buried deep inside. “I’ve told her lots about you. What you’re like, in and out of bed. The encounters we’ve had before, what you’ve enjoyed experiencing. The things that you’d still like to experience, given the opportunity and the right person.”

“And you emailed her the photos of me? The ones that I picked out?”

“Yes.”

“Does she find me … desirable?”

He nods, recalling the full-blooded reaction the photographs had garnered. “Very much so. Why? Don’t you think she’s desirable too?”

A hint of colour creeps into her cheeks. She’s always struggled with it, confronting this part of herself in broad daylight, when there are no soft lights and shadows and desires to hide her consciousness behind. She doesn’t like to think about her desire for other women; at least, not on a cognisant level. It’s a part of her psyche that she prefers simply to accept, and to feel, and to act upon when opportunities arise.

Eventually, she answers. “She’s an attractive woman.”

“I didn’t ask if you thought she was attractive. I asked if you found her desirable.”

She hesitates. “Yes,” she says, sotto voce.

“Good.”

They stare at their drinks. Eventually, she breaks the silence. “Wouldn’t she prefer to have you to herself?”

“No,” he says, lying for the first and only time.

She seems to think for a moment, then she sighs. It’s not an overblown gesture. It’s just the sound of a vacuum being refilled. A sound of acceptance.

He glances at his watch. “Her flight lands in ten minutes.”

She drains the last of her vodka, swallows, exhales deeply. The glass goes back down onto the varnished bar with conviction.

“Then let’s go and see what this compatible woman of yours is like then.”