ISSN 1758-6488
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The Bird Room (extract) Fiction |
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‘Nothing happens. He just takes his eye away from the viewfinder and mutters something to himself. He’s shaking his head and sort of beckoning me towards him, so I assume, you know, he wants me a bit nearer . . . to get everything in. I take two steps forward, put my hands back on my hips and shout Okay! Oui!
‘Again, nothing. He’s shaking his head now and muttering and gesturing to me to come closer still . . .’
He stops talking.
There is only one photo left in his hand.
‘So?’ Alice asks. ‘What happened?’
He passes it to her. She bends over it and sort of gasps. Her knee presses against mine. She hands it across.
It’s a photo of Will’s crotch. His orange trunks very nearly fill the frame. You can make out the black wisps of hair running down his thighs and curling upwards towards his belly. You can make out the spots of seawater clinging coldly to his trunks and tanned skin. You can make out the clear bulges of his cock and balls.
Artistically speaking, it’s the best of the bunch.
We get home and Will is all she can talk about. How long have I known him? Where has he exhibited? How much do his paintings cost? I turn on the telly and she drifts out of the room.
An hour passes.
I want somehow, very quietly, to destroy myself.
I want to become invisible.
Then she calls me to the bedroom. She has the curtains closed and the lights out. It’s only six o’clock.
‘Lie down on the bed,’ she says. Her voice is quiet. It’s just the outline of a voice.
I can hear the slipping off of clothes. I can see her silhouette, over by the blue rectangle of window. This will be the first time we’ve had sex in a week. I lie down on the bed and shuffle out of my jeans. Outside a car drives past.
She climbs on top of me and lowers herself roughly onto me, the breath catching in her throat.
I start to think of that white beach again with the bird frozen above the sea. The cars going past are quiet waves.
She smells like a cocktail with a little umbrella in it.
‘Will,’ she pants all of a sudden. It escapes her lips under the cover of breath.
What? I only just make it out.
‘Will,’ she says again. This time it’s louder. It’s almost a shout.
The beach has dissolved. The beach is a slug and she has poured salt all over it.
‘Will,’ she says.
‘Will.’
‘Will.’
‘Will.’
‘Will.’
Once it’s over, we both lie there in the dark, static, breathing heavily, and there is nothing I can say. I can’t confront her about it, though that must seem the most obvious thing to do. I can’t say a word without sounding crazy because my name is also Will.
