HEAT

There was something about this summer heat, an undeniable characteristic which washed-out all the colours but enriched the tempers and passions. This was England in a heat wave; all the rules had rearranged themselves into nonsense sentences and funny little riddles that caused those secret little grins. Such weather encouraged loose morals amongst the young as they dared to venture into the vast planes of heat. Where the ground cracked and then blurred into one seemingly untraceable landscape; it seemed a kind of nothing. The untarnished azure sky held audience with the white heat of the glaring sun and shining skin was unearthed from beneath layers of clothing etiquette. Voices heavy with the fatigue of being so warm emerged husky into the soft ears of young lovers sipping iced teas at small pavement tables. At one such table, two friends sat. One with light blue eyes and slender fingers had a sketch book upon her lap and pencil in hand; she was composing a sketch which attempted to capture the very essence of the weeping heat. The other dressed in white linen, legs folded; was writing little stories in his head. He indulged himself with lingering glances of the girl's soft pink lips, which were so tense with concentration. He thought of running his fingers through her damp hair, throwing her upon a lawn of soft grass, feeling the light ripples of sweat trickle down his back as they kissed; indifferent to the surroundings.

Archer laughed in spite of himself, the musical tones of his chuckle caused Emily to brush the curtain of chocolate velvet hair from her eye line and crease her forehead inquisitively at him across the table. She hunched her shoulders forward, so her body was closed to Archer's distracting eccentricity and she could pour her focus purely into giving the lead smudges some form; as she worked he tutted and placed the pleading gaze of his languid steel eyes upon her bowed head. His boyish melancholy was acknowledged without Emily having to pull herself away from her sketch, a subtle change in the connection between them had already began to manifest itself in her pencil marks. She willed herself not to raise her eyes, she knew that even a brief glimpse of his moistened eyes would defeat her, but once again her instinctive body overrode her analytical mind. He noted the regretful flicker of her gaze, unfolded his legs and lent forward on his elbows

"Come Em; let's not rot here in the heat" His voice emerged through a sigh "We should go for a stroll." His mood had been fluctuating between mischievous flirtation and juvenile apathy through-out the day. As much as she was fond of him; this deliberate swaying of atmosphere was becoming tiresome. She snapped her head upright and narrowed her eyes at him before returning to her drawing. Making her final marks on the paper, she flipped the sketch book closed and idly discarded it into her bag. She then gracefully swung herself from the cast-iron chair and gathered her notes, pencils and books before lazily offering Archer her hand. He allowed a small smile of amused suspicion to play on the edge of his cupid bow lips; he lent back into his chair and not breaking his playful stare; he unfolded himself and stylishly swung his jacket over one shoulder. He plunged his hand deep within the confines of the cool fabric folds of his trouser pocket, so that it was made quite clear he no intention of accepting her open hand. They exchanged embarrassed glances, Archer was looking along the painted iron-fence which surrounded the park, and Emily removed her shoes, she felt the rising warmth of the stone like a friendly embrace. Without exchanging a word they began to walk at a leisurely pace, and skipped across the melting road. They walked in silence; he was engrossed in studying the tall townhouses opposite and she hummed tunelessly under her breath and lightly brushed her fingers along the aged bars of the fence. They felt very little need to make conversation; this was one of the remarkable qualities of their bond, unless they were discussing the philosophical, moral or intellectual nuances of being human; they spoke very little. It was these enduring silences and fondest for higher conversation which marked their friendship as something innovative and unexpected; for them at least. Archer secretly turned his eye to watch Emily; as he often did. He was sure she could feel his lingering attention but she never reacted in any way. He'd often slept on her wooden floor, flicking through her notebooks; turning the pages as if he were parting the woman herself and drinking deeply. During cold mornings like that he would gaze upwards watch her still sleeping form, watching her with the same awe as he did now.

She was walking with a slight skip in her step, her fingers gliding between the metal and air, her lips parted slightly forming a little 'o' as if she had been told something delicately surprising and her eyes had washed over; mesmerised by a thought of art or simply because of the heat which blistered at the apples of her cheeks he thought. One of the straps of her cotton dress had slipped from her shoulder revealing the fragile milky curves of her collar bone. The sight of porcelain flesh caused a constricting feeling around Archer's sternum and he once again busied himself with the architecture across the street.

The idle colours and thoughts of the day were beginning to exasperate Emily. She could not help but feel his awkward attitude and imposed silence was a deliberate attempt to arouse her interest in some trivial turmoil Archer felt he was burdened with. Partly because of maddening glory of the day and because of her youth, partly because of her blooming frustration with his sombreness, she ran ahead on the path. She lent against the fence feeling the sharp scratches of the leaves at her back and sank to the pavement inhaling the scent of the city in summer. The warm sweetness was intoxicating; she closed her eyes, thought of him, and exhaled. His measured footsteps came to a halt and upon the sound of an amused sigh rushing from his nostrils she sprang her eyes upon and drank in the sight of Archer smiling kindly down at her. He open his pink palm to her, she wrapped his wrist in her slender fingers. She pulled herself to her feet and with her body embraced his willowy muscles; flushed with tepid male blood.

'I suppose we should live somewhere like that in forty years' he exclaimed softly.

Her eye line crept along the surface of his blushing flesh. Beyond the damp soft tissue a Georgian white elephant rose above the red and terracotta brick institutions. It shimmered in the sun and the panes of sash windows reflected purely the light and heat of the day rather than its image.

            'We wouldn't have to be together or even in love. We could just exist in the house. You'd have a vast studio on the first floor with a paint stained floor and hundreds of drawings taped to the wall and in the dark of night - when the heat and insomnia is too much for me. I'll gently pad across those floors, just reading each part of your mind in turn. I'll lock myself away in small attic room; which I call a study. I'll be writing or sometimes just thinking and sometimes you'll come visit me with drinks and entice me down to the courtyard garden or out onto the heath with some friends.'

            Emily had grown use to the monologues which frequently littered her time Archer. Sometimes she enjoyed listening to his ponderings and dramatisations; other times such as this his imaginings caused her stomach to tighten and her mouth to dry. She pulled away from the sculpted skin and brushed her hand down the coarse fabric of his polo-shirt.

            'Do you know what I feel' she muttered with her head tilted to the side

            'I couldn't possibly know'

            'You and I, we're just fishes aren't we?'

            'Fishes?' his voice was strained with the effort of suppressing the grin which subtly infected his entire face.

            'Yes. And we live in this dark gloomy pond'

            'How dreadful' all pretence had fallen from his voice how and he was staring at her with adoring eyes and a Cheshire cat smile. She returned his stare with a wry smile of her own and continued.

            'All we can pursue is survival and companionship. Floating between us is an iridescent candy heart impaled onto a hook, but our hunger drives against our logic. So we keep swimming towards our common need from either side. Until one of us reaches it, pauses with a sense of satisfaction and shallows the charm into our fleshy insides, only to find ourselves trapped and struggling; bleeding from the mouth, metallic blood on cold lips as we slip away; all because we desired to be fed. The hook; is love. We are promised so much but in the end we our left with the cold, dead, metallic taste of lose. We just float there…,'

            'Stuck' he whisper. Startled by his change in tone, she dragged her head along his shirt and look into his face. A single wet tear hung to the edge of his grey almond eye, she pressed her thumb against it and the drop disbursed into tiny droplets along his cheek. He smiled at her grimly.

            'What did you see?' She asked him tenderly. He looked her with eyes that suggested disbelief and intrigue; then he laughed, the sad melody of his laugh echoed into the park.

             Across the bleached grass Byron had removed his socks and formal shoes. He lay back on the warm fabric of the blanket beneath him and rolled the legs of his suit trouser, revealing the course black hair and pale skin of his leg to the embracing heat of the sun. Vivian sat with his legs crossed he soothed the blue cotton shorts he wore against his thigh, He pulled at the constricting fabric of his tight white tee-shirt away from his sticky skin, relishing the slight breeze the played across his back. A darkened figure on the horizon of the heath captivated his interest; he found the summer heart stifling. It was difficult to form coherent thought without distorting the origin or conclusion.

'I was thinking, maybe, someday we could just fall in love.' Vivian looked down to Bryon, without hint of irony in his voice or gaze.

'Were you?' Bryon replied without opening his eyes but turning his head in the direction of his lover's voice. So began the conversation that would change the relationship between these two men for ever