AS PART trialling a new idea in The Standard three weeks ago, we printed a short story by Bromsgrove author Carmen Capuano on Bromsgrove feature page.
And with today being Valentine’s Day and the story being a bit of a love tale with a twist, we thought we’d print it online to see what our readers think of the idea.
The Wanderer
She wasn’t home, so he waited patiently. He was early but he’d been eager to see her, to smell her familiar scent and hear her voice. She did that to him. It didn’t matter what time it was, where he was or what he was doing; when he thought of her, he immediately had to seek her out. Some women just did that to you.
He leant against the sun-dappled door, raising his face to the sky and thinking about her until like magic, she appeared.
Swung from the car in a graceful arc, her body was long and lithe and he remembered how they had stretched out together on the warm summer grass. She had put her arms around him, holding him close with tender murmurings, the sentiment in her voice needing no words to express itself.
“I hoped you would wait for me.” she whispered huskily, making the hairs stand up on the nape of his neck; offering a chaste doorstep kiss before ushering him quickly inside.
They stood locked in an embrace for a moment before he freed himself, striding boldly into the kitchen and taking up residence on a chair.
She understood his needs and her role in fulfilling them. Looking into his eyes, she read his thoughts and panicked. Losing him would be like losing a vital part of herself.
Although exclusivity wasn’t his thing – he had tried it but it didn’t work – this meal would linger in his memory, tying him to her, keeping him coming back.
Watching her cook through half closed-eyes, his body relaxed, the aroma of sizzling steak tantalising him. Juices oozed into little pools and swirled dreamily around peaks of dauphinoise potatoes. He licked his lips in anticipation, sending an accompanying involuntary shiver of pleasure down her spine and bringing a flush to her cheeks, as she anxiously sought his appreciation.
He ate, as he did everything in life – slowly and sensuously. Even so, all too soon the meal was over. She hung her head, crestfallen, as he prepared to depart. As much as he wanted to stay, he needed the excitement and challenge of new embraces, other whispered endearments, different caresses…
Forlornly, she watched him depart. Looking back at her silhouetted in the doorway, she looked so small and vulnerable, and for a brief moment he hesitated, unsure of his actions. But his hesitation did not last. He felt her pain, but it had been her words of commitment, of faithfulness, never his. He was incapable of voicing a commitment, but that hadn’t stopped her believing what she had wanted to believe, that they had also been his words.
So he moved on, always moved on.
The next door he sought had been left ajar for him, as he knew it would. Here resided a woman of a different kind – independent like himself, aware of his wandering ways but always accepting of him for what he was, who he was, never reproachful.
She was curled up on the sofa watching TV, a glass of red wine in one hand. She smiled welcomingly as he entered the room but made no move to come forward to greet him, letting him take his time. She sipped from her glass as he settled next to her on the sofa. Wine didn’t appeal to him at all but he saw that she had also prepared a drink more to his liking.
She bent to kiss him. A swift but loving kiss, it carried none of the restrictive embrace of the evening’s previous encounter. He relaxed. Smiling again but without a word spoken she returned her attention to the TV, satisfied merely to have his presence. She didn’t offer him food although he could see the remains of a hasty meal from the plate on the coffee table. Piqued, for a moment he wondered if she knew he had already eaten [perhaps even where and with whom] or whether she was completely unconcerned regarding his welfare. He didn’t like either of those thoughts.
The TV programme didn’t interest him and it wasn’t long before he found his attention wandering again. His drink was long gone and she showed no signs of moving to replenish it, or of offering anything else which might hold his interest a little longer.
As a precursor to acknowledging the late hour, he yawned and stretched, ever-so-slightly tensing and pressing his firm body against hers, in an almost-accidental manner. It never did his women any harm to think about what they would be missing when he was gone.
Stretching over, he stood and waited for her to see him to the door. Her body was soft and warm as she kissed him goodnight. Breezily she said she hoped she’d see him again soon but what he heard in her tone was overt confidence; she knew he’d be back.
The door closed close softly behind him as he headed for home. There was nowhere else to go, not tonight anyway.
He arrived as she was emptying the bin. She looked tired, the kids had had her on the go all day again and she was glad to see him, even at this late hour. He felt only a twinge of guilt. She surely knew him well enough by now to know that he would only come round when it suited him. And if she hadn’t been prepared to put up with his wandering ways, he’d have been out on his ear years ago.
Silently they climbed the stairs together. He waited for her to slip into bed before he stretched out on top of the duvet, within reaching distance. Firm, strong hands encircled him as he was scooped up and dumped unceremoniously on the floor.
“Karen, what have I said about letting that old tomcat sleep on the bed with us!” was what was the husband said, but of course all he heard was a jumble of sounds. He guessed that was the downside of being a cat.
