The Evening Party

A collection of writings,
poems and photographs by an anonymous person.

2019 — present


The Evening Party

The Fourth of Sahara

Everything was a kind of sepia. (Can never recall whether it is see-pee-yah or seh-pee-yah.) The sky cast a strange light on all. Pessimists would have called it brown; optimists orange; myself, at that moment, the latter. Yes, orange laced with yellow and only where the guilty clouds curled in under themselves were there definite lines of brown. My heart goes out to all that is as beautiful as it is eerie. The orange sky was indeed that, yet London moved beneath it all the same, unaffected and determined. As I came to A— St, I looked up so that my neck clicked and I became dizzy, disorientated. It was something to behold.

*       *       *

Days later, I learned she had purchased a return ticket for that evening and was sharing her location with a friend. Who knows when she removed that pin from the electric map, at what point she felt comfortable enough? How much of our movements had the small red pin captured and conveyed to someone some thirty miles away? Unbeknownst at the time, it certainly described us coming back from the train station, briefly lost signal in the elevator, then settled on the coffee table next to her glass of wine. Although it was our fourth date, I could not blame her, and, upon learning of her cautious measures, understood completely. How long before she pushed me up against the wall did she stop sharing her location to a concerned friend?

Around the block to stretch the legs, to impact upon the lungs a crash course in London air, clogged with automobile fumes and indifferent dawdling. It was still orange, yet the sky had darkened. Only five minutes before, I said—‘Why’s it so dark? Is there an eclipse I don’t know about?’ The heavens bruised. Still, I walked around the block and smelled the flowers, so to speak, and dodged, with nimble agility, the bird shit that has begun to fall from the plane trees where they chirrup and roost. In the coffee shop was a raucous group of young people from one of the offices below mine. All the women were blonde and hard to distinguish. All the men had gym memberships and were hard to distinguish. My face was frozen in a sneer, for I could not help but to hate their very presence. I heard one of the girls say as she walked past me—‘It’s because of sand from the Sahara. A sandstorm or something, and now it’s all the way up here.’ From then on, I hated her slightly less than I did the others, but it was too late, she was already gone.

*       *       *

‘Explain these photos to me,’ she said, and I pointed each one out, the subject, maybe the occasion, expressing a modicum of guilt that I did not have many on my wall of my middle-brother or youngest niece. When I got to a photograph of an old cat, she leapt upon me with her mouth. We fooled clumsily until ending up on the rug, between the sofa and coffee table, each separating until I could get my fingers into the edge of her and feel how she had become in anticipation of a pounce. It will never dull, the discovery of how wet your opposite has become; as dry fingers unfold what is quite pronounced with the excitement of a situation; subconscious and automatic preparations of being penetrated or penetrating. She dripped quite spectacularly down my middlefinger, and I levelled it like a glass of water into my mouth.
No shower gel, so the perfect moment for this brief excursion to the chemists was as the rain fell…! It had been falling for some time – much to my ignorance – and there were already puddles. The puddles were brown, not orange. All along, up & down the roads and pavements, were puddles of brown, mud from out of nowhere. This was not mud, I thought, but sand. Sand carried 1,600 miles! It had flown on the wings of some burdened wind to this grey capital and then, by the grace of rain, fall about our shoulders and shoes! Would it discolour me in in my shirt and trousers, my leather shoes? The brown puddles splashed back at me with the impact of my footsteps. At the chemists, dripping, I bought a shower gel called Moroccan Sunset, although the poetry did not occur to me at the time, but rather I picked it up because it reminded me of my mother’s home. I turned my collar up, lit a cigarette, and hurried back to the office as the downpour continued.

*       *       *

Certain things paralysed her. On occasion, she would cease to move or make a sound, but rather her body stiffened and she held it there. At last, she would emit a groan and tremble, shaking. It amused me to seek such reactions! She might—‘Go slower’; I might pause to catch my breath or stop myself from finishing, until it was too much and I came the length of her torso, in straight lines fanning out like rays from her cunt’s sun. One should laugh after an orgasm, as it is such a silly and strange reaction. I collapsed and laughed to myself, to her. She climbed atop me and kissed her smile into my chuckle. Then we lay there a while, smeared and panting, in the semi-darkness of a cat lamp in my hallway.
On my way back to the train station, I saw that the puddles had diluted. All the sand that had browned patches of the pavement and roads had run away, leaving only the faintest of petroleum rainbows draped over foggy mirrors. The same as always. If one stared hard – and I stared hard – then the remnants of equatorial landscape could still be recognised at the kerb. It was wonderful to me, that so much could be carried so far to decorate my path. Although I wondered if the Saharan sand felt the same way, even as the traffic lights changed colour over its small trail into the drains.

*       *       *

We took turns unconsciously spooning each other during the night. At one point, I kicked her and apologised sleepily. She was good company in bed; only once did I remove her hair from my mouth! She did not overheat or smother me, and her skin was soft. I brought her a flat white in bed, and we discussed geography and biology. Both of us stared at a map that I had pinned to my wall. She went to the shower, as I made us another coffee and cooked breakfast. The smell of bacon and chopped tomatoes, slices of boulle toasting. Contrary to what I had anticipated, I did not want her to go, but enjoyed a slow morning and afternoon with her until it was two o’clock and ‘I really must get ready.’ She washed up our wine glasses from the night before as I showered. Together, we walked to the train station and it was a beautiful day. The sky was blue. I do not think there was a single cloud in it.
Mark