The invitation was tempting, and I was bored, having spent the week chasing after women from afar- not so much chasing as desiring, and from afar as in distances of a thousand miles. This was the beauty of the internet, filtering through the screen of my laptop computer. So I was tired of this impersonal state of indecision. But I wasn’t sure what else to do . It was a letter, which is rare in our days, and neatly folded, with no envelope or return address. I slipped it under the door of Damian’s room in order to surprise him- mostly for the shock factor. We had this unspoken rule between us that when the other had their door shut it meant time-out and no amount of personal crisis or internal injury could compromise that door’s integrity. So I didn’t dare knock.
After slipping the letter under the door I went downstairs and took the smallest copper saucepan out from the cupboard below the sink, filling it halfway with tap water. I lit the gas stove and set it to its highest, inhaling quickly and deeply because of the gas- because I’ve always liked the smell of gas, and underground parking lots, and air-conditioning, and all the other interiors where you aren’t supposed to breathe in very much. Our walls were painted grey at that point, which just emphasized all the colours outside our window. Somehow I never managed to get outside until they had all faded to the same uniformly shadowed blackish grey. It was frustrating.
While the water boiled I opened the door of the fridge and took out the leftover glass bowl of cake, the bits of icing and leftovers I’d scraped in there after Damian’s fortieth two days ago. He hadn’t wanted to celebrate it, said getting old shouldn’t be any reason to spend money or expend effort, which of course really meant that he wanted a surprise party and he wanted me to organize it, or he’d be disappointed. The cake had been a three-tiered white chocolate upside-down, with melt-in-your-mouth solid bits of canned peach still in their syrupy juices, and the most subtle of peach-sugar icings. Damian hadn’t touched it but I couldn’t help myself- it was a distraction from talking to all his boring work friends. As the water began to spit and hiss I took a fork from the drawer and dug it into what was left.
Staring across from me- the expanse of grey- I saw the shape of a vulva clearly, like a flower budding, multiple petals, a blurry clitoris shadow. Blinked, took another bite of cake. The image disappeared and reappeared the next time my eyes unfocused. It was a subtle mirage but convincing. I put the bowl down, empty, found a cup, poured in the hot water and added a squeeze of lemon. Peeked over again- the blank wall still vaginal. Then Damian came downstairs and I forgot about that because he was looking so dishevelled, so completely not-ready. His eyes were red and bloodshot and he looked like hell, like he’d slept in his clothes, which were a rumpled collared button-up shirt and cuorderoys, like a little boy’s. I asked him if he’d read the letter, but he brushed past me and picked up his wingtip shoes from where they lay, obedient. Next to the back door. He started to tie them, looping each lace excessively tidy into the appropriate hole, pulling it in tight. I ate cake while I watched him and then repeated, “did you read the letter?”