Chapter 2 – Innocence lost

“Do you think they can hear us?”

“Don’t be silly. They’re all the way on the other side of town, with their heads down, focused on their studies. There’s no way they have any idea where we are, or what we’re doing.”

“Where are we, and what are we doing?”

“We’re here, together, alone. And we’re doing … well …” He shrugs his fear-curved shoulders, and looks at her hopefully, his hands not straying an inch from where they lay dead in his lap.

“Here, let me help you understand what it is we’re doing here.”

He stares hopelessly in love as she stands and strips from her skirt and blouse, to stand before him resplendent in white underwear and bra, looking all the more innocent for the nudity. She reaches out and takes his hand from his lap, and places it on her belly, right near her belly-button, and he realises that he is holding his breath, and lets it out in a gush of relieved excitement. His heart is up in his throat, pounding loudly in his ears like a war drum.

“Um.”

“Um?” She pulls his hand upwards, tracing her own ribs through her skin with his fingers locked in hers, before sucking in breath as his fingertips brush the barest of skin peeping out from the bottom of her bra, making the hair on her neck stand on end. They both look up, as if expecting the light bulb to burst again, and catch themselves, laughing.

“Yeah, um.” He stands up slowly, more assured, pulling her close as he turns out the light, to kiss her eyelids, cheeks, nose, corners of her mouth, chin, neck, ears, and finally her lips. Their tongues intertwine, and she sighs a deep breath into him, lighting his soul on fire as his hands trace the energy of her body through her smooth skin.

All of this I can see, burned in my mind’s eye, even as the room falls black. Should’ve gone for the infrared cameras, preaches the know-it-all voice. I hate that voice. Mostly because it’s always right. Of course, then the other voice would sound, Let them have their innocence and privacy.

The two voices will battle it out like this for the rest of the night, building up to throwing insults at one another until the silent war in my head becomes so frustrating that all I can do is go for a walk in the city at night.

So I pre-empt it by throwing on my coat, even though I know it’s warm, putting up my collar like the old private detectives always do in those dime-store novels I love to read so much. (‘Dime-store’ in type only – I actually buy them from the local charity shop, then return them after – it’s like my own little local lending library there, where I feel like I am giving something back to the community. To assuage my guilt, I know. Always guilt. What is this guilt?)

And still I roll on, one foot in front of the other, staring at the ‘known’ and ‘known of’ in equal measure, watching the former group dwindle to non-existence as the night rolls on, and the latter group takes ownership of the streets.

I may talk about the ‘known of’ as if they are below or beneath me, as if I am a better person.
But the truth is none of the above.

I am no more or no less than anyone.

I hold myself in as much disrepute as all of the ‘known of.’

I just choose to aspire, or hope I aspire to, higher ideals.

Ideals of freedom, of love, of happenstance, where young ladies and men, like the innocent couple back in my hotel, or the hotel I work at on the side, get to make love in secret, without prying eyes watching as they undress and enter each other in love, but not watching in love, stripping the scene down to its bare hairy, fleshy minimum, removing the soul, the sense, the heart, and leaving only the flesh, sweating, steaming, slipping, sliding …

I have to stop myself. It is unseemly to wander the streets with a raging hard-on, wrapped in a Private Eye rain mack, feet smacking the wet sidewalk, hands stuffed in pockets clenching the coat closed like some flittering flasher.

For that is not me. I am not one of them. I watch, but I do not participate. For that would be wrong.

We are all authors and voyeurs of the world, watching and living, being and making, our own and others’ lives.

And sometimes undoing. True. Sometimes undoing others.

And that is why I work at the Hotel, part time, to make the time go by, rather than see ends meet.

I don’t need the money. I don’t need much. Just shoes on my feet, clothes on my back, and food on my plate.
Food. A delicatessen of the late-night variety calls me in, and I step out of my mind as I step into the warm familiar scent of day-old burnt coffee and chocolate muffins. The waitress smiles at me as I sit down, and I give her a nod, waiting until she turns her back to stare at her unabashed. For this is our way, our rhythm. Never more than an order, a thank you, a your welcome, then I pay and go, onto the next step in my rhythmic life.

But not tonight. Tonight I want more. Tonight I want it all, to shake that feeling that those two innocent people, back at the hotel, are letting each other into a secret world that I will never inhabit. Never again.

I shake it off, and instead reach for the waitress. She stops, and smiles, ready to take my order, and instead I ask her how the day is going, how her morning has been, and she smiles, and fires off the normal nonsense to get me off her back. She is busy, and so I let her go, feeling a little more cold and empty for the lack of true human contact.

That’s what I’m missing, what those two have so innocently shared, are sharing right now. I can picture the two of them curled up on the bed, cuddling, whispering sweet love into one another’s ear.

And it leaves me cold.