Line in the sand

Up until then it had been one thing. Now it is another. Where was the line – after the second drink, before the third?

I can’t say when it happens, but something changes. On the table between us this new thing sits, and without a word being said I realise that if I wanted I could go back to his hotel room.

Something sharp and unnameable turns over inside me. I feel slightly sick and exhilarated all at once.

Days, weeks later, I am still trying to unpick that knot. Sick and exhilarated.

I don’t consider myself attractive. So when men show an interest in me I am always somewhat alarmed. And flattered.

This man is older than me by quite a bit. And he is my employer. He touches my arm and I pretend not to notice, but I know just there - a moment ago it - it all changed and can't be taken back.

A little shock flickers through me, reckless, and I feel guilty and excited, and suddenly terribly, terribly young.

I want to have not crossed that line. But I'd do it again.

****

When I was eighteen I worked with a photographer for a few weeks. We travelled in the rain along country roads around the little lost parts of Ireland, from site to site, staying in B&Bs with turned-down sheets and lavender cakes of soap. He knew my mum and some of her friends, and I knew him through them. I met his three blond children, all girls. One day he kissed me.

It was awful, and thrilling. I wanted him to want me. And I wanted nothing to do with him.

And I felt guilty for liking the attention. I didn't - couldn't - say it to anyone, didn't know how to explain it to myself, until one day I told a friend about it. He was angry. He told me he wanted to hit the photographer.

****

He doesn't ask, so it's easier to say no. I let him walk me home, step away quickly after our goodbyes. I shut the door and stay behind it for a few moments.

I am excited.
I hate myself for being excited.
And I half-wish someone would offer to hit him.