These Delicate Creatures

Michael finishes his notes on the bus from the courthouse, wedged between a matronly woman cradling a dachshund that smells vaguely of urine (at least, he thinks it’s the dog), and the humming bus window; thickly misted with a cloak of condensation.

 

London is a haze of grey, glistening pavement and the murky glow of traffic lights. The rain had let up, but everyone still seemed to be walking as though expecting it might ambush them again, faces pinched by draw-string hoods and lines of umbrellas pointed firmly to the sky like Roman shield-walls.

​

His phone is buried in his pocket. His effort to avoid Instagram is noble, but occasionally his hand will fumble against the outline that pushes against the pocket of his suit trousers, and he has to force his hand back to the pad and pen in his lap.

Michael looks at the string of notes he has written down. The events in the court room seem to have drifted passed him, and now he struggles to make sense of it all. Ian Daley was undoubtedly a pig, but Michael struggles to reconcile the image of that meek, effacing figure he saw standing in the dock to the crimes of which he’d been accused. There were even elements of Ian’s character than Michael recognised as similar to his own. He had mused, while Ian had been speaking, that the two of them might have even been friends, in another life.

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The infidelity, on the other hand, was in Michael’s view, inexcusable. Why a man would so blindly stumble after the whims of his own dick was at least immoral, and at worst, embarrassing. And besides the fact, why a seemingly nice guy (rape charges aside) like Ian would lower himself to dating a “model” in the first place was Michael’s idea of lunacy. He thought of Anna signing up to a site like that. Writing a price list of all the things she’d do, all the stuff she’d take off, for a man with the right budget. Anna’s left toe was worth more than any billionaire could possibly pay for. He’d pay her himself if it came to it. Whatever the price, just to keep every inch of her for him. He smiled. He thought she’d like that idea.

​

He got off earlier than he’d planned to, driven by a sudden irrefutable urge, the origin of which he could not entirely place. He practically fell from the bus and strode back up the way he’d come. The wind pushed him back petulantly, and he leaned into it, squinting through the spray of rainwater. He wound deftly through the passersby, narrowly missing the arc of a tour guide’s arm as she gesticulated in the direction of the British Museum. The streets around him were a nauseating blend of colours and smells and sounds. The waft of coffee melded with the undertone of newly laid cement and rain-drenched bins. He glances to his right and sees a homeless man sobbing under a picture of Mario, grinning down at him maniacally like a vindictive god.

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The pink of Ann Summers barely stands out admit the vibrant glow of the rest of the high street, but the display of its front window would draw the eyes of many. Michael pauses before he enters, his eye drawn to the eyes of the girl on the poster by the entrance. Her eyes meet his from behind a cascade of raven hair.

 

He thinks of Anna.

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Not even close. He smiles.

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He strolls confidently through the rows of lingerie. He used to feel embarrassed coming in here, always forcing his face to adopt an only half interested expression for fear of appearing too passionate about women’s underwear, but the feeling soon passed. His hand runs along the racks of lace and ribbon, searching for something different to the type of thing he’d got her before.

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His eyes wander to where the pink and red turns to black leather. Not Anna’s style, he thought, but he realises then he’s never asked her what she thinks about bondage stuff. He makes a note to ask her later; he wasn’t averse to it if she wasn’t.

He settled on a light blue bra and pantie set joined with lacey clasps that he thought would highlight her stomach in way he, and hopefully she, would approve. It was only then he noticed the girl behind the counter staring at him.

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She fiddles with a security tag on a bra, and she averts her gaze from him a little too late to avoid making it obvious. She’s cute. Her upturned nose and pinched lips make her look mouse-like. She has an ageless kind of face; like she could easily be Haley Williams now or in the 90s. Michael decides she’s probably nineteen. When her eyes glance back to him, she risks a smile, but her eyes fall before Michael can return it.

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As he walks to the counter, he sees her inhale as though in preparation. She smiles.

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‘Hi,’ she says, her eyes faltering. ‘Just that?’

‘Please,’ Michael says.

She places the security tag on the magnet and taps on the till screen.

‘Suits you,’ she says, glancing at the lingerie and smirking.

Michael smiles back. ‘Thanks. Do you think it’s too dressy for a bottomless brunch?’

She snorts. Obtrusively. Michael’s eyebrows rise in surprise.

‘Oh my god,’ she says, visibly reddening and covering her smile with the sleeve of her hoodie, ‘Sorry. I was – I mean, that was funny.’

He chuckles back as he takes out his wallet. He notices she’s taking a while to scan the item through the till. ‘Thanks.’

Finally, she scans it. ‘No, really though, it’s a good choice. She’s a lucky lady.’

Michael pulls out his card. ‘I’m sure I’m the luckier.’

She bites her lip. ‘Been together long?’

The card beeps. Michael watches it while the girl watches him.

‘Year and a bit.’

The girl nods as she holds her hand out to the machine for the receipt.

‘Nice. Seen you in here before. You’re always buying her stuff. Sorry, hope that’s not weird. S’just nice to see someone always thinking about their other half like that.’ She leans on the counter and her arms press a little into her chest as she leans forward. Michael watches the machine for the receipt.

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‘Well, you have to show you’re thinking of them, you know. If you don’t treat them special, someone else sure will. Especially if they’re a keeper.’ In his periphery, he could see how low the cut of her top is. ‘Like she is.’

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The girl nods and goes to hand him the receipt. Michael reaches out and smiles, but in a second, she retracts her hand. ‘Oh! Sorry, I forgot.’ She turns her back and swipes a pen from the counter. Michael frowns at her. A moment later, she spins round and stuffs the receipt into a bag along with the lingerie. She thrusts the bag at him and smiles, her cheeks flushed pink again. Michael glances between her and the bag.

​

‘Just a …special offer,’ she says.

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On the way out, Michael pulls the receipt out of the bag. At the bottom, hastily scribbled in red biro, is a phone number. In the printed phrase “Your server today was Tessa”, the girl’s name is circled, and down the side is written, “If it doesn’t suit her…” with a winky-face emoji.

​

Michael stops by the door.

 

He considers leaving. He thinks of Anna. He imagines her face when she questions him about her. He runs his mind through the conversation, looking for where he might have gone wrong. Was it the joke? Should he have avoided her eye contact? Did he glance at her breasts down her top without realising he had?

​

He blinks.

 

The receipt is a crumbled wreck in his fist. He clenches, and for a moment, it’s Tessa’s throat. He watches her struggle against him, but he squeezes. She tries to say sorry, and for a moment he’s grip eases, but then he sees Anna’s face. Her expression is aghast as the betrayal sets in. He can’t forgive her for it. He holds her neck fast as she struggles against him. Anna is nodding. The life slowly leaves Tessa’s eyes, her lips slowly stopping half-way through her final plea for forgiveness.

For life.

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He looks at his trembling hands, not realising he could have been capable of it, but Anna is smiling. Better, she’s beaming. Her face flushes with adoration and she hugs him. She squeezes her face against his. Her lips set his body alight.

You did this for me? She whispers to him. Her breath smells of raspberry and jasmine.

​

He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, but the receipt is now pulp in his hand. He turns. Tessa is looking at him. She’s smiling. The hopeful look in her eye dies when she meets eyes with him. He strides towards her.

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‘I don’t know how much clearer I could have been,’ Michael hears himself saying, ‘But I have a girlfriend.’

All colour falls from Tessa’s face. ‘I-… I’m so sorry. I just… I liked you and …’

‘And I have a girlfriend. Who, I repeat, is everything to me.’ He throws the receipt at her. ‘Whore yourself to someone else.’

He strides from the store and doesn’t look back.