The Necklace

She knocks on the door, quiet as a mouse, as always. She's on her way to some party in town, her black hair flowing across her shoulders; red dress flowing across her body.

She needs help with her necklace – a simple black cord with some trinket hanging from it. A simple request, with so much emotion hanging from it. It's funny just how well I remember the cord: the slightly coarse, woven texture and the dark colour, hinting to green in the right light; but the trinket goes almost entirely unnoticed. She's tied the cord a little tight; it's knotted, she needs help untying it.

I fumble with the cord, wondering if she can hear my heart pound; feel my stomach tremble. She stares straight ahead, statuesque, as I move close, really close, and bring my hands to her throat. Her perfume fills my nose, sweet and sharp and fresh. I wonder if I'll faint, if my knees will buckle, if my nerve will hold.

My fingers feel the cord tentatively, sizing up the knot. It twists between my thumb and forefinger.  And I'm careful, very careful, but the back of my fingers brush against her skin. And it's soft, soft like I think clouds ought to be. I can't look up, I can't meet her eyes, I force myself to concentrate on the knot, the gloss of the cord, and not the heat radiating off of her skin like an invitation.

I fumble and can't pry the knot apart. My fingers feel like sausages, awkward and unresponsive. I flush, and I'm suddenly conscious that I haven't changed my t-shirt today; haven't showered; my hair is greasy and my skin clammy. She's angelic and glorious in front of me. I feel unworthy, dirty, and wonder if she can smell my sweat, my fear, my anxiety. My desire.

I can't take any more, and I can't focus, I can barely breathe. It's been too long and a barely familiar lust is coursing through me. I lie, say I need more light, then lean back and breathe in the cool, clean air – the air that hasn't risen from her body. It feels like the first breath that I've taken for about ten minutes.

We walk through to the kitchen, its big windows and bright evening light. I try to collect myself, to control my hands and settle my stomach. But again, I fiddle and fumble. Again I can't meet her eye. I can almost feel her breathing, but I can't feel any way through the knot in her necklace, or the one in my stomach. Her skin seems to glow in the new light and, if anything, I've even less control over my hands. My fingers keep stroking against her skin, always accidentally, and tingle as if shocked by electricity. A voice at the back of my mind tells me to seize the moment, to caress that soft skin, to feel the warmth, and enjoy her tactile beauty. I hate the voice. I hate its weakness, its lustfulness, its deceptiveness. Its volume.

The knot won't loosen and she suggests using a blade to pry it loose. I worry about slipping, about slicing that perfect skin. I see visions of bright red blood trickling thickly down her throat, crushed strawberries over peach. I agree, unable to escape the trap, and awkwardly tear a fork from the drawer. As I hold it to the light, a greasy fingerprint stares up from the metal like an accusation.

So as not to risk hurting her, I place one hand between the necklace and her throat, the back of my fingers resting protectively against her skin. I feel lecherous, seedy. I pull my hand away a little, breaking contact with her neck, and I feel the cord tighten as I take up the slack. I imagine it biting ever so slightly into the back of her neck. My thoughts drift for a moment and, instead of the cord pressing against the base of her hairline, it's my lips brushing against that sensitive, tender skin, so seldom touched. I grimace, fumble, and readjust. Eventually, two fingers protect her throat and pull - ever so gently - the necklace forward so that we're not touching, but the cord is slack enough not to bite. Even though there's no physical contact, I can still feel her skin behind my fingers.

I slip the fork between the folds of the knot, teasing apart the strands, and all of a sudden the necklace begins to fall away before me. I fidget some more, unsure whether to untie the knot entirely or to leave it loosely tied. It's a decision of lust against decorum, but I can find no code, no rulebook, to guide me. I give in to the conflict, refuse to seize the extra seconds of intimacy, and release the cord – still tied, but loose and easily removed.

I'm nauseous in victory, weak at her easy smile. She's running late - as ever - thanks  me sweetly, and leaves in a flurry of activity.

But the scent of perfume clings in my nose, solemn and tantalising, long after she closes the door behind her.