Written on the Body Read Online Free PDF Page B

corduroys (size M) and his off-duty Viyella shirt (size S). He leaned against the stove and fired a staccato of questions at me. That was his preferred method of conversation; it meant he didn’t have to expose himself.
    Louise was chopping vegetables. ‘Elgin’s going away next week,’ she said, cutting through his flow as deftly as he would a windpipe.
    ‘That’s right, that’s right,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Got a paper to give in Washington. Ever been to Washington?’Tuesday the twelfth of May 10.40. British Airways flight to Washington cleared for take-off. There’s Elgin in Club Class with his glass of champagne and his headphones on listening to Wagner. Bye Bye Elgin.
    Tuesday the twelfth of May 1 pm. Knock Knock.
    ‘Who’s there?’
    ‘Hello Louise.’
    She smiled. ‘Just in time for lunch.’
    Is food sexy? Playboy regularly features stories about asparagus and bananas and leeks and courgettes or being smeared with honey or chocolate chip ice-cream. I once bought some erotic body oil, authentic Pina Colada flavour, and poured it over myself but it made my lover’s tongue come out in a rash.
    Then there are candle-lit dinners and those leering waistcoated waiters with outsize pepperpots. There are, too, simple picnics on the beach which only work when you’re in love because otherwise you couldn’t bear the sand in the brie. Context is all, or so I thought, until I started eating with Louise.
    When she lifted the soup spoon to her lips how I longed to be that innocent piece of stainless steel. I would gladly have traded the blood in my body for half a pint of vegetable stock. Let me be diced carrot, vermicelli, just so that you will take me in your mouth. I envied the French stick. I watched her break and butter each piece, soak it slowly in her bowl, let it float, grow heavy and fat, sink under the deep red weight and then be resurrected to the glorious pleasure of her teeth.
    The potatoes, the celery, the tomatoes, all had been under her hands. When I ate my own soup I strained totaste her skin. She had been here, there must be something of her left. I would find her in the oil and onions, detect her through the garlic. I knew that she spat in the frying pan to determine the readiness of the oil. It’s an old trick, every chef does it, or did. And so I knew when I asked her what was in the soup that she had deleted the essential ingredient. I will taste you if only through your cooking.
    She split a pear; one of her own pears from the garden. Where she lived had been an orchard once and her particular tree was two hundred and twenty years old. Older than the French Revolution. Old enough to have fed Wordsworth and Napoleon. Who had gone into this garden and plucked the fruit? Did their hearts beat as hard as mine? She offered me half a pear and a piece of Parmesan cheese. Such pears as these have seen the world, that is they have stayed still and the world has seen them. At each bite burst war and passion. History was rolled in the pips and the frog-coloured skin.
    She dribbled viscous juices down her chin and before I could help her wiped them away. I eyed the napkin; could I steal it? Already my hand was creeping over the tablecloth like something out of Poe. She touched me and I yelped.
    ‘Did I scratch you?’ she said, all concern and remorse.
    ‘No, you electrocuted me.’
    She got up and put on the coffee. The English are very good at those gestures.
    ‘Are we going to have an affair?’ she said.
    She’s not English, she’s Australian.
    ‘No, no we’re not,’ I said. ‘You’re married and I’m with Jacqueline. We’re going to be friends.’
    She said, ‘We’re friends already.’
    Yes we are and I do like to pass the day with you in serious and inconsequential chatter. I wouldn’t mind washing up beside you, dusting beside you, reading the back half of the paper while you read the front. We are friends and I would miss you, do miss you and think of you very often. I don’t