PLAY ALONG

As agreed, she had changed the wallpaper on her phone to a photo of S: a screenshot of a picture on S’s Instagram account. She had chosen the photo of S wearing a green transparent blouse. Her eyes traced the contours of S’s neck. There was something soft about her skin that contrasted with the piercing dark eyes locking into the lens.
She had met S only once before, during a somewhat pretentious gallery opening. After yet another Instagram plea for a rental, she received a DM from S: could they join forces? ‘I need to move out as well. Let’s do this together.’ Even then, there seemed to be no room for discussion. And now, here they were, standing in a cramped hallway, waiting for the estate agent to finish with the previous viewers. The advertisement said: ‘SPACIOUS and BRIGHT two-bedroom flat in the Old North. Couples only.’
What should I call you?’ S asks, holding her gaze while sliding her fingertips down her arm and hip with casual precision. ‘Whatever you like.’ She feels S’s fingers through the fabric of her thin turtleneck. S smiles: ‘OK.’ It feels unreal, as if she has conjured S from her screen into this narrow, bare hallway. S smells woody.
‘Ah, you’re here.’ The estate agent sees out a slightly drab-looking couple. S walks into the bare room wearing a long, unbuttoned coat. S is casual, radiating the energy that she remembers from the gallery. When she had taken a can of Coke from a large tray filled with ice cubes, S had taken it out of her hand and replaced it with a glass of wine. She had caught herself following S around the room with her eyes.
She walks through the kitchen, where the estate agent opens the kitchen cupboards one by one. Leaning against the worktop, S asks whether the walls are thin. She notices the slight exaggeration in S’s curled lip, the over-tilt of her head, the way she lingers on the estate agent’s gaze. It irritates but also fascinates her – the ease with which S makes the whole space her own as if she already lives there ‘Is this going to be your first shared home?’ The estate agent now fixes her gaze on her. ‘Err, well, no, we …’ she begins, but S immediately takes over the conversation. ‘Yes, our first home together. We’re really looking forward to it.’ For a moment, she feels the weight of the assumption: a couple, living together. It is an image in which she hardly recognises herself.
S’s hand finds her hip. In a reflex action, her body tenses for a moment. As if it was a natural thing to do, S’s fingers slowly slide further down, emphatically enough for the estate agent to notice.
‘We have viewed several already,’ S continues, as her fingers descend a little further, their slowness almost menacing, ‘but we were really curious to see this one.’
The estate agent seems to hesitate, her eyes darting back and forth for a moment. She longs for S to slip her fingers into her trousers, trace the curve of her lower back, then withdraw them slowly, leaving a gentle scrape against her skin. She provides counterpressure but S moves her hand.
‘Could we see the upstairs as well, please?’ Her voice sounds shriller than she expected. From the corner of her eye she sees that it seems to amuse S. She ignores her gaze. She wants S to slip back into her role so she can do the same.
She slowly climbs the stairs, her hand following the smooth wooden banister. Upstairs, she finds S standing in the frame of a large window: her back straight, her face half-hidden in the milky light coming in from outside.
She sits down on the windowsill, which is covered in carelessly applied brushstrokes of wall paint. She hears a pigeon on the roof above them. Everything in this room seems quiet, and distant, as if the house is searching for its own memories but cannot find them.
‘You play along really well.’ S sounds calm. The corner of her mouth is turned up, in a way that is somehow both inviting and excluding. She wants to say something, something sharp or disarming, but S puts her hand on her cheek, her thumb against the edge of her jaw. Her touch is gentle, almost clinical, as if S is exploring a strange object that she cannot quite classify yet.
S’s thumb seeks her mouth. Finds her mouth. Her lips part. Is this really happening? This is happening. She feels S’s thumb in her mouth, sucks on it. Her hands press hard against the wood. She feels the roughness of the paint, the irregularities. S moves her thumb back towards her jaw, leaving a trace of saliva on her cheek.
She wants to close her eyes, to wallow in S’s woody scent. But then she suddenly wonders if S would even want to live in this house. A feeling of resistance settles in her body.
She pushes S away from her, gets up, and, taking S by her shoulders, moves her against the window. Her hands slide from her neck to her thick brown hair. She feels the coolness of the window against the back of her hand, and places her knee between S’s legs. She feels she is in control now, that S is allowing her to take control. She pushes. S closes her eyes and smiles her nonchalant smile.
Her tongue slides along S’s collarbone, neck and earlobe. She knows this neck as if the image on her phone’s illuminated screen has been transferred to her fingers. S’s hair drapes around them like a veil.
A door creaks open downstairs: voices, footsteps. S pulls up her shirt, she pulls down S’s transparent bra. S’s nipple feels hard in her mouth. Ten seconds left. She bites – gently.
‘So, what do you think?’ the estate agent will ask them. And she will feel all over her body that she does not want this house. But she will curl her lips, tilt her head and say they love it – that they knew right away.

by Yasmin Veenman

Short Story

Published in Extra Extra No 24

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