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They were a pleasant couple obviously from somewhere like South London judging by their accents and on holiday. They’d come to the
café where I was working and always sat outside at a table in the sun. But we don’t often get english speaking visitors to the remote area I now live in and they were keen to chat and find out about the place they were visiting, from ‘a local’. The village where I live and work is high up in the mountains, the main tourist resorts are down on the coast but occasionally more intrepid holidaymakers choose to stay up in the mountains and forgo the beaches and night clubs.
After stopping at the bar a few times we got talking, I’d finished my shift and came to sit with them. They thought I was just being friendly. I was, but there was another motive too. As she, her name was Marie, asked endless questions about what it was like to live in the Canary islands during the winter, what were the houses like and so on, her boyfriend, Mark, sipped his beer and stared off into the distance. When I could, I took a glance at him, hoping to catch his eye and draw him into the conversation. It didn’t happen. Maybe he’d picked up on the fact that I found him attractive, maybe I made him feel uncomfortable, they knew I was gay, and she seemed thrilled by the fact. He seemed worried by it.
Eventually it seemed only polite that I invite them to come for drinks up at the villa so that they could see what a real ‘local’ house was like and take in the views I have from the roof. We made a date for the following evening and I told them how to find the place, saying that I would meet them at eight at the end of the lane.
And, at eight the following evening I was at the end of the cobbled street, sweating from the intense heat and waiting. After ten minutes I decide that they had changed their minds. Maybe Mark had persuaded her not to come, fearing some sort of ulterior motive was at play. I decided to give them another ten minutes.
And then I saw a figure in the distance, climbing laboriously up the steep path towards me. I recognised the boyfriend from his sturdy, solid frame. He wore shorts and boots and he seemed to be struggling with the effort of lifting his legs for each step he took. It was quite a climb from the café to this part of the village and I guessed that they were town people, not much used to walking. As he came closer he saw me and waved. Eventually he panted to a halt before me.
‘Jesus, that’s hard work mate,’ he gasped.
‘I should have warned you. Where’s Marie?’
‘Long story, but in a nutshell she had too much Bacardi last night and too much sun today. She’s flat out in bed.’
My heart did a back flip as I realised I would have him on my own for a couple of hours. He was slightly tanned from his holiday and this added the dark looks he already had. His short black hair was glistening with beads of sweat and his blue eyes glinted out from under dark brows as he looked at me, smiled and shook his head.
‘I’m not walking up here again,’ he laughed. ‘I just came to tell you that we can’t make it tonight. Sorry to let you down but Marie’s not up to it.’
And my heart sank.
‘You’re almost there now,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘You may as well stop for a beer. There’s the house.’ I pointed up hill. My house was only four doors away.
He looked uncertain. ‘Honestly mate, another time.’
‘Come on, you can cool down before setting off again,’ I said and turned, giving him no choice but to follow.
‘Just a quick one then,’ I heard him say and he definitely sounded uncomfortable.
I showed him into the living room and he went straight to the wide patio doors. Beyond these was the spectacular view of the valley below. Miles away and down the coast line ran from east to west and the sun was just nearing the sea where it would soon set.
‘Nice house,’ he said. ‘Nice view.’
‘Thanks,’ I replied. His tee shirt was stuck to his back with sweat, darkened in patches between his shoulder blades. His shorts hung over his arse and, where they too were heavy with sweat, they clung to his cheeks and accentuated their roundness. The view I was looking at was just as good.
‘Beer?’ I asked.
‘Cheers.’
When I returned from the kitchen he was still standing at the window looking out. I invited him to come and sit.
‘Don’t want to get your sofa messed up mate,’ he said looking at the leather sofa I had sat on and indicating his sweaty clothes.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I smiled. ‘It will wipe clean.’
He thought for a moment and then chose to sit opposite me on one of the matching chairs. I’d worn my own brand of football shorts for the evening, silky and cool and, with nothing on underneath them I knew that I had to watch how I sat. If I lifted my leg up and placed my foot on the sofa, as I usually did, the shorts would stretch to show off my packet. And if I moved my other leg to one side slightly then the leg of my shorts would hang open and anyone sitting opposite would be able to see that I was wearing nothing beneath them. For the moment I sat with my legs together.
Instinctively I offered him a cigarette.
‘No thanks mate, I don’t smoke… cigarettes.’ There was an impish twinkle in his eye and he winked. Without making any reaction at all I offered a cigarette box from the coffee table between us.
‘Something stronger then?’ I opened the lid to show him a few ready rolled joints. He practically licked his lips as he helped himself.
We smoked in silence, the sun set far away and the light in the room dimmed. I turned on a table lamp, crossed the room and put on some music. He finished his beer quickly and refused a second. When I sat down again I noticed that he had changed position. He was no longer sitting upright and ridged but had slipped back in his chair a little, he looked more relaxed.
‘So how long have you and Marie been together?’ I asked, feeling that some sort of conversation should be started.
‘Only a few months,’ he replied and that was all he had to say.
‘She’s very pretty,’ I complemented, ‘you’ve done well.’
‘Ta.’ He looked around the room. ‘It’s a posh place you got here, what do you do for money?’
It was a bit of a direct question, but reasonable. It was obvious that I hadn’t made my money from working in a sleepy, Spanish bar half way up a mountain.
‘Photography,’ I said simply.
‘Yeah? Neat.’ He took a long, deep drag on his joint and held it in. I did the same and, without thinking pulled my right leg up onto the sofa.
As he exhaled his eyes dropped and his gaze fell directly on the front of my shorts. I rubbed my bare foot and lowered it to the floor again. He looked up at my face.
‘What kind of photography?’ he asked and I noticed that his speech was already a little slurred.
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