She has blonde hair. For some reason I’ve always preferred blond hair on my own head as well. In my traumatic relationship history the blondes treated me better than the brunettes did. She would never admit so to me but even though I’ve forgiven the past she would have strong words for those who wounded her man so deeply and thus made our first six months together more troublesome than they should have been. She has blonde hair, and in the little fantasies that I create for myself she shares my three bedroomed house with me. The house that is only a few hundred yards from the home I grew up in. Another family live there now creating their lives and I have my own home in the town I love.
In this particular flight of fancy I’m doing the wash-up wearing my customary pink rubber gloves. I enjoy the confusion and consternation it causes among people who can’t deny how utterly masculine I am yet wear bright pink to wash the dirty dishes. The chime of the doorbell fills the house and I ask her to please get it for me. She puts down the book she’s reading. She’ll discuss it with me later when we lie on the bed gazing at each other as she takes issue with a point the author’s making. I’ll get lost in her eyes briefly and have to ask her to repeat what she said. The mild annoyance on her face will make way to a smile and a feeling of security that comes from knowing I hold her to be the most beautiful woman in the world and could never think of any other but her. Her bare feet embrace first the soft, warm threads of the milky rug I insisted on getting before touching the polished wooden timbers of the floor. She opens the door fully and stands to one side, cocking her head to examine the unexpected visitor, which enables said visitor to see me at the sink.
The view is from behind the caller. He’s a guy from the soccer club dropping over something for me that relates to my role as Secretary. He does a double take as this stunningly beautiful woman answers the door when he was expecting to see the man everyone in the soccer club calls by the shortened version of his name. That’s alright of course by me because I consider them friends and they’re allowed to do that. She’s wearing a loose, flowing beige dress with a floral purple design that contains embedded sparkles at the end of her left leg and a loose white tank top that just shows off a little of her belly and occasionally will bare one or other of her shoulders. Her dark blonde hair covers her shoulder as she flashes the man a smile and says hello to him.
The man is at a loss momentarily as are most men when they first meet her. “Who is it?” I shout. One of the habits that the house located a few hundred yards away is very familiar with. “I’m Mick” he stutters. “It’s Mick from the soccer club” she shouts back at me. She oozes elegance but for some reason she liked the fact I would shout to her from one side of the house to the other and so adopted it as her own. Certainly her mother wouldn’t approve but her mother thinks the sun, moon and stars shine out from under me so would forgive me for the bad habit her daughter has acquired from this relationship. The envelope in the man’s hand and the crest of the Football Association of Ireland was enough for her to deduce he was from the soccer club. She notices the small things and details in life – another reason why I love her.
At this point I have to turn around to deduce which ‘Mick from the soccer club’ it is given there are half a dozen or so who could answer to that description. I walk towards him and she links arms with me when I reach the door. “Alright Mick, how you doing?” “Alright Steve” he replies the purpose of his visit slowly oozing back into his head. “This arrived for you in the post. I was the old contact for them so I still get their stuff.” This is the normal state of affairs with organisations – especially amateur organisations. Seeing the logo on the front of it I immediately put it on the ‘worry about later’ part of my head. “Ah, cool. Thanks for that. How are things?” I ask. “This is my girlfriend by the way”. She extends a hand softly and he shakes it with the haste that one must when completing a social convention that wasn’t expected. “Nice to meet you Mick” she says sweetly. Her repetition of his name is a memory tool for her. She’s much better with names than I am. “How are the kids doing?” I do however know the names of each of his kids and the fact their exams are coming up. He relaxes visibly as he can revert to a form conversation he’s had with dozens of other people be they distant family members, work colleagues or other members of the soccer club. “Aw grand you know. Exams coming up so trying to get them to study. The little fella isn’t fond of Maths at all and is getting grinds but they’ll be over soon.” “So they will and they’re not the end of the world anyway” I reply with a smile.
A few more pleasantries and he takes his leave of the man wearing the pink rubber gloves. He reminds himself that with a girlfriend that beautiful there can be no doubts about a man’s sexuality even with brightly colour latex and the distant drone of the car engine fading into the distance confirms his departure. She returns to her book in the front room that catches the sunlight. I finish the washing up and come into to give her a kiss on the head before turning to leave her to her reading. She understands that’s one of the main ways I express my affection and knows that if it isn’t happening something’s up.
She finds me upstairs lying on the bed looking at the ceiling painted a lighter hue than the pale orange of the walls. She judges from the way my form is arranged on the bed and the expression on my face that I’m thinking about stuff. That’s the phrase I use. Stuff can mean anything and everything but she knows when it’s better to pry to help me to figure it out or when it’s better to leave me be to muse on my own. She also knows that now is a moment where interruption of the kind she’s planning is welcome. She jumps and pins me down. “Hello you” eagerly escapes her lips. I immediately flip her over and have her pinned. She laughs at how easily I can keep her where I want her to be and her eyes trail the shape of my arms. How she loves those arms; everything a man’s arms should be… bulging ever so slightly now as powerful yet soft skinned hands hold her by the wrists. Not many men can look as good as her man in jeans and a white t-shirt…
Gazing into each other’s eyes, faces move closer and closer until tender lips kiss and fingers embrace as the sunlight shines through the window and warms the skin that clothing covered only moments ago…