Babes and Sucklings
I am thinking of my son (G) and how he hovers awkwardly between immaturity and the occasional display of depth far beyond his years. One instance occurred in the wild days when I spun out of control and he had not long acquired a steady gait.
My lover had called to let me know he would be late again, as he had to allay his wife’s suspicions concerning his whereabouts. The drive was long and the night damp with foggy vapours. I left my curtains open as I usually did when staring down the street for him. I had lit the candles, opened the red wine, slipped into my black silk kimono. My son was in bed. Since I could not vent my frustration at JMCD for fear of dissuading him from undertaking the journey altogether, I hurtled into the kitchen, flinging the glass on to the cold tiled floor with all the vehemence I could muster before walking back to the living room and collapsing on the sofa in tears. During a lull in my sobbing fit an unexpected noise dragged me to my feet. Looking through the door I was confronted by G barefoot (and unharmed) in the middle of the destruction I had wrought, picking up the larger shards one by one and dropping them into the black bin bag, an alcohol-stained sink wipe abandoned nearby.
"That was very naughty, Mummy. Don’t do it again”.
Wisdom is clearly not proportionate to years.
Being a mistress is all about emotional excess: impotence, fury, martyrdom, passion, crushing the competition. Oh yes, and prolonged abstinence, soaked paper handkerchiefs. And cystitis.
I spent myself loving him....
I spent myself loving him. He knew of my quirk concerning electric pylons. Ray Bradbury understood it perfectly, as did the poet who described them as great naked girls striding over the landscape. Also aware of my love of tunnels he drove me one afternoon to an underground power station, open to the public, buried deep into the side of a cliff. The patch of daylight receded as we walked towards the heart of the complex, the only visitors. Up a few steps to the spectacular view of turbines, the machinery of generation in all its functional glory. You could feel the energy pulsing through the fingertips.