WAITING FOR PHILIP

A confused girl in her flat is waiting for Philip

Amelia sat on the arm of her chair, by the window of her city apartment, and waited for Philip. He would come soon. She knew that with the same certainty as Noah had known that the rains would come that time he built his �" what did they call it �" ark? She could picture her Philip in her mind's eye, in his own more frugal apartment pulling his clothes off, preparing for his bath. Philip took a bath every day, which made put him higher in the social pecking order than his lonely job as clerk to the magistrates would have you believe; but then Philip was special, she was absolutely certain of that, special from the top of his curly hair, greying at the temples in a distinguished kind of way, down to his feet that splayed in that fetching way he had when he stood, rocking and gazing at her with that smile adorning those luscious lips, lips that only too soon would be pushed to hers, would allow his tongue to snake into her mouth carrying all of the intoxicating flavours of him deep into her; she licked her own lips at the memory and could almost taste him before he arrived, and see that old scar crinkling across his right cheek when he smiled..

It had been weeks since he'd last walked through that door, of course, weeks and weeks, but he'd told her it was all right, just a bit of bother about an old man in his block of flats, the old fool deserved to die, he used such revolting language, anyone would kill him given half a chance. Philip was so righteous about things like that, he never suffered fools gladly, he was such an angel and a perfect gentleman... and now he was coming back to her, tonight, the day he promised.

So she picked up her pad, the one she took to art school with her, the one that occupied the long hours when Philip was at his desk or on the carriage going home for his bath or walking the several streets that separated them, to her apartment where he would gaze at her, smiling, and promise that he was going to ravish her like she'd never been ravished before, and he would use that “f” word that sounds so dreadful when most men say it but when he said it it meant the depth of love and the unbearable thrill as she grasped his forbidden part and squeezed like she knew he loved it because he told her so every wonderful moment as he begged her not to stop.

And as she drew the image of him on her pad, every line of that body of his, she knew he was naked and unashamed, for that's how she remembered him despite the natty suit he'd be wearing, but only for long enough to take it off in that hasty way he had when the greed for her was on him, and while he dragged his own suit off she would slide out of her long white gown revealing that she wore nothing under it, for why wear things that go unseen when they would be on for so short a time? And then they would kiss, like wild beasts or like Adam and Eve that first ever day, and the crazy night of love-making would start and go on until they were both exhausted or until dawn flecked the sky with gold, whichever came the first. He would do that “f” thing to her (she couldn't bring herself to think the word even though she would demand it of him when he was there, do it to me, she would say, almost weeping, do it to me me like you have never before: hard, desperate, wonderfully, for ever … and he would respond like the angel that he was and her place in the world would be perfection, bliss, ecstasy, there weren't enough words in her head to describe the feelings that shook her body from head to foot when he was so close to her.

Then the door knocked and she wondered why doesn't he walk right in like he used to? But he didn't, so she went to the door, feeling a little cross at him for making her go to all that trouble when she wanted the mystery of him seeing her like this, drawing him and nobody else, on her little pad, and when she flung the door open she was almost scowling, but it wasn't her Philip at all but the urchin Pedro and he grinned his urchin grin and said it was a pity they'd strung Philip up so high over killing the old fool who'd lived in his flats, but they had and what's done is done, and did she want to pay him for bringing the small bag of possessions her fellow had kept by his bed, or could he keep them and sell them for coppers at the flea market when it opens on Thursdays?

And Amelia slammed the door because she'd known, deep down, that Philip had been too good for this world, and she sat down with her drawing pad and gave him the moustache he'd never had but she'd always rather fancied, and wept softly to herself.