Chapter Twelve

S A F E L I G H T

Thursday, June 18th

"A subtle red could look nice," I tell Ruby as she sifts through images of pinned hairstyles. She's thinking of switching things up a bit. Joel's coming for dinner, she's cooking him some fancy pasta dish.

"I'm just so bored of this," Ruby picks up a limp strand of dark hair. "I need a change."

"Don't we all," I mumble, stalling to reply to the swarm of new emails that plague my inbox. I'm tired of it all. I just want the next half hour to disappear so I can pack up and go meet Dylan at Holland Park for the second part of a Top Ten I've still yet to fully complete.

I'm still taking my time. He doesn't need to know I've pulled out a trip to the not-so-secret Kyoto inspired Japanese garden tucked away between Kensington and Chelsea from a Time Out guide, superior to my cobbled together lists.

Norine's gratefully allowed me to take the afternoon off, using hours amassed in lieu to squeeze in some time with Dylan before he ships off for Brighton. And I plan to put them to good use. Catching the tube to meet at one thirty, before a leisurely stroll to the park and drinks at a small brewery touted to have the best craft beers in West London after.

"I'm going to pop out during lunch, go to Marks and Spencers, maybe Boots for some hair dye, do you want anything?" Ruby asks. "Or are you leaving before then?"

"Before."

"Are you excited?"I smile, and nod.

"I am, should be fun."

"What should be?" Louisa's creeped up, a health bar in hand.

"Nothing."

"Jem's got another date with Dylan," Ruby grins, spinning her chair round so she can lean on it.

"Has she now?" Louisa's smirking, rocking her head side to side. "What kind of date?"

"None of your business."

It doesn't deter her in the slightest. "Play nice Jem. I'm living vicariously through you till Brett arrives tomorrow, so just give me something. Anything."

"Fine. If you must know we're meeting at Holland Park so I can show him the Japanese garden and then we might get some lunch, maybe a drink."

"You're taking him to a garden?" Louisa laughs, scrunching up her face. Not impressed. "I suggest you skip that."

"Why?"

Her lips pout. "Because no one ever got laid from taking someone to see a garden Jem."

My voice catches as I try to protest. "But it's got peacocks, and a pond. And a waterfall, and it's a lovely day..."

"If you're David Attenborough maybe. But come on, is Dylan really gonna want to traipse about looking at the pretty flowers when we all know he probably just wants to get you real drunk and whisk you back to his?"

Ruby keeps her head down, but I can hear she's giggling.

"I don't want to rush anything. If it happens, it'll happen but for now we're going to the park. End of conversation," I reply, dead serious. A little bit disappointed that my great idea's already been rejected.Louisa waves her hand about.

"Ok fine, suit yourself."

Ignoring her, I turn back to Ruby and Louisa get's the hint, through she does squeeze my shoulder, whispers she's only joking before retreating back to her desk.

"So I might be gone before you get back, if I am I hope tonight goes well."

"Me too. I've never really cooked for anyone else," Ruby replies quietly. I can tell she's nervous, she's picking at her nail varnish.

I try to assure her that it'll be fine. "I am sure he'll love it."

Ruby shrugs, and twists her chair back round. When her arm starts to tap my mine, slowly to begin with then quickly like she's drumming out a beat, I turn mine round too.

Jack's appears out from nowhere, to walk past the long panelled front of the office. Separated only by thin glass, and he's waving, smiling. I know he's trying to catch me. His eyes like laser beams trained to never miss a target.

I know I've not had lunch yet, and very little breakfast so I chalk up the fluttery nature of my insides to hunger.

"Why doesn't he just take the lift like everyone else?" Ruby asks, though I'm sure she knows the answer.

"Because that would be too easy," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "He just wants the attention."

The scrape of chair wheels to my side alert me to the fact Millie's spun round too, and she's waving back. Arm stretched right up, like she's greeting royalty. Chest pushed out, blouse pulled down. I side eye her, because she can't be serious, surely? Does she really believe he's swaggering past, black shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the hint of a tan, hair pushed back just for the sole purpose of catching her eye?

Maybe I'm being too harsh but I know that's definitely not the reason he's tapping his cigarette box against his hand, one already tucked behind his ear, eyes burning into mine. But Millie's oblivious or just choosing to ignore the obvious signs because she's already reaching for her bag, striking a lighter with her thumb. Ready to follow him down, even though he's fast approaching the stairs on his way out now he's done peacocking through my third floor world.

"If Norine asks, I've gone out for lunch," I hear Millie say as she comes past, smoothing down her hair, straightening out her tight skirt. She's got peach coloured shiny lipgloss on and her eyebrows are immaculate.

She looks nice today. I'm actually a little jealous. Hair loosely curled. Tanned, bare legs out on display, no hint of day old stubble like mine. I'm sure it'll really light Jack's day right up to see her appear beside him to pinch a cigarette.

"Jem, you alright?" Ruby whispers, as Millie pushes her way out of our glass fortress.

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Ruby shrugs. "I dunno. You just look a bit sad?"

I shake my head, watching Millie place a hand on his shoulder, how he turns round and smiles. I don't like the way it makes me feel. My gears grinding all at once by how she's so close to him, taking one step at time till I can't see their faces.

"I'm fine."

"Don't you need to leave soon?" Ruby's in my ear again.

She's right I do but I wont leave. Yet. Not till I'm sure I won't bump into both of them downstairs, out on the street, sharing a cigarette. Twisting the knife in further.

"Dylan," Ruby says, like she knows I need to remember it. "Dylan."

I nod, repeating his name over till I forget any other exists.

Dylan.

Dylan.

Dylan.

*** *** ***

"They usually have peacocks here, but I don't know where they are right now," I laugh nervously, stretching my neck out to scan the bushes and cherry blossom trees. Dylan to my side, camera in hand hoping to capture a glimpse of the bird I've really hyped up and droned on about non-stop since we met at the gates to the park. All my nerves latching on to a couple of boring facts I'd picked up from watching quiz shows with Abbie and Dave.

I'm not really sure why that's all I can think of to gush about but I'm wavering on blaming Louisa, for putting doubt into my head about visiting the garden, how it might not be as fun filled or exciting as it had sounded on paper.

Still Dylan's a trooper and peacocks or no peacocks he seems happy to wander around the koi pond and stop to admire the tall, cascading tiered waterfall with me.

As continue to lazily stroll, over cast clouds above us, he asks me how my weeks been, since we last saw each other.

"Same old really. It's been a bit like Groundhog day," I laugh, because really nothing that exciting has happened. Just deadlines, Norine's face all up in my space, Louisa talking about Brett and Abbie and Dave talking about school and Ruby constantly by my side.

"Tough week huh?"

I nudge him arm as we walk. "Yeah, until today. You've pulled me out of the loop."

"Glad I could help," Dylan grins.

When the search for the elusive peacocks comes to a dead end, I take a seat on a bench by the pond and rockery, whilst he takes a few shots of the trees and koi fish but ultimately it all feels a bit flat. Like we're both only trying to kill time.

And even through the suns decided to make an appearance and the gardens are all very peaceful and beautiful there's really only so much we can do, or look at. And I've got company to keep entertained.Begrudgingly I decide to take Louisa's earlier advice and ask if he wants to get something to eat.

When Dylan confesses he's already eaten, grabbed a burrito from some new place near his work on the way to meet me I skip to my second option and suggest we go for a drink at the small brewery Time Out so kindly bought to my attention also.

In the back of decked beer garden, shades on, crisp cold craft pint in hand, I try to keep the conversation flowing by asking Dylan all about his time in Austin, which I know he likes to talk about at great length because an hour later, and we're still discussing it.

"The craft beers over there are just out of this world. I mean this is great," he says holding up his glass. "But they really have it nailed. Not that I've tried all of them, I'm not really a big drinker."

This surprises me. "Oh really?"

"Yeah, I like a good beer every now and again but I'm not out every night, you know like down at the pub," he puts emphasis on the last word, trying out a debatable British accent. Though I applaud him for giving it a go.

"I pretty much grew up in pubs," I confess. "Even before it was legal for me to do so. When winter kicks in, there's nothing better than spending the night in a cosy pub. Fire on, pack of crisps."

"It definitely seems to be part of the culture here, to drink and drink," Dylan muses. "I saw two guys having a fight just the other day outside a pub. Taking swings at each other but they kept missing because they were both so drunk."

"We do like our drink here," I reply, though what I actually mean is I like a drink. Preferably many, money and liver allowing. It doesn't even really matter what time of day it is.

Dylan grins, as I take a big gulp of beer. He counters by sipping his slowly as if to illustrate my point that we're all just one fosters can away from falling into full blown alcoholism. How we're all pretty much born with strong, fool hardy stomachs and the ability to chug down cheap cider on park benches, or pull all nighters on rain soaked beaches, huddled under blankets. The story of my youth.

We even have this little thing called pre-drinking which I doubt Dylan needs to be enlightened too, I doubt he'll appreciate the fact I can mime for a glass of a specific type of wine across a crowded pub and be understood without having to utter a word.

I decide that it's probably best to steer clear of any further such chat, though the irony that were both drinking hibiscus infused, strong beer, at a pub isn't lost on me.

"You're gonna love Brighton," I tell him switching the topic with ease. "They have a beach though it's mainly pebbles but it's still nice, to be near the sea."

Dylan nods. "I can't wait. We've got a full day of shooting at a studio, for one of their editorials and then a day to explore. Felicity's got some friends who are letting us crash in their spare room."

I tilt my head unintentionally. "Oh right, work won't fork out for a hotel then?"

"I don't really know. Felicity's organised it all."

My stomach flips. Doesn't quite like the sound of him spending a weekend away with another women even if it is innocent, part and parcel of his new job. A colleague who I should not be worrying about, yet I do. A little.

"I'm just hoping the weather improves."

"You and me both. It's been pretty rubbish hasn't it?" I drawl, letting the irony of talking about the second most popular topic of our fair isles the weather wash over. It's the reason most of the garden benches are chock full, because the suns out. "Told you we don't get much of a summer here."

"And you weren't lying!" he laughs, smile wide drawing attention to his grown out stubble.

I'm so glad I've remembered to bring my sunglasses because it means I can stare up at his messy hair, admire how his lips move when he speaks and how great they look when he does. If anything he's even more beautiful than the last time.

And he's as sweet as ever. Chatty and attentive and he knows when to listen. He might not know it yet but he's ticking so many boxes that if we weren't in a crowded pub garden I'd have no qualms about reaching over to bring his face close to mine and lock him in a tight embrace.

Unfortunately for me such a place calls for restraint and manners. Which is hard to muster when he rolls up his tee shirt sleeves and leans back to bath in the sunlight.

"Do you want another drink?" I ask, even though he's not quite finished with his first. I might as well try my luck.

"I'm good with this one thanks."

It's to be expected.

"But when I'm done, do you fancy coming back to mine, give you a tour, maybe have another beer there?" Dylan asks, shyly like he can't believe he's actually saying such words aloud.

"Sure, sounds great."

"You know, because these are a bit, pricey," he mumbles looking at his pint glass. "Cheaper back at the flat."

He doesn't need to make any excuses, I'm already itching to leave, though I do play along. "Oh of course. It is expensive here."

"I can show you some of the photos I've developed, if you want?"

Really I'm not too bothered about that but it helps if I act like I do.

"Sure. Can't wait."

*** *** ***

"I like what you've done with the place," I grin as Dylan leads me up the spiral staircase and up into the studio apartment. The smell of paint thinner and heavy acrylics fading.

Truthfully I'm impressed. It's unexpected - an open plan oasis of white painted floorboards, and white brick walls with explosions of colour. Some of the large paintings hung up are similar to those propped up downstairs in the art studio. Two dark leather sofas with a ton of scattered technicolored cushions crowd a long piece of driftwood, a makeshift coffee table propped up by concrete slabs.

Dylan laughs, kicks off his shoes and takes my jacket. Hangs it up on a wooden antler by the kitchen. "Wish I could say it's all my doing but it's not. I just rent the place from the guy downstairs, he's away a lot."

"Well he's done a good job," I reply, admiring the open kitchen and thick granite worktops. The loft style square windows allowing early evening light to stream, bathing the studio in an orange glow.

I notice the broken and stripped skateboards nailed to the wall opposite. "Those yours?"

"No, they came with the place," he laughs, scratching his stubble. "I'm still exploring myself. Just yesterday I found a cupboard full of old 1950's board games and the dudes vinyl collection is out of this world. He has everything."

"So you're just renting?"

"For now. London's expensive, I only found this place because the guy does commissions for the editor at the magazine. I've just got real lucky."

I smile, and continue to drift round, Dylan trailing behind to point out that he's had to move the mattress down from the raised platform. A wonky looking ladder leading up towards the exposed roof beams.

My mind does mental gymnastics to imagine the limited bedroom gymnastics one might be able to engage in. I find that I'm glad I wont ever have to make the climb up.

"Hit my head every morning so I dragged it down after the first week," he explains, the large mattress in the corner of the studio, nestled between two large bookcase dividers. A canopy of netting hung above, like a mini fortress. It's all very bohemian and cool. So cosy I want to dive in, wrap myself up.

Dylan leaves me to admire his handiwork, and opens up the large mint green fridge. "You want a drink? Another Beer?"

I spin the options round in my head. I feel a little tipsy already, the craft beer from before swimming through my veins. I decide to play it safe. He'd be shocked by such a thing if he really knew me. "Don't worry, water's fine, thank you."

With a glass of tap water passed my way, he asks if I want to see what he's been working on, since our trip to the junkyard. I nod, and allow him to lead the way to the back of the studio, under the loft annex. He slides back a small door, and assures me not to worry about the darkness.

Once inside, he pulls a long black curtain across the door and I notice there's duct tape stuck around the frame.

"I'm just going to turn this on," he says moving away from me and my hands instantly jut out, fingers spread wide but I only feel air, empty space. A light flickers on, the buzz of the bulb jolting me up right.

Finally the red hue spreads to each corner of the tiny room and my eyes adjust, dark silhouettes shifting into recognisable shapes - a sink, an assortment of trays and Dylan in all his red light bathed glory, a peg in hand to take down a photograph.

He then points up above me. "Safelight."

I nod and step forwards with hesitation, careful not to knock anything over. Ducking under a piece of string that holds more photographs, clipped by pegs. One shows an elderly couple on a bench, another a woman feeding pigeons. London's skyline in the distance. There's a very pretty looking girl with a blunt fringe stood against a graffitied garage door. Overalls on. Hair windswept.

I want to ask who it is but I think it might come across as rude, or too obvious.

"I've been developing the black and white roll this morning, still got to work on the colour film," he says, voice low. "But so far they've come out great. You want to give one a go?"

"Uh, I have no clue what to do," I reply, dodging a row of jugs full of water.

Dylan laughs. "I'll walk you through it."

Giving in, I follow his lead and giggle nervously as we try and move round each other, careful not to get too close. Which proves difficult when he begins to talk me through what to do, how to slide the photographic paper into the water baths. The tongs threatening to slip out of my hands as he stands behind me. I'm trying to let all the instructions and fancy technical terms sink in but it's hard to multitask them all, without forgetting to breath too.

"Like this?" I ask, over and over as I transfer the paper, submerge it, let it rest. "Have I got it wet enough?"

"Almost. A little longer. Like this," Dylan quietly instructs, his hand curling over mine. "Yeah, like that. That's good."

"Is this ok? Is that right?"

"Just keeping doing that for a bit longer, a bit faster. Slide it up and down."

"Ok. Like this? Is that fast enough?"

Our back and forth, is by far the strangest foreplay I've ever engaged in. Dylan stood so close I can feel the heat from his breath on the back on my neck. I'm so lost in the intensity, the intimate nature of being in a tiny, dark room with him that all his words might as well be spoken in another language. They go in one ear and out the other to make space for the creeping desire to push my back against his chest, thread my fingers through his.

When his hand brushes lightly against my thigh I feel like this is the moment. And I am so ready for it. My chest rising up and down.

"And now we just hang it up on here," he tells me as he lifts up the print, developing before my eyes.

My breath catches. Eyes scanning the large neon tubing, the cross, my head titled up, face lost in the bright light. "Is that me?" I ask breathless. "At the junkyard?"

"Sure is," he replies gently adding it along side the other dark, black and white photographs on the line. "Turned out great, don't you think?"

I trace the edges of it with my finger, and nod. Wobbling on the backs of my heels I tread on his bare feet, and he gasps, stumbles back into the wall before steadying himself.

"Oh shit, sorry." I spin round, and offer out my hand.

Dylan laughs, and takes it, lifts it up to the red light. There's some water between the creases of my palm and he wipes it off on his shirt. The hardness of his chest underneath the catalyst for the weakness in my knees, the fire between my thighs.

His hand creeps up to my collar, behind my hair. And like a magnet I'm drawn closer, and closer until his breath hot, and heavenly brushes my cheek. I close my eyes, poised, ready, wanting to feel his lips on mine. The stubble that tickles my jaw dissolving any restraint I've managed to keep.

My hand pulls at the waistband of his jeans. And as he gently tilts my head to the side, like he's afraid I might break, Dylan's hand inches down my back, while my leg rises to curl round his. Breaths of anticipation caught between our lips.

I want to devour him.

I'm ready.

But the shrill, cutting sound of my phone springing to life, in the depths of my back jean pocket has other ideas.

I jump back, hand swinging up from the button of his waistband. The crack of our foreheads, my wrist scrapping against his jaw, is enough to dissipate any hopes that we can continue on, just as we were before such an unwanted, shock interruption. Dylan starts to rub at his face, and through I'm sure it's only a scratch everything looks worse under the red light. At least he can't see the mortified blush on my cheeks.

"Oh my god," I shout. "I am so, so sorry." I keep on stuttering, as he just stands, his breathing heavy. Chest rising and falling. He doesn't look angry, just startled.

"It's my phone, oh crap. I forgot it was in there," I spin round and tap the back of my pocket, the faint illumination of the screen visible. "I'm such an idiot."

With the ringing increasing with each passing second, Dylan sighs. "It's fine. You should probably answer."

I don't. I let it ring out. The new silence between us a stark contrast to wandering hands and heavy breathing. When it rings again, I hesitate and he pulls back the curtain, carefully slides open the door.

Stumbling out, my eyes under siege by natural, bright light and ears irritated by the constant buzzing, the vibration in my back pocket that only makes my thighs squeeze together tighter, I answer rudely.

"What?" I snarl, noticing Dylan hasn't come out. He's probably taking a moment to compose himself too. I know I am. My heart still beating erratically in frustration.

"Jemima? Oh thank god you've picked up."

"Ruby?" I groan. "What do you want?" It sounds a lot ruder than I'd intended.

"I've got an emergency. I am panicking. Shit. Shit. Jemima, it's really bad!" The panic in her voice throws me, and I take a seat on the sofa. My legs wobbly because I'm still really turned on but now I'm worried. And my mind might explode from the contrasting feelings, the adrenaline and concern.

"Shit, what's happened?"

Ruby's breathing is all over the place. "It's my hair. I've really messed up Jemima."

"Your hair?"

"My hair. I thought I'd dye it, before Joel came over, you know for the dinner I'm supposed to be cooking him? And well I bought that dye from Boots, like a darker brown with some red hues that you suggested and I put it on, and now it won't wash off. It's all over my scalp and face, and I can't get it off Jemima!"

The sound of a door sliding back alerts me to Dylan's presence back in the room. He gives me a quizzical look as I ask Ruby to stop and breath, calm down.

"There's hair dye all over the bathroom, it's all over my hands. It looks like I've murdered someone in here and I can't get to the shops to pick up any colour stripper or toner and I've run out of soap. Jesus Jemima, I am freaking out right now because he's going to be here in like less than two hours."

I hold the phone away from my ear, and Dylan straightens out his shirt, heads to the kitchen and runs the tap. I watch the muscles in his back tense as he takes long sips.

"Jemima? Are you still there?"

"Yeah, sorry. I'm just, I'm a little busy right now," I whisper, cupping my mouth.

"I just didn't have anyone else to call. I don't know what to do. I'm so sorry," she cries, and my heart sinks.

For two reasons - the first being that the moment between myself and Dylan has well and truly been ruined, and the second that Ruby's in so much distress and my help is obviously needed desperately, and of course it's mostly my fault, for suggesting such a colour in the first place. What a regrettable mistake that is now.

"What do you need me to pick up?" I sigh, leaving the sofa.

"Toner and colour stripper, and soap. Maybe some strong shampoo. Anything that'll get rid of hair dye! One of the beauty bloggers I follow said to use baking soda and lemon juice but I don't have those either!"

"I'll go to the pharmacy, see what they suggest," I tell her, before instructing her to stay put. Not to panic further. "It'll be fine, alright?"

When I get off the phone, Dylan walks towards me. "Everything ok?"

"It's just Ruby. There's been an emergency," I reply, borrowing her dramatic wording. "I'm really sorry but I'm gonna have to leave."

"Shit. I hope it's nothing bad?"

"Hair dye disaster," I laugh quietly, though I understand the severity of the situation in the eyes of an eager to please, eighteen year old. "A bad one, which might just be my fault so I need to go over. I'm really sorry."

His expression is one of confusion. Which is fine, I really don't expect he's had much experience with the trauma of a dodgy home dye.

"I'm sorry,"

"Jemima it's fine. Stop apologising, really," he smiles. "We can do this another time."

My eyes must spike because he quietly backtracks, starts mumbling, shifting on his feet.

"I mean, sorry what I meant was that we can see each other again. That there's plenty of time. Not that we can... I'm going to stop digging myself a hole now," he stammers, trailing off. Hands shoved deep in his pockets.

I take my coat, wrap it tight round my body because I'm aware that if Dylan comes any closer I'll probably never leave. Maybe he's aware of it too because he doesn't take further steps.

"Have a great time in Brighton," I tell him as I rush down the spiral stairs, hands clammy on the metal rails. "I'll call you."

When I reach the bottom, his face appears above. "Hope you get everything sorted out, and that Ruby will be alright."

"She'll be fine," I call up, all my desires wanting to take control of my feet, walk them all the way back up to wrap my lips round his and never let go. "Again, I'm sorry to leave in such a rush but I'll see you when you're back, ok?"

He grins. "I'd really like that."

Sprinting through the back of the art studio and out the heavy doors, I make a mental note of the nearest open pharmacies, and take flight down the road in my quest to save Ruby's night.

And when I arrive at hers drenched in sweat, two bags full to burst with concoctions, and bottles and soaps, she pulls me in and we hurry to the bathroom. It turns out Ruby isn't one to over exaggerate - the place really does resemble a crime scene, and I have to laugh at the dark, blood red hand prints all over the sink. Traces of sheer despair contaminate every inch of the usually immaculate, shiny white room.

We work in unison to first remove the dye from her scalp and skin but it's a hard task. We wash and rinse and apply endless thick layers of stripper, and toner, the smell potent and likely toxic in such confinement. But there's no time to worry about killing off brain cells, because Ruby's scalp is still bright red.

After an hour, it seems like all our efforts might have paid off, and I boil the water for her pasta out in the kitchen while she nervously blow-dries her hair, both of us on edge to see the result. When she emerges looking less shaken up, it's a relief to see that none of her hairs fallen out, and that it's pretty much back to the shade it once was.

"I can't believe that happened," she sighs. "Honestly I'm so grateful Jem. I feel awful that you had to come here."

"Don't worry about it, it's my fault for suggesting such a shit colour."

She takes over pan duty and adds the thin spirals of pasta. "It's not. You didn't know this would happen."

"Still if I hadn't..." I reply, trailing off.

"Were you still with Dylan, when I called?"

There's no point in lying. "Yeah, I was."

"Oh no. I am so, so sorry I dragged you here."

"It's fine, ok. Not the end of the world," I assure her.

"What can I do to make it up to you?"

"Never dye your hair again, and never take my advice," I answer, deadpan. Entirely serious.

"Got it. Promise," she winks. "Never again."

As I collect my bag, and coat, wiping the sweat that I've built up from running round, and scrubbing off stubborn dye, I grin. "I'm open to lunch out the office tomorrow, if you're offering."

Ruby laughs, nods. "Anything. You've saved my life. Seriously."

"Seriously I don't think so but I'm glad we got it sorted. Now you can enjoy you're evening with lover boy," I tease, removing the door latch. "Have a fun night."

As she waves goodbye over a chorus of thank you's, I step out and pluck up the energy to make the trip back to the flat. Every part of me exhausted and aching, a little deflated that the day's not ended the way I'd once thought it would, back when Dylan's hands were on me.

Back home, after a long slog of delays on the tube, I kick off my shoes and scrape back my hair. Abbie notices I'm a flustered mess as I try and sneak past the lounge.

"Long day?" she asks, legs draped over Dave. The telly on loud, empty takeaway boxes scattered on the carpet.

"Something like that. Going to have a quick shower," I reply, speeding past. I want to wash off the frustration, take a moment for myself.

As I undress, and let the water run hot, I text Dylan to let him know that the major crisis has been adverted. To my surprise he replies before I've even let my hair down.

Now whose the hero.... Glad it's all sorted. D

It's short but it's enough to sustain the rush of intense heat I still feel all over my body. Unfortunately a long, steaming shower does nothing. Mostly because I'm all too aware that there's only a thin wall separating myself and Dave, sat on the other side. My mind and wandering hands locked in a battle about what's decent and what's icky. The weirdness of it all.

Later in my room, under the covers I still can't quite bring myself to release all the pent up frustration. It's just too weird with Abbie and Dave now next door, tucked up in bed. His noisy snoring isn't exactly what I want as soundtrack to such a moment.

And even though I keep spinning thoughts of Dylan and what could have happened if I'd left my phone outside, my imagination working overtime to try and get back the feeling and sensation of his touch, it doesn't work. A pointless waste of what little energy I've got left.

Because nothing can quite compare to the feel to earlier hips pressed tight, lips hot and ready.

No matter how many times I repeat them over in my mind.

. . .