100 Cocktails Later

Martin is in the kitchen. If I lean against the wooden arm of the chair, I can see the back of his head, the grey hair on his nape tickling the collar of his shirt. Maybe I should trim it later, before we leave. He’s humming something under his breath as he works. I want to carry on watching him, but the wood is digging into my side quite painfully now, and so I lean back in the armchair, my head tipped back, eyes searching the ceiling for new cracks and fissures. I see only familiar lines.

When he walks back into the living room, I stand up, move towards him. I’m excited. I want to hug him, but he warns me off, holding his hands up. His brow crinkles in amusement as he explains that he needs to clean up, first. And so he heads towards the small bathroom at the back of my flat. I want to follow him, get in the shower alongside him, offer to wash his back, but I know it’s not the right time. He doesn’t want to get distracted. So I go into the kitchen, and admire the neat row of bottles, mostly filled, which are now formed in regimented lines along the tabletop. I wonder how we are going to move them all, but he’ll have planned for that. He always plans things well.


I remember that I want to cut his hair, and so I tap on the bathroom door when I hear the shower stream shut off. He opens the door a crack, to see what I want. To cut your hair, I say. He rolls his eyes goodnaturedly, and lets me in. He is naked still, his skin warm and hydrated now, but nearly dry. He sees me looking at the strong muscles of his thighs and has the grace not to notice that I still blush when I see him like this.

He sits on the edge of the tub, a towel around his waist, and I search through the drawers for my scissors. He taps a rhythm against the sides of the bath as he waits, but I think it’s from anticipation and excitement for later, rather than impatience. Martin isn’t an impatient kind of man. A time for everything, he says, and for everything a time.

I climb fully clothed into the bathtub, crouching so I can see the nape of his neck at eye level. I run my hands along the silvery strands, nudge his head forward so I can cut a clean, straight line. The speckles of hair fall, salt and pepper against his skin. I try and brush them off, but I tell him they’re stubborn. He’ll need the shower again, but I can detach the hose and clean them away from here. You’ll get wet, he tells me, laughing. I could do with a wash, I say, and I need to change anyway. In the end, I only get a little of the spray on my dress, and I get to wash his back, after all.


We walk quietly to my bedroom, where we both dress in similar clothes: black trousers and hooded sweatshirt, black trainers. I fish out the pairs of fingerless gloves I bought us from the bottom of my underwear drawer, and he pulls our hats from his fraying backpack. As I tie my shoelaces he tells me about the mixture he used, the failed attempts he had created over the past five weeks, the joy he felt at perfecting it. I like listening to him talk. His voice is smooth, soft like melting chocolate, even when, especially when, he talks with thunder and passion.


We move the bottles into crates, carry them out into the street. We wait in the setting sun, eyes on the road, looking for a dark grey van - our friends, coming to collect us. He spots it in the distance, I am looking the other way, so he nudges me to get my attention. I look, following the line of his arm as he points it out. He grins, I grin. He kisses me. We are ready to start.