This is how it begins: two strangers – a man, a woman – lock eyes across a crowded room. She does not bat her eyelashes or fiddle with her hair – those little signals meant to indicate sexual interest but feminine coyness. That’s not the game she wants to play, the one of hunter and prey. Instead she holds his gaze. It is not an invitation – it’s a challenge.

He could have walked away or taken the direct route to where she is, but instead he too wants to play a different game. Over the next hour or so he edges closer. He is not alone, but then neither is she.
His friends, her friends, two groups of strangers make conversation and connections on a warm Spring evening, brought together by a chance encounter of two sets of eyes across a room.
He calls the next day and asks her out.
He is a gentleman. He collects her at home and takes her to dinner and a film and later for a drink. He is charming and polite, but it feels unreal, like an approximation of a date, a facsimile of human interaction. She suspects he is being a version of himself, but who he really is, she has no idea.
All the elements are there, but the evening is not a success. When it ends she kisses him, but it is mere politeness.
“I think perhaps we’d be better as friends,” she says.
It is a brush-off, but he takes it at face value. He likes her friends, they like him. He becomes one of the gang, who can call around without an invitation. They include him in their plans. He stopped being a stranger months ago, but he is still a puzzle.
He has a perfect face, strong jaw, high cheekbones, full lips, like something carved by a sculptor, beautiful and inscrutable.
She gathers pieces of information, one by one.
He runs a clothing label. This she learnt on the night they met. But that’s not the whole story – he designs the clothes himself. He likes turning ideas into objects.
The clothes are all for men, well, boys really. Designed to be comfortable for skating. When he forgets his jumper at her house, she refuses to return it. It is too big, it comes down to her knees, but it is fleecy and comfortable in the Winter and she likes to sleep in it.
He loves cars. Not as some men do as symbols of status. Instead, he appreciates their beauty, their engineering. He has an old Alfa Spider, which over the years, he has restored himself. It belonged to a neighbour, he tells her. When he was a boy he would pester the old man, visit him constantly so that he could admire the car. When he was older, the neighbour gave it to him as a gift. He wanted it to go to a good home,
he explains.
His love of cars holds a darker
story too.
His father is a man of God, a preacher who ministers to the faithful and rich. His church was large, the parking lot filled with expensive German cars. He hated the church and the parishioners. This he tells her matter-of-factly. But there’s more. When he was younger he would sneak out of the service and take the cars for joyrides while their owners were filled with the spirit of the Lord, giving thanks for their big houses and fat bonuses and thin wives.
“After that, I began stealing them,” he says.
He has a criminal record or sorts, in a juvenile facility when he was
a teenager.
“The last time I got caught I was 17. They were going to send me to jail, but my father called in a favour and the judge took pity on me. I stopped
after that.”
She visits his house: she sees he has a dog. He has not mentioned it. The dog is a small, pampered poodle. She thinks this is an incongruous choice and teases him about it.
“I bought him for my last girlfriend,” he explains.
“And what? You took it back?” she asks incredulously.
“No,” he says sadly. “She died in a crash. Her mother gave him back to me. She said the dog made her too sad.”
At some point, six or eight months later, they are walking in the rain, huddled together, sharing an umbrella. She turns to say something, but instead she sees him properly for the first time. She wants to reach out and touch him, but not as a friend.
They are alone in her home.
“Take off your shirt,” she says.
He looks at her confused. “Why?”
“I want to see what you look like.”
He removes his shirt and stands in front of her.
“And your pants.”
He reaches down and undoes his shoes, takes off his socks and then
his pants.
She tilts her head to one side. “You’re still wearing your boxers.”
He stands naked. He is tall and strong. A path of hair traces its way from his navel down to his genitals. He has an erection.
“Are you messing with me?” he asks.
“No,” she replies and walks over to him. They kiss. He removes her clothes fiercely, pulling at the buttons and zips.
This is how it ends: two friends – a man, a woman – lock eyes across a bed. They smile at each other, happy to be here, together and naked. They don’t leave the house for the whole weekend. They eat and have sex, they shower and have sex, they wake each other in the middle of the night and have sex.
He makes her a hat. It is green and cream, striped and woollen and warm. It is not very feminine, but she loves it. She wears it all Winter.
Afterwards there will be arguments. Disagreements. Jealousies. But that’s in the future. After that, a friendship of sorts, but it’s never the same. Later still there will be years and distance. And finally, there will be emails and a sharing of history and stories of sadness and regret.
Her life takes one turn, his another. But a part of him always travels with her. Wherever she goes, she takes the hat. She wears it every Winter until the hat falls apart. She should throw it away but she doesn’t.
She is reaching for a box when the hat falls out of the cupboard and lands at her feet. And although she has spoken to him recently, it is the hat that brings the past into sharp relief.
She emails him. “How are things going?” She knows things have been tough. He is getting a divorce. It is not amicable. He can’t see his daughter as often as he wants. He is unhappy.
But all that is to come. Right now there is passion and laughter. Right now there is friendship and sex. Right now, she loves him, but perhaps
not enough.