Foursome

She still came down to the harbour but she left shortly after disembarkation.  I faithfully continued my end of shift walks, I found it useful to spot tasks needing doing in the morning.  It gave me a headstart.  I also spent a lot of time imagining the arrangements of the foursome.  Two cottages, two beds, two couples.  It was the two couples that had the most trouble working out.  I was sure Bevin had spent months in her bed.  But whenever I saw Bevin with the artist I was sure they shared a bed.  Which left a complicated bed swapping scenario.  Monday with her, Tuesday with the artist, Wednesday her, Thursday the artist, Friday her, Saturday the artist.  Then Sunday?  Sunday he would sleep with the writer while she slept with the artist.  The winter solitude of my office provided much opportunity for me to ruminate on their nocturnal habits.  I was certain Bevin slept naked, that he took every opportunity for sexual encounters, no matter who he was with.  I suspected the artist to be naked not only in bed but at any opportunity.  Her earthy sensuality and her assertion of her identity in her art, I read a review of her exhibition in the capital that my friend found, which led me to believe she would take every opportunity to explore her body.  I imagined her smearing bodily fluids over her skin, ejaculate, menstrual blood, urine, vomit, anything that would feed her muse.  I imagined the writer living in the past tense, observing quietly from his sensible night shirted repose, the memory of what he was experiencing, be it the artist gyrating, Bevin masturbating, or even her sleeping.  I imagined her in a night dress, a luxurious soft material draping in such a way to accentuate her slim form.  I imagined the night dress remained firmly in place, at least while the lights were on.  I imagined her pleasuring the writer occasionally and the artist every Sunday but the only one I could imagine fucking her was Bevin.  Even after I knew that wasn’t true.

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