by Samantha Blaney
The warm from her body feels like a hot day in October; unexpected but consuming. Bob Dylan warbles from my ghetto blaster.
I hear Dad turn in the room above us, and my lungs freeze until I hear him snore again.
Her hair is wire and tangles in my fingers as I gently distress a knot. This wouldn’t make me gay. We’ve been frozen in the same position now for at least an hour. Our staggered bodies are the length of the sofa. I am guessing we have been here for an hour, because she’s lying on my watch arm, and if I move it to check then she might move, and then time won’t matter anymore.
We look up at the ceiling, the plaster arranged in neat fans. I count the grooves like I do our breaths. I move my leg. A small movement to readjust. I am careful not to alarm her as I peel my bare leg from the leather of the sofa. The pain is less than I expect. We stay locked in our moment – our not-gay moment. The sacred heart of Jesus hangs above us, his heart a blood-clot red.
“I don’t think I’ve been waiting an hour for this – I think I’ve been waiting my whole life.”
This moment is an island, with us the only two inhabitants. I have a warmth between my legs that refuses to quieten. Mum coughs above us, and it makes my breath curdle. A reminder that we are not alone. Maybe I’m just excited by idea of being caught. Every move feels like an echo and I try to keep things minimal, because what if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I’m reading this completely wrong?
A car drives by and floods the room with patterns of light. Then dark again. She stirs and I worry our friendship won’t survive our strange and frozen moment. She pushes herself up to me and says ‘fuck it’, and we are a tangle of mouth and kiss, and I don’t think I’ve been waiting an hour for this – I think I’ve been waiting my whole life. The what ifs, the buts and the maybes can wait. The worrying if we’ll still speak at school can wait. The world can wait.
She inhales me and we are in our sweet harmonica kiss while Bob Dylan sings something about the times changing, and I think he might be right.
Samantha Blaney | Instagram: @sammyblaney
Samantha Blaney is a Scot in London who, when not dropping her r’s in a bid to be understood, can be found practising yoga and writing her first novel.