I could have made her happy. I know it. I feel it, as I feel the dank air drawn into my lungs, life's slow throb through my veins. I could have made her happy.

If she'd given me a chance. 

The unshaded lamp throws dim light about me, the day finally late enough to give me the silence I deserve. The book of photographs lies in my lap, still closed. I need help to open it. I lift the tumbler to my lips, the aroma of the whisky racing into my senses. It doesn't have the bracing quality of a single malt (the good stuff is all gone now, and out of my price range) but my glass is full, half a bottle stands on the floor beside my comfortably battered chair, and for that, if nothing else, I am obliged.

The first taste is always the finest, the most memorable, the most tangible. The mouth quickly grows accustomed to the whiskey's heat, the tongue's delicate reasoning dulled by its warm, bitter attack. Subsequent encounters lose their freshness, their vitality. Simply more of the same. That first sensual ripple is the real prize. 

True for so many things.

I turn through the pages until I find the first image of her. There. Hardly aware of the camera, the photograph striking for its simple intimacy. Blonde hair spilling over one shoulder, the long lilac dress accentuating her tall, slender frame, bare feet caressing the damp sand, sandals dangling from one elegantly manicured hand. Her velvet skin looks barely brushed by the sun. All of it, all of her beauty, framed by the surf and the sky.

This one is most painful, the one that revives the ache. The first. When I knew I loved her.

I try to recall the tale behind the image. How old was she then? Twenty seven? Twenty eight? Living in a tiny three roomed flat in Kings Cross? Was that it? Yes, I think so. Was she still teaching, or had she already left to chase her dream of voluntary sainthood? 

I don't remember.

I turn the pages. She looks back at me from amongst the others, consciously posing now, one sculpted eyebrow barely raised, an ironic nuance. Casual stance, figure masked by the heavy coat, the loose fit of the blue jeans. The background soft, out of focus, but the dense tree line, the dark mountains, still unmistakable. Scotland? The Lakes? Were we happy then? Did she laugh out loud, not giving a damn who heard, who frowned, as long as we were together? Did she hold my hand as we stomped over wind-swept hills, strolled down quaint, cobbled streets, stood pressed together in the doorways of tea-rooms and antique shops, our clothes sodden, waiting for yet another shower to pass? Did she whisper my name, kiss me passionately before damp strangers? 

I don't remember.

I turn the pages. Past sunburnt terracotta terraces, past ancient granite walls, past cloudless skies of aquamarine and waving fields of jade, and, at the centre of it all, her. Captive. Immortalised. Time after time, with faultless symmetry, with mechanical consistency. 

Not by me though.

The final pages. Well-thumbed, corners curled by restless, prowling fingers. Mixed emotions are here. My cock is stiff as I look at her, blonde hair pulled back , face turned away in profile, hand raised in feigned salute, brushing wisps of gold from her forehead. The peach bra plunges deep into her cleavage, the half-laced cups exposing the deep pink of her nipples. Her slim thighs are closed, one leg crossed demurely before the other, but the deep 'v' of her panties invites the eye downwards, to where the material is thin and tight enough to outline the pouting lips, diaphanous enough to reveal a shadow of honeyed down. 

I relinquish my glass and release my cock. I stare at the photograph, conjure carnal imagery, my hand slow, stretching tenuous skin, exposing swollen, rubicund flesh. I delude myself that it is her hand, urging, drawing me upwards, milking me with that perpetual cadence I know so well. I cannot counterfeit the delicious tension of her full lips, the velvet caress of her tormenting tongue, the wanton wetness of her mouth. I cannot conjure the piercing heat of her sex, the resistance and the capitulation of her cunt. There is no oiled welcome for me, no whispered rapture for my ears, no heaving breasts before my eyes, no trembling limbs encircling mine. Only my slow hand.

And the photograph of her.

My cock quivers, shudders, exclaims. I spill my seed, spill my bitterness in a fleeting instant of relief. I stare at her photograph. How quickly the focus is lost. I no longer see the woman I loved, no longer see the illusion. She reclaims her anonymity, once more the model lifted from the pages of a home shopping catalogue, a nameless whore from a consumer's encyclopaedia.

I push the catalogue from my lap until tomorrow, turn off the light, leave my sperm to wither in the darkness. 

I could have made any of them happy. 

If they'd given me a chance. 

Copyright © 2002 Harry Tasker. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.