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The Lodger by Paul Kavanagh

While Peter was working I would go down the stairs and do his wife. I could not help myself. I tried to stop. I locked myself in my room. I even insulted her. I called her terrible names. I tried sleep, masturbation, lack of sleep, abstention. I obscured time with loud music, I went for longs walks, I drank large quantities of alcohol, I smoked the strongest hashish, but once I heard the door slamming, the turning of the key, the silly whistle he produced as he walked down the garden path, I readied myself, I brushed my teeth, I took a piss, I splashed perfume upon my jowls.

I tiptoed down the stairs, even though there was no reason to tiptoe. I knocked on the door. There was no reason to knock on the door; the door was always unlocked.

She’d put the kids to bed. She’d smear bread with jam and stuff it into the kids’ mouths. We’d never hear them. They had terrible teeth.

We’d do it on the kitchen table. She offered the bed, but I refused to do it in Peter’s bed. I’d drop my trousers and she’d remove her knickers. We never kissed. After the sex I‘d leave. Sometimes I’d leave a cigarette on the side. I never left a match.

It was Peter’s idea that I lodge with them. We met at a horse race. I told a terrible joke. The joke was terrible, but still Peter laughed. When Peter heard I was homeless and needed a place to stay he offered the attic. I agreed with the rent and moved in.

It happened one night. She was crying. I said to her, stop crying. But she couldn’t stop crying. So I put my arm around her. I pulled her tightly to me. I felt her left breast. It was full of milk. She sighed. I gave it a good squeeze. She moaned. I twisted the nipple. She opened her legs. Afterwards she told me that Peter had beaten her. She had a terrible black eye. I had not noticed it before. I asked why. She shut up. I gave her a cigarette and went back upstairs.

The next day she called to me. I went down the stairs. I knew what she wanted, but I played stupid. She liked the stupid act. I’d play the stupid act for Peter too. She made me a cup of tea. Before I could get my lips onto the rim of the cup she was laid out on the kitchen table. I sipped my tea and looked upon her as though she was offering two fried eggs and toast. “If Peter ever found out he would kill us,” she said. “He would kill you,” I answered.

Peter and I were friends. He was my only friend. I was his only friend. Every Friday night we go to the pub together. We’d sit in a corner and talk about the weather, our football team, and what we would like to watch on the television.

“I was once in the army,” I was lying again. I could not help myself. I lifted up my glass and a smell caught my attention. I had Peter’s wife on my fingertips. “The army,” said Peter amazed by my adventurous life. “Smell this Peter,” I said. Peter pushed his nostrils up to my fingertips and quaffed greedily. He hummed facetiously and laughed. It was a manly man laugh. I laughed. For a second I thought about telling Peter about how I shoved my five fingers up his wife’s hole, but I didn’t. Instead I told Peter about an unreal woman I had had by the canal near the house. Peter licked his lips, slapped me on the back and bought me a drink. I elaborated for Peter about the sex. The sex I painted for Peter was full of human connection.  It had to do with hands, arms, legs. It advanced in a chorus of words, mellifluous to the ear. I was lavish in my brush strokes. I was indulgent. Peter laughed. “That’s not fucking, that is love,” said Peter. “Yes,” I said.  With the animation of the woman, the sex, the love we shared, I could have cried. Never had I been so sad and lonely.

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Paul Kavanagh lives in Charlotte.

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