Rhonda’s folks have a house with a wrap-around veranda. There is a swing on the veranda that Rhonda and I like to sit on and gently sway as we canoodle while her folks do whatever discreet parents do. This evening, we were gently moving backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards and it occurred to me … ‘You know, we could be doing something else with this motion.’
‘Do you like my new sweater?’ she asked hastily. ‘It’s mohair. Do you like it?’ She ran the palm of her hand from her shoulder to her elbow. ‘Feel’.
‘I’d rather feel you when you’re not wearing it.’
‘You need to feel the texture, not me. My parents are only a few metres away. That’s all you think about, isn’t it!’
I smiled. ‘I think about Welsh rugby.’
‘Oh well,’ she said tetchily, ‘why don’t we go inside and join dad? He’s watching the rugby. Maybe that’ll make your constant thoughts about sex evaporate.’
When we reached the teevee room, Rhonda’s mother said, ‘Oh, here you are. I was just going to call you to join us for the half-time snack. Will you get the cutlery, Gareth.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve made him that disgusting black pudding again, Mum.’
‘Of course. It’s one of Gareth’s favourites, isn’t Gareth?’
‘What about my favourites, Mum?’
‘Not when we have guests, Rhonda, especially Gareth.’
I smiled as I put cutlery on trays. Wales was beating England by six points, and that was almost as good as sex. However, as I ate my scrambled eggs and blood sausage, England scored a try.
When the game was over and England had won the match, Rhonda’s dad rose to leave. ‘If I go now,’ he said, ‘I won’t ruin the rest of everyone’s night with my bad mood. Hint, hint, Rhonda. Goodnight to you all.’
Rhonda had been almost silent since we had come into the house and her attitude made it clear it was time for me to leave. At the front door she leaned forward for a perfunctory kiss, but I held up my hand. ‘I have something I want to tell you.’
Her nostrils flared. ‘Really? Well, that makes two of us!’
She surprised me with her venom. I nodded hesitantly. ‘Okay, you first.’
‘I don’t think we should see each other anymore,’ she said, eyes slitted.
I was stunned. I remained rooted to the spot for three or four seconds before I could reply. ‘Good. So, no-one’s hurt then!’ I shouted.
She stepped back into the house and slammed the door in my face.
As I turned to walk home, the hurt I had denied was tempered by thinking I had been just one second away from telling Rhonda I loved her. At least she had saved me from that.
About the author
Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.
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