Head Over Heels by Downing Sara

Author:Downing, Sara [Downing, Sara]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-01-29T16:00:00+00:00

And the next couple of days of the holiday continue in much the same vein. We seem to have transposed our way of life at home to our holiday location; he goes off exploring, sometimes meeting me for lunch if he runs out of churches, monuments or other interesting historical relics to visit, otherwise staying out all day and coming back to the hotel for dinner. Mostly I dine alone at lunchtime, and I find myself enjoying the solitude, rather than resenting Mark's absence. I usually take a book to the outdoor restaurant with me, order a large glass of Pinot Grigio and a bowl of the pasta of the day, and read until my meal arrives, sometimes barely looking up to register what is going on around me.

Mark and I do talk at dinner in the evenings, but it’s not easy going. There is no hand-holding across the table, no playing footsie under the crisp white table cloth which would be long enough to hide our antics from other diners. It is as though a light has gone out in our relationship and neither of us can find the switch to turn it back on again. We talk about what he has visited that day; he recounts amusing anecdotes about places and people he has seen, and I tell him about the latest book I’m reading, or hotel gossip from around the pool. He is pleasant enough company, but we are more like just good friends than lovers.

On the third evening I decide to bite the bullet with the physical side of our relationship. I will seduce Mark, force him to make love to me, and make him realise what he has been missing over the past few weeks. After all, it isn't really that long ago that we last made love, weeks rather than months, surely we must be able to rekindle some passion, it just needs a spark to ignite it. We finish our meal with a glass of the local Limoncello, a gorgeously crisp citrus liqueur which slips down all too easily. So we order another, and then another. I reach for Mark's hand across the table and begin to stroke it. He gives me a strange look which I interpret as surprise. He doesn't pull away, but neither does he reciprocate. I am left there, stroking his hand which lays motionless on the table, and feeling a bit of a fool. I don't know how to interpret him.

‘Shall we call it a night before we drink them out of Limoncello? They’ll think we are a right pair of old sots,’ I make an attempt at a joke to lighten things up a bit. Mark duly follows and within minutes we are back in our room, ripping the clothes off each other. Not much seduction required after all, then, so why the cold fish act downstairs? There is a focussed look in Mark's eye that I haven't seen since that night after the meal at Alex's house.

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