Winter Time by Laurence Fearnley

Author:Laurence Fearnley [Fearnley, Laurence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780143778578
Publisher: Penguin Random House New Zealand
Published: 2013-04-08T00:00:00+00:00

PART THREE

It was early, not even 5 a.m. Beside him, Leon lay sleeping, his body relaxed and open, oblivious to the world. Roland couldn’t recall when they had gone from sleeping naked in each other’s arms, to wearing pyjama pants, to adding T-shirts to pyjama pants, but it seemed as though for every five years in their relationship they added another item of clothing. It was only a matter of time before they wore cardigans, socks and then nightcaps.

So much had changed since their early years together. Then, they’d go to bed together. They’d stand in the bedroom, together, and haul off their day clothes and wander, naked, to the bathroom where they’d stand, together, cleaning and flossing their teeth. They’d take turns to pee, but neither of them would turn away or leave the bathroom. As one stood at the toilet, the other would lean against the cool marble of the sink unit and watch, and then they’d trade places. One would pee while the other washed their hands. The last to use the toilet would lower the lid and flush, wash his hands and they’d leave the bathroom together and go back to the bedroom, where one of them would wait on one side of the bed while the other walked around the foot, and then, when they were both ready, they would draw back the sheets and both get in at the same time, together.

Nothing separated them. They didn’t even notice how synchronised their movements were because, to them, what they did, how they moved, was so perfectly natural. Friends and acquaintances sometimes drew attention to their little quirks. The fact that they took turns to talk, and that while one of them spoke, the other kept his eyes fully trained on his lover’s face. They watched each other’s words materialise from the curve of their lips, and they listened to each other without interrupting.

That depth of intimacy and connection seemed so long ago. They no longer spooned in bed and they slept naked only when they came home late and were too tired to make the effort to replace one set of clothes with another. Where once they walked through the house naked, prepared the first coffee of the day naked, and returned to bed for a quick cuddle before work, all they did now was nudge their feet together. One would poke the other with his toes, maybe run the sole of his foot up the other’s calf, a playful kick and, if they were arguing over whose turn it was to make coffee and fetch the newspaper, they’d indulge in a more insistent kick, to the back of the thigh, followed by: ‘It’s your turn. I did it yesterday.’

‘No you didn’t. I did it yesterday. You go.’

‘No, don’t be mean.’

‘Okay, I’ll go but it’s your turn tomorrow.’

Not so much as a loving squeeze or a peck on the cheek. The one left behind in the bed enjoyed the luxury of space, stretching out his

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