Eighty Days Amber by Vina Jackson

Author:Vina Jackson [Jackson, Vina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Azizex666, Contemporary, General, Romance, Erotica, Fiction
ISBN: 9781409129042
Google: tQJHBYA279EC
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2012-11-22T05:00:00+00:00

7

Dancing with Amber

Chey’s letter released a torrent of memories, each of them sweeter and more painful than the last.

A barrage of images and remembrances flooded my mind, as if our relationship could be broken down piecemeal, the moments lining up one after another to break my heart.

The sound of his laugh. The way that he said Luba, always extending the u sound, as though he was caressing my name with his tongue. His habit of hanging his shirts over chairs when he removed them so that all the furniture in the apartment carried his scent. The way he spread his butter two inches thick. His passion for music. His passion for me. The firmness of his hands and the softness of his lips.

I carried the letter with me everywhere and read it over and over again until I feared that I would wear the ink off the pages. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had. I knew the words by heart.

When the express train reached Brussels for the changeover I was moody and impatient, bored of staring out at the interminable green fields flying by outside the window. I couldn’t face another minute sitting cramped and still, so skipped the half-hourly connection and walked briskly into the town centre where I wondered why the silly bronze statue of the small chubby boy pissing was so famous. I threw a coin into the water anyway. God knows, I could use some good luck, I thought. Then I picked up a box of the most expensive chocolates that I could find in the nearest tourist shop, filled with caramel, hazelnuts, pistachios and nougat and nestling prettily in a white box tied with a purple ribbon. I returned to the station, settled into a window seat on the next train and shoved the sweets into my mouth one after the other until I felt sick as a thin man in a chequered shirt with a button-down collar stared at me. When I noticed him gazing I ate them two at a time until he looked away.

I was tired of airports, tired of travelling and suddenly uncertain about life altogether. I had chosen to travel by train from Montpellier to Amsterdam just to avoid getting on another damn plane.

By the time I arrived I had virtually decided to hand my notice in to the Network and give up dancing for ever, or at least the kind of dancing that culminated in a public sex show.

The way that Chey had described what we had together was so personal, so private. Reading through the memories of our relationship described in such vivid detail made the contrast between making love and fucking seem like a chasm. An unbridgeable divide.

I had been fooling myself. There was no way for two people who hadn’t even properly met to mimic the emotion of coupling on stage. Even in its barest form what I was doing could be nothing more than a poor imitation. And I did not believe that the audience appreciated the skill involved.

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