Wednesday, June 01, 2011

the gleam of summer, sex and bloody marys

Every morning when Alex woke he thought of Danny; his thoughts emerged from the watery interview or vanishing railway-carriage of dreams, stumbled on for a few forgetful instances, pale and directionless, and then fled towards Danny in a grateful glow of remembered purpose. It was love, and all the day would be coloured by it. Or perhaps love was the primary thing, onto which the events of the day were transiently projected - that was how it seemed afterwards, when his memory gave back rather little from these months. Alex could never picture Danny as a whole - he was an effect of light, a cocky way of walking, a smooth inner thigh, a lithe sweaty weight, a secretive chuckle, a mouth drawn back before orgasm as though he was about to be sick. Alex woke up, thought of Danny, and on these lucky days felt his breath on his neck, or the curve of his hip under his hand.

Alan Holinghurst, The Spell (London: Vintage, 1999), 162-3.