Undone Read Free

while the other angled a pint glass at the ice dispenser. He wore canvas knee-lengths, slung low on his hips, and his dark, sweat-soaked hair was hooked behind his ears. He was powerfully muscular but not unnaturally chiselled, and a small roll of softness edged his waist. Ice cubes clattered into the glass. The bars of his ribs pumped below wet spikes of hair in the pit of his raised arm. His torso glistened, a soft curve of light resting on one shoulder. Beads of sweat trickled down his chest. A couple of droplets fell, making dark spots on the flagstones.
    I shivered. Laughter and the clink of glasses from outside grew faint, as if I were sinking under water, the world fading out of reach. He stood straight, glancing at me. For an instant, the light around him was magical, a diaphanous haze pricked with glittering motes. His chest hair was plastered to his body, and his lower lip was smeared with blood, a glossy violet bulge distorting its shape.
    ‘You see any cloths around here?’ His accent was American, a sexy, sonorous drawl, and a slight slur marred his words. He stepped into shadow and slid open a flaky, wooden door beneath an old Belfast sink. He bobbed down to peer in, holding the sink above for balance. Down his left side, from underarm to hip, was a tattoo unlike any I’d seen before. To be accurate, there were several tattoos but they formed a picture, or a panel, depicting a stemmed dandelion head gone to seed. The images were as delicately rendered as etchings under tissue paper in a botanical encyclopaedia. Single, fluffy orbs drifted from the spiky round flower, as if a breeze were blowing tattoos across his body. I half wanted to reach out and catch one so I could make a wish.
    The man stood, glancing around the dimness. I grabbed a folded tea towel on the counter-top.
    ‘Here,’ I said. I caught a waft of fresh sweat as I handed him the cloth. The heat from his body pressed on my chilly skin. An image hovered in my mind of him shoving me up against the rugged stone wall and destroying my nice, neat tea dress with his hard, ruthless hands.
    It’s fair to say, I hadn’t seen much action for a while. Bitch-on-heat had become my default setting. I’d been hoping the weekend might offer some respite from my dry spell. If he were available, a guy like this would suit me fine for a fling.
    ‘You OK?’ I asked. ‘What happened?’
    ‘Got whacked in the face with a tennis racquet.’ He spread out the chequered cloth on the wooden drainer by the sink and tipped ice into the centre. He cupped the tumbling cubes with one hand, muscles shifting in his shoulders as he moved, his breath puffing fast. ‘My backhand, his forehand.’ He twisted the cloth into a bundle and gingerly pressed the ice pack to his lip.
    ‘Ouch,’ I said. ‘Can I do anything? Does it need stitches?’
    He tugged open the fridge door with his left hand and snatched a large bottle of mineral water. ‘Take the top off that, would you?’ he said, proffering the plastic bottle.
    I did as asked. ‘Are your teeth OK?’
    He nodded. ‘He just caught me. I was lucky.’ He transferred the ice pack to his left hand, taking the opened bottle with his right. ‘Cheers.’ He tipped back his head, his mouth open wide, and poured in a stream of water. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his stubble-shadowed neck as he glugged, liquid bubbling from his mouth and spilling down his front. He stopped drinking, laughed and shook his head like a wet dog, showering me in droplets of sweat and water. ‘Whoa!’ he said, eyes popping.
    ‘You want to sit down?’ I said. ‘I could try and find some antiseptic. You should probably—’
    ‘You kidding me?’ he said. ‘It’s break point!’ And he bounded out of the room, ice pack in one hand, bottle in the other. He streaked past the window in a blur. I leaned forwards, hands on the drainer, watching him through the dirty, cobwebbed glass. He upended the bottle, emptying its contents over his head.