He recalled that when he was a little sprog at school there was always that one girl he had a mortal crush on. Laura was the first and he was only just six. It was always one girl and his feelings were always true but of course there was something of a turnover with regards “the one girl” as other little beauties caught his eye. What mattered, though, was the lifeblood that each one brought to his days that gave some meaning to endless dreary hours of maths, and science and boring French verbs just waiting to be conjugated. That girl was the reason to hop out of bed in the mornings if only with the illusion of gazing at her in class from the corner of his eye or watching her, from a distance, skipping with her friends at break time. I’m referring to a time when this lad was still a boy. Puberty was still a few seasons away and erections were something strange that seemed to occur mysteriously some mornings in that transition out of slumber and were something to snigger about amongst friends. What still mattered was crashing about in the woods and climbing trees and riding bikes and firing catapults at helpless little animals that happened to be in the wrong place minding their own business. To “like” a girl (Puke!!!) was still, at that age, something shameful to be vehemently denied. To admit as much would risk ostracism and being labeled a pansy. God forbid! Yet that inexplicable yearning was there and I suspect all us boys, before we started to become men, have stewed gladly and quietly at times in the juices of our innocent crush. And this lad was no exception.

He had noticed Amber from the very start of his employment. She had an intoxicating gentleness to her demeanor that was as warm as it was retiring and demanding of respect. He rather likened her to a graceful sea anemone that must be observed from a distance. Put your hand too close and the dance comes to a sudden end as the animal contracts into a tight white bud. What with her wild auburn hair with its streaks that went from blond to the bluest of blacks, her delicate hands, elegant limbs and china-like skin she might have emerged alive from a painting by Klimt or Schiele or one of the Pre-Raphaelites. Hers was a silent song that she sang to him without knowing it and quite probably without wanting to. He maintained his distance and treated her with friendly deference but he could not get her out of his mind. Time passed and pretty soon the crushing boredom of his post lost its jagged razor’s edge, as she became a reason to get up for. Soon enough he was back to shaving every morning and ironing a nice shirt the night before. Once at work and with his nose to the grind his pleasure was drawn from feeling her pace around the office floor as she left the softest vortex of scent behind her, being content to observe her with nothing but his mind’s eye. Every once in a while he might steal a glance when she was sure not to see him before quickly dropping his gaze again. As silly as this sounds, this would complete his day. She was a silent, private and innocent pleasure; a secret he nurtured and kept to himself. Divorced and bled dry, in his late thirties this mechanism – this schoolboy crush – had come back to breath life over dying embers. All that was his inner life.

In the meantime, at work, he kept up a delicate charm with her always if and when he could demonstrate it. It all felt as delicious as it was excruciating. He’d drop a comment or make a witty remark, when the parameters permitted it, that more often than not would crack a smile… but those modest peaks were spaced by troughs that might be days apart. Days between one permitted interaction and another! She gave him no quarter. The blissful pain of it!

One summer evening, on the way to a corporate dinner, they coincided at the exit of the metro. His heart jumped when he approached her and she returned his greeting with warm detachment. She was looking stunning in an outfit that amplified the tones of her magnificent hair, tantalizingly exposing her right shoulder! They walked up the street together towards the hotel where the event was being held and came across a small group of colleagues having a warm-up on a terrace a few doors down from the venue. They said their hellos and moved on towards the entrance of the hotel. She then turned to him and winked; “I think we’ve been nabbed.” He swallowed hard. If time could only have stopped those one hundred yards; he wanted to savour that moment indefinitely. Then that pregnant moment the doors opened and the crowd in the foyer seemed to go silent and turn towards them. There seemed to pass a tangible rush of heat between them. Not a hot draught blowing past them but more like a rush of energy being exchanged between one and the other. He almost reached over to take her hand in his.

They went their separate ways and moved on up to the roof terrace with the rest of the crowd. The evening progressed and they worked the space as was required but caught each other several times stealing thinly disguised inquisitive glances. As the evening drew to a close they both found themselves in a thinning group of the Old Reliables, talking loudly and ordering more drinks. The alcohol had loosened everyone’s tongue and the remarks being merrily thrown about were as amusing as they were increasingly off colour. The collective laughter was loud and erupted in infectious waves. The crowd thinned a bit more and he and Amber found themselves in a corner all to themselves, happily exchanging benign intimacies. At a certain point he put his courage to that sticking place and asked her if she might like to go cycling some day. She nodded her consent with a broad smile. The evening drew to a close in the early hours and they ended up sharing a taxi with another couple. The shared trajectory required he be dropped off some walking distance from his house and he got out near the train terminal. It began to rain and he walked those ten minutes back to his place, getting utterly drenched, with a rather silly grin on his face.

He gave it all a few days rest but was intent on being quick off the mark as soon as time and elegance permitted. He came back to her suggesting they leave the cycling for some other occasion and would she rather not accompany him to see the Red Bull high diving contest that following weekend. She would love to but unfortunately she would be away. A few days later he suggested an exhibition of photography. She replied with enthusiasm but would have to see as she might have family commitments that day. Again she extracted herself with regret. Some weeks later he texted her regarding an open air concert in one of the city’s squares to which she replied that she would love to – as she had loved all his suggestions – but perhaps they would need to find the right moment. He wasn’t quite sure what she meant as a few days later she came back to him with a proposal for a “happening” which at the last moment she backed out of. In the meantime, back at work it was business as usual but with an odd exchange of looks and glances between them that, at least to him, betrayed a gagged sense of desire or intent. On one occasion he got up from his desk to go to the bathroom whilst she was not too far away, engrossed in conversation with another colleague. He met her gaze and watched her track his progress from one end of the office to the exit with fixed eyes; dilated and as large as saucers. She wore an expression like someone savouring a morsel of sweet ripe fruit. But the intents, mostly on his part and gracefully but successively turned down by her, grew more timid and were spaced further and further appart. And the weeks became months. It all came to nothing. He kept his composure and it was business as usual.

But this story doesn’t end there because in his heart it could not end there. Despite the silence he knew there was substance to what he felt and in his mind he felt vindicated that day, quite out of the blue, she texted him.

It was late summer and the air was charged with all the potential energy of an impending thunderstorm. She’d thought of going to see an exhibition that afternoon of photographs by Ai Weiwei but had found out it was no longer on. What did he suggest? What about the Georges Méliès he replied. Fantastic! Did he want to come along? An hour later they met at the doors of the exhibition hall and wandered in together with ease as they chatted about this and that. The exhibition was fantastically well curated, crowded with photos and projections and models of his work and ideas. He had been to see it the previous week so was able to interject cheekily with anecdotes and the odd scraps of curious information he had picked up. In a side room they were projecting “Trip to the Moon” – a most endearing ten minutes of film – and they both sat down on a bench at the back to watch it, sitting quite close together, their legs brushing up against each other as they commented on what they were seeing in quiet whispers into one and other’s ears so as to not disturb the other viewers. Their smiles broadened and the brief looks into each other’s eyes began to take on a more searching note. He felt that rushing heat between them at one moment and feared he might lunge at her right there and then. On screen the capsule tipped off the moon and fell down through space to land in the sea…

By the time they got out it was early evening and he asked her if she was free for dinner. He suggested a rather lively eatery at one of the markets. The food was great and varied and the atmosphere relaxed. She smiled approval and they hopped in her car to drive across town. When they got there the place was heaving but the maitre, friendly and as accommodating as always, offered them a narrow stretch of the bar overlooking the open kitchens if they would rather not wait the best part of an hour for a table. He warned her they would leave the place smelling of food although it was entertaining to watch the kitchen staff at work but she didn’t seem to mind so they squeezed in between a Nordic couple to their right and some large and sullen Slavs to their left. In fact sitting side by side at the bar, facing the kitchen, was a rather good arrangement, he felt, given the moment. They could still talk quite happily but without the intimidating obligation of sitting face to face and should there be pregnant moments of dwindling conversation they could always talk about what the chefs were up to. As it happened the conversation flowed and they had no need for props of any kind. She ordered Thai and he went for sushi. The bottle of Rueda was followed by another, as their body language loosened and their stories opened gently into lives and anecdotes and the seeds of confessions. Her brown eyes, softened by the wine, looked huge. Like pools of hot, creamy chocolate he wanted to dive into… He ordered the bill and paid. They ambled tipsily over to the door and it was only once he pushed it open for her that they were hit with the blast of hot, humid air that had been brewing with growing intensity whilst they had been inside. They made towards her car and within minutes the heavens opened up to the sound of claps of thunder. The rain started to come down like iron curtain rods and it drenched them within seconds. They lunged towards the closest shelter at hand – a narrow doorway – in absolute hysterics and for a second looked at each other with wild eyes like two wet cats. There was that hot rush again and now there was no going back. She took his jaw in her right hand and moved her mouth towards his, quite determined and very sure of what she was doing. His mind exploded from front to back! Should he grab her now by the hand and run her, under this downpour, those seven streets back to his flat and up those six flights of narrow stairs where they would burst through the door to giggles and fumbled buttons and sodden clothes being peeled off hot clammy skin?

He didn’t lead her anywhere by the hand, as it happens. In fact nothing happened that night because that afternoon and evening never happened. Moreover he no longer had that flat and the Méliès show had come and gone two years ago. It wasn’t a hot, wet, electric night in September but a cold, black stormy pre-dawn in late November and he was lying back on his bed alone in the dark. The late autumn squall blowing outside was howling like a banshee and the scything rain was hitting the windowpanes like one handful of gravel after another. When he came to and took note of his surroundings he lay there without moving, his eyes adjusting to the dark, trying to gauge the distance between his face and the ceiling. In the lack of light the white ceiling remained a sooty blue and the harder he tried to focus on it the grainier it became. After a few moments it appeared to dissolve and his gaze settled on a clean black sky littered with stars. He relaxed and let his eyes close, feeling nourished in part by his illusions.