THE GREEK VASE (296)

A takeaway boy smokes a cigarette under the beating of the sun, beams filtering through his smoky breath. His motorbike: his glasses: his white trousers. The mountains in the distance flicker like flame beneath the shifting clouds. His eyes on the mountains, he looks unapproachable, a living portrait.

My bare legs: my towel: my wine-glass. I see an old woman with her hand against the window, looking down on us, flattened against the darkness of the room behind her. Fingers pressed against a window pane seem grotesque, more naked than mere surfaces. I let the towel slip from my body, and feel two pairs of eyes locked on me: suddenly I am the piece of art, with the artist trapped inside.

We look at each other from the back-stages of our lives, the stacked scenery hiding us from the spotlight. The old lady still stands at the window. I let him do the work. Suddenly a Greek vase - James' present for me - falls with a crash, but I don't want to clear it up: some things just happen, that's all. Afterwards, he walks away down the garden path. Slowly he becomes a silhouette, and his movements acquire a shadow's grace to them, stretching out in simple shapes against a backdrop of roses.

Ten minutes after he's gone, I get up with a strong feeling of loathing. Love-making seen backwards is disgusting. I kick the pieces of vase into the pool, returned to dirt once more. It had survived wars and plagues, James' little hint that personal history transcends conflict. His desk: his instruments: his frowns. Yet the two things he valued most were broken by a boy in badly-fitting shoes. I smile, and think to myself that all things should be destroyed this way.