An overcast warm evening.
Bank Holiday weekend. Have done little today other than sit here, at this machine. Going to be a reasonably interesting weekend by the feel of it.
Attempting to think back to the days of Jennifer. How the ending with her.. the beginning of another long downward spiral in my existence.
By now, those whom have stuck this far with such a long narrative will forgive my noticeable increase in speed..my fear of not having time enough to complete which I set out to do so very long ago, it becoming necessary to read between the lines. Other factors crept into my thinking, possibilities once dismissed as rather near the edge, the way certain phenomena has been following me, perhaps first noticed back in the days of Mark (he now twenty three, not seen him or his Mother for eighteen years). Makes Jennifer a middle aged woman…. yet this room remains… I remain.
Listening carefully enough, can hear her calling to Mark, to myself... sometimes, coming back on the motor bike, look up to these windows, believing I can see her, standing, waiting for me, such a young woman, holding Mark, a baby in her arms.. Everything remains so incredibly clear.
No, I climb the stairs, maybe more slowly now, occasionally having to pause. wondering if it is really worthwhile going any further, steps stretching out in front of me. Silent in the flat, answering machine flickering, people still ring my number. Can hardly be bothered.
Check to see if Anna has rung, rarely does now, same age as Jenny when she first walked into this room. Anna, a child / woman. At first, anxious to impress upon me her virginity, quickly sensing the atmosphere in this flat. Yes Anna is very aware, something about the girl, indefinable. My sister here some months ago, Anna cleaning away in the kitchen, called her loudly, shout a great deal now. My sister took one look at Anna and burst into tears.
"How can you shout at such a lovely girl!"
Anna, so very full of this World, how she loves everything and everyone in it... Her obsession with helping her Father, languishing back in Warsaw, broken in health, spirit and finance, his only solace, his daughter, who, strangely, by some trick of fate, fallen into the aegis of such a man as myself. He has rung me on occasions thanking me profusely for helping his daughter. I, hardly knowing what too say or think, certainly aware when his daughter is anywhere near me, feel the surge of power from between her thighs.
Gently, so very gently, placing my fingertips on the back of her skirt. The contact, the realisation, the fact of her not ever wearing underclothes making my whole being pound, sweat standing out on my forehead, running down in the folds of my body. Anna acts as if unaware of the damage she does to my being, gabbling happily away on the telephone to her parents.
Anne Boleyn held Henry the Eight off for six years ... He has my sympathy.
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