Dorothy wondered what it might be like to have an affair. How much time would it take? Too much, it was a greedy beast, and time was all there was out in the garden. She’d prefer to observe; that’s all she really wanted, to observe a new species. She would put Henry in retirement for a while -- although Henry had already put himself into retirement -- and so here she was reclining upon a chaise longue with a book in her hand.
Pond Man was her new species. She liked to watch him from afar. His body made strong shapes against the edge of the trees, the topiary, the house. She hadn’t seen such strong shapes for a while. It made her want to paint, to draw. Dorothy let out a small giggle and wondered what had got into her. Something new, that was all, Dorothy was engaging with something novel. A new species. He walked differently, he talked differently, in fact he hardly spoke at all, and she liked that. Sometimes the light would catch the top of his head and she thought he looked like an angel. St. Michael on fire. Should she put him out?
When she was younger, they made fires on the beach. Dorothy had followed the brazen characters across the pebbles, but she had never done any of the arranging, none of the making. Instead, she crouched on the shoreline like a nervous bird, waiting to see the black mess emerge. Bodies dragging branches down through the dunes. Criss-cross, charred branches swathed in curling smoke. Dark and bitter, acrid, it burned her throat. She coughed, remembering how she choked, how it stung her eyes, the smoke — she turned to the shape of the man moving towards her. Lit up from behind, a stained-glass window, an obscure saint. I cannot see his eyes, only a faint outline, a trail of smoke.
A fantasy, my friend said, nothing but a fantasy, and she’s right. A kind fantasy, that’s all he is, because you do not know him; and kindness soon turns sour in the face of reality. Known details, facts, a mood turning inward on a hot day like this when there is still so much grief to get through. Thick blankets of it plied, folded, lying across his feet. Scratchy, uncomfortable, turned inward, he regrets what he has done. Attached himself. Married. Gone and got hitched. He’s bleeding gone and done it. Cor blimey. Fact is, he couldn’t live without her.
We all regret that, thought Dorothy, and yet without it we are nothing, a big fat blank. So scratch the pen upon the paper. Sign the register. Dab the ink. Without it you are nothing, young lady. Father told her that. All men will. Mother too. All nice girls should marry. Fold yourself away nicely dear, and she did, she did. Look behind you -- this house, those windows, this pond, those glass reflections -- you have those -- a space to ponder, to think. Without that watery surface, you are no one. I am a frog in a bog – who are you?