The Younger Man

One

Abby washed her hands and peered at her naked body in the mirror as she dried them on a technicolour Missoni hand towel. It was a gift, but an expensive one, as she had then felt compelled to buy a whole set of Missoni towels to match.

Her face was flushed, her skin damp with a light sweat. Even with the flattering light of a summer morning bouncing softly off the walls she looked like Twitchy the Tramp: her eyeliner had escaped her lashline and was cavorting around what would eventuate into magnificent bags under her eyes, her thick brows, usually groomed perfectly into position, were unruly and dishevelled, her eyes were red and glazed, and her pixie-short honey-blonde hair danced wildly around her head.

She felt roughly as terrific as she looked. Her breath was poisonous with the scent of alcohol; her mouth dry from salt-rimmed glasses and smoking the cigarettes she vocally abhorred in Real Life. Her head pounded quietly; warming up for the rousing drum solo it planned to unleash the moment she thought she had a handle on her hangover.

But Abby did not give a shit about any of this. She had just had heart-pounding, passionate, uninhibited sex with a beautiful man ten years her junior, and she felt fucking fantastic.

Even in her glorious post-coital glow, she was bound by a bathroom habit she'd been doing since she was seventeen. She twisted 180 degrees to check on her (minor, invisible to most) cellulite, wondering if by some stroke of incredible luck and/or magic, it had fallen off during that final, excessively athletic romp, and she now had the pert arse of an eighteen year old. She did not. It was definitely the arse of a thirty-three year old, and while it was fine, almost good, in jeans and passable in a very low-slung bikini bottom and a thick layer of self-tan, it was not an arse that should be paraded around an extremely good-looking young man in the harsh and unforgiving light of morning. Why the fuck she'd chosen to make the master bedroom the one with the skylight, she didn't know. Spectacularly bad for self-image.

It didn't really matter, though, because as usual, her new male friend would be leaving. Abby had a no-sleepover rule. Didn't matter if he had Future Husband potential or was a no-strings rascal like the one currently sprawled on top of her crumpled sheets. Didn't even matter if he was the best lover she'd ever had, and she blushed as she realised this one just may have been. And it wasn't just because she'd had a bit of a drought lately. He was incredible. So intuitive, so generous, so . . . skilled.

She fanned her face and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around her body before walking quietly back into her hot, sweaty room. The dark floorboards creaked noisily under her feet and her breath seemed louder than usual, everything seemed exaggerated, partly because of the hangover and partly because there was a handsome stranger in her bed who she had the task of kicking out.

'Marcus,' she half-whispered, half-said.

The toned body remained lifeless; the face, strands of messy brown hair covering it, remained unresponsive. He was young, so young, she thought. Twenty-two years old. He was a baby! Jesus. How did this happen? . . . Tequila, that's how.

'MARCUS.' Nothing. She sighed, contemplating her next move as she perched on the side of the bed near where his head lay, resting next to a bedside table boasting a pile of impressive but unread books. She checked her phone: 6.02 a.m. He needed to leave. Now.

'Marcus!'

'Mmmphffh . . .'

'Come on. You gotta get outta here. My fiancé will be home any second and he probably won't be as thrilled to meet you as I was.'

Marcus suddenly sat bolt upright, his face twisted in confusion and panic.

'Fiancé? You have a fiancé?! Whatthefu—'

'Yes,' Abby spoke slowly and calmly. 'He gets home from his business trip this morning, and presumably will want a shower and a kiss. Obviously I have to clean this place up before he walks through that door. You know, get rid of the condom wrappers and the scent of mating. That kind of thing.'

But Marcus wasn't listening anymore. He was untangling himself from the sheets, and scrambling around on the floor trying to locate clothes that had been removed by two sets of very impatient, urgent hands. He found his undies, simple black Bonds (nothing wanky and designer, thank you) and pulled them quickly up over his tanned legs and white arse before hopping into his dark blue jeans. Without so much as a look at Abby, who was still sitting on the side of the bed, he raced out into the lounge room for his rockabilly checked shirt, tripping over her low mosaic coffee table. She could hear him swearing in hushed tones.

Abby padded to the lounge room and leaned against the doorway as she watched Marcus racing to put his socks and shoes on.

'Got everything then?'

Marcus stood up and patted his pockets for the holy trinity: keys, wallet, phone.

'Yep . . . What's so funny?' Marcus looked at Abby, his eyes bleary but handsome, his hair the kind of cool mess that stylists spent hours creating for arrogant fashion campaigns.

'Nothing. Why? Nothing . . .'

'You're smiling!' he said in disbelief. 'I'm about to be intercepted by a furious man on your front steps and you're smiling. You're a lunatic.'

A giggle tried to escape Abby's mouth. 'I'm not smiling!'

'No, because now you're laughing, and that's worse.' He looked at her in disbelief for a few seconds before his outrage softened. God she was sexy, he thought. He had a thing for women with short hair. Even with her eyes smeared in black shit and her hair all crazy. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to pick her up and take her back to bed and do very bad things to her. He had half a mind to push her onto the lounge right now.

''S just nervous energy. Now, go, go!'

Marcus shook his head. How often did she do this? That poor son of a bitch fiancé. He stopped at the front door, and turned to face her across the room, all coy and shy in her towel, despite having been straddled naked on top of him, panting and theatrically moaning not thirty-four minutes ago.

'Do I get a goodbye kiss?'

She sighed, enjoying his beautiful face and those deep brown eyes for the last time. She wanted to. Very much. Why not? What would one kiss do? Nothing. It would do nothing.

She walked over to him, one hand holding her towel up, the other tucking her hair behind her ear, and stopped before him, looking up into his eyes.

'You do.'

He looked into her blue eyes for one, maybe two seconds before leaning down and kissing her softly on the lips. It was the perfect kiss: gentle, final, lingering. Abby felt her heart do a small pirouette as she pulled away from his lips, and looked into his eyes. Oooh, he was a piece of work, this one. Best he disappeared into the dawn, forever.

'Now scat, young man.'

He turned and opened the door; 'I don't call you, right?'

'You don't have my number, so, uh, no.'

'I could find it if I wanted it.' He smiled mischievously and pulled the door closed.

Abby shook her head and walked back to her bedroom.

The kids of today. Honestly.