Like Sister and Brother

A couple of weekends ago, I was lying in bed listening to the radio and this song came on. Back in the dim and distant past, it was a favourite, along with a couple of Stylistics and Chi-lites numbers.

The words reminded me that, every so often, our real worlds collide so that Ruf and I have to come into contact within a sphere in which people know about my marital status. With the advent of the internet, the world has become just like a small town. In the words of the song, ‘everyone wants to know about the next man’s secret’, particularly when it involves an illicit affair.

So, on those occasions, we switch into a different mode, focus on the job in hand and avoid peripheral exchanges. Sure, we hug and kiss each other on the cheek, but in a very platonic way. We can talk in passing about our hobby, the weather, the travel arrangements, people we both know but, really, contact is kept to a minimum.

It’s surreal to view him like a stranger. To see his exuberance and enthusiasm as if for the first time. I’m so proud of him that I want to tell the world how happy I am to be his lover but, of course, I can’t. Nor can he treat me any more fondly in those situations than he would any other friend.

Sometimes it’s really hard to see his hairy chest peeping out from his attire and not be able to reach out my hand to touch. If we do make eye contact, we both quickly look away but not in time to stop our subconscious from communicating.

I have no idea whether or not we have managed to achieve the aim of fooling people into believing that we are just mates or if our fondly imagined smokescreen is just a fragile facade that leaves people smiling knowingly behind their hands.

All the time we’re just reminding ourselves where we are and that we have to behave in a circumspect way, whilst our libidos are counting down the hours until the next time we can be alone together with the freedom to be ourselves.

As I watch him drive away, I will wave as if he were just another friend and turn away to try to hide the tears, for to see him in this fashion is the ultimate in frustration.

But at least I will know the date of our next weekend and start counting down the hours.