Simon Says

He laughed and nuzzled my neck.
“I surprise myself sometimes, Mr. Clark.” He said. He caressed the hair on my chest and then ran his hand down my body. His fingers wove into my pubic hair and teased it gently.
“Simon.” I said. “Considering what we’ve just done together and the fact that we’re both lying here stark naked; don’t you think it’s time you dropped the ‘Mr. Clark’ business?”
Again he laughed.

“Okay . . Graham.” He said softly. “And just so you know, there’s no-one-else in the world that I’d rather be lying stark naked with.”

We moved to the bedroom, onto my comfortable king sized bed. We took our time and we explored each-other’s bodies thoroughly, delighting in each new discovery. We made slow languid love and then later; when we were ready again, we went at each-other in a frenzy, hard and rough.

In the early hours of the morning, we roused ourselves and naked, we made an early breakfast of hot buttered toast and coffee and sat cross legged on the bed and ate. And we talked. He told me of his time in Canada and about the contracting business he and his brother Peter had started. I described what my life had been like in London and how I’d begun writing. He confessed that he’d actually read all of my books already.

“In fact.” He said with a sheepish grin. “I’ve got my own copies. I bought each one as it came out. I borrowed yours as an excuse to . . oh, I don’t know . . have something to talk about, I guess.”

He also told me that when he’d found out that I’d moved to Deal and that I needed to have my house painted, he’d made a point of coming to do the job himself; by himself so that he could get to know me.

Later, after he’d fallen asleep, I rose and went through to my study. I sat at the computer naked and wrote the next part of my novel. I described the passion and love between the two principal characters when they have sex for the first time. When I had finished, I read it over and decided that it was one of the best pieces of writing I had ever done.

*** Rat in a Cage.

“What the fuck!!”

I woke up with a start, Simon’s angry shout bringing me out of my dream. I sat up and looked around. I was alone.
“What the hell is going on here?” His voice carried to me clearly from my study.

Then I knew what had happened. I’d forgotten to turn off the computer monitor last night. I jumped out of the bed and ran through to the study. Simon was standing naked in front of the monitor, his arms at his sides, his fists clenched, his body shaking with suppressed anger. He turned to face me as I came through the door. He lifted his arm and pointed at the screen.

“What the hell is that?” He asked, his voice dangerously low.
“Simon, I can explain . . !” I began but he cut me off.
“Explain?” His voice rose, his anger palpable. “Explain what? That you used me? That’s what you’ve been working on, isn’t it? Your new novel?”
“Yes.” I replied evenly. “But it’s not what you think.”

“Not what I think?” He growled. “And just exactly how do you know what I think?”
“Simon, please . . !” I started.
“Enough!” He said harshly. He took a couple of steps towards me, his eyes dark and thunderous. “You’ve written about me and you . . about us! Don’t deny it, I’ve read it. Every goddamn word!”
“Simon, I won’t deny it. I write about what I know and I needed a story and . . !” I said and again he cut me off.

“You needed a story?” He repeated menacingly. “Is this how you get your stories? By living them? By using people? You’ve been a busy man then, haven’t you? What with two novels and a bunch of short stories. Well, I’m not going to be another story. I’m not a guinea pig or a . . a rat in a cage in some laboratory that you can prod and poke and study. I will not be your experiment! What happened between us last night was private. It was special; to me anyway if not to you. It’s not some piece of porn to be read by the entire world.”

He picked his clothes up off the floor from where he’d thrown them last night and started to dress quickly.
“Simon, wait.” I said. “Let’s talk about this. I used the situation, yes, but it’s not . . !”

He finished dressing and looked around the room, then he shook himself and glared at me.
“Stop it, just . . stop it!” He growled and looked around again. “I can’t find my fucking cap.”
“I’ll find it for you and hold onto it.” I said. “You can get it later.”
As I said it, I knew deep in my heart that that was highly unlikely.

“You know what? There won’t be a later. If you find it, keep it. It’ll make a nice souvenir!” He said nastily, his voice grating and low, his fury barely controlled. He turned and walked to the door.
“Simon don’t leave like this.” I said desperately. “We should talk . . !”
He stopped, spun around and cut me off.

“There’s one more thing I want to say to you, Mr. Clark!” He said, his voice shaking and wounded. The contempt in his voice when he said my name stung hard. He came closer to me, his face dark. “I thought I might have fallen for you, you know that? I thought that I might actually be in love with you. Obviously, I made a big mistake. I’m done here.”

He stepped up to the desk, gripped the computer monitor and gave it a vicious shove. It crashed to the floor, sparks and glass flying in all directions.
“Write that into your story, Mr. Clark!” He growled and pointed at the shattered monitor. “I’m outta here!”

He stormed out of my study; out of my house and out of my life.

*** Resignation.

I spent the morning running around Deal looking for him. Then I cursed myself for a fool and ran to the paint shop but being Saturday, it had closed early and I was far too late.

I walked home slowly, heart-sore and terrified that he was gone forever; that I would never see him again. I realized then, that more than anything in the world, I wanted him in my life; I wanted him and I wanted his love. To hell with the novel!
I brightened when it struck me that I would see him on Monday anyway. He hadn’t finished my house yet and I was sure he would be back to paint the outside. He was not the sort of man who would leave a job unfinished. With this thought, my spirits rose and I became more and more excited as the weekend dragged by.

Monday dawned and I was up bright and early, waiting impatiently; anticipating Simon’s arrival. Finally, the knock came and I rushed to the door and pulled it open.
“Simon, I’m . . oh!” I began and stopped. It wasn’t Simon but a younger, paler carbon copy. The same dark blue eyes stared at me surprised. The man’s hair was as black as Simon’s but cut very short.
“Mr. Clark?” He asked and I nodded, hope crashing about me in ruins.

“I’m Peter Wright, Simon’s brother.” He continued. “I’ve come to finish your house.”
“Where’s Simon?” I asked as casually as I could.
“He’s gone up to London.” He said. “We’ve got a big contract there and he’s gone up to supervise it.”

“Oh!” I said. “Will he be back soon?”
“Not for a few months.” He said. “Like I said, it’s a big contract.”
“Oh!” I said again.

“Simon says that it’s just the outside that needs doing now.” He said brightly and indicated the walls of the cottage with a swing of his arm. “He says I’m to do it myself. It shouldn’t take more than a day or so and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Of course.” I said. “Go ahead; I’ll be inside. I have some work to do.”
“You’re a writer, right?” He asked and I nodded.

“Simon says he’s read all your books and they’re very good.” He paused. “I haven’t read them myself. Not my kind of books. I’m not like Simon . . you know . . ?”
He left it hanging.
“Yes, of course.” I said conversationally. “Different people, different tastes.”
“Yeah.” He said. “Anyway, Simon says to tell you that he’s very sorry he couldn’t finish your house but he says that you’ll understand.”

I nodded. I understood alright. He had escaped to London to get away from me.
“Simon says I’m to wish you all the best from him.” He continued. I was beginning to get a little tired of what Simon says. “He says I’m to tell you that he’ll look out for your new book.”
“Thanks, Peter.” I said. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”

“Oh, and one last thing.” Peter said. “Simon says that he’s sorry he didn’t get to say goodbye, but he left in a hurry and there was no time.”
“Thank you, Peter.” I said.

I closed the door and walked slowly through to my study. I collapsed on my back on the sofa, my arm over my eyes. I’d lost him. I knew it with a certainty that rose in me from the depths of my soul. I’d lost him and there was nothing I could do about it. The tragedy of it was that I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was in love with him.

I felt a lump, pressing into me near the small of my back and I sat up and had a closer look. It was Simon’s denim cap. In our frantic love-making, it had come off his head and had been pushed halfway down the back of the sofa. I pulled it out and looked at it. I pressed it to my face and inhaled deeply. The male, animal scent of Simon flooded my nostrils and I cried silently. Hot bloated tears ran down my cheeks and into my mouth. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore and finally I fell asleep, Simon’s cap pressed against my cheek.

*** The Novel.

In the months ahead, I finished my novel. I had to resort to fiction for the rest of it and instead of the romance it was supposed to be, I turned it into a tragedy. A bit Shakespearian maybe, but that’s how I felt and that’s how I wanted it to be.

In the story, after the break up, the principal character falls into a deep depression. He tries desperately to make amends, but his lover refuses to listen. Eventually, his despair weighs so heavily on him that he takes his own life. His estranged lover, wracked by guilt at his treatment of him, drives his car off a cliff and kills himself. Melodramatic I know and put in so few words, maybe just a little bit corny; but fleshed out in the novel, it was a story of passion, loneliness and despair.

Of course, the name of the place and the characters’ names bore no resemblance to the town of Deal or to Simon and I. I also changed a few of the main story points so that it became a little different to what I had experienced. When I did the final edit, I glossed over the sex scene because it was just too fresh and painful for me to describe.

I sent the draft to my publisher on a disc by overnight courier and he called me the very next afternoon.
“Graham.” He said. “I read your draft and I love it. It’s the best thing you’ve done by far.”
“Thanks Stuart.” I said.

“I don’t want to change a thing.” He continued, “In fact it’s already gone to the presses. It’s probably going to be the fastest book we’ve ever published. I’ve already commissioned the artist for the dust jacket.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” I said.
“Your check is in the mail, okay.” He said. “As soon as I have a proof of the dust jacket, I’ll over-night it to you for approval.”
“Thanks Stuart.”

“So, have a break and then I want you to start on another one, alright?” He finished.
“I intend to have a break, a nice long one. Maybe I’ll come up to London for a few days.” I said.
“That would be nice.” He finished and hung up.

It wasn’t such a bad idea; a trip to London. I could catch up with my friends and maybe take in a show or two.

And I could try and find Simon. A couple of months had passed since he’d walked out of my house and I missed him terribly. This was my new mission in life. I would try to patch things up with him. Hopefully, the passing time had mellowed him and he would listen to me now. I asked Peter where I could find him and he gave me Simon’s address and he told me where he was working. With this information in my pocket, I took the next bus from Dover to London.
I arrived in London and invited myself to stay with Charlotte. She was happy to see me and we sat and talked into the night, catching up on each-other’s lives.

The next morning, I found the building where Simon was lodging. I stopped on the pavement and looked up at it. Then I saw him. He came out of the building with another man, talking animatedly. I stepped behind a tree and watched them. They stopped and chatted for a moment and then Simon clasped the man in a close embrace. My heart dropped and I knew that I had lost on all counts. He had moved on and had obviously found someone new. I turned and walked away.

There was nothing left for me here now so I told Charlotte that I’d changed my mind and decided to go back to Deal and I caught the very next bus out of London.

Back at home, with little to do, I started thinking about a new book. I made copious notes and fleshed out the characters. I took to wearing Simon’s cap constantly; sometimes even to bed. In the meantime, I approved the dust cover illustration and my book was published. Stuart assured me that after its first two weeks on the shelves, he’d had to have a re-print because it was selling fast.

I was pleased about the success of the novel, my only regret being that Simon was not there to share it with me.

Then came the day that there was a knock on my door. I pulled it open and froze. It was Simon. A sense of déjà vu washed over me. He was standing there, a book clasped under his arm; looking like he did on the very first day I’d met him. The bell-bottomed jeans; the Indian cotton shirt; even the ridiculous purple crocheted skull cap.
“Hello Mr. Clark.” He said softly.
“Simon.” I breathed. “Uh . . hi!”

We looked at each other warily, unsure of the next move.
“Can I . . um . . can I come in?” He asked.
“Yes of course.” I said and stepped aside to let him pass. I shut the door and followed him into the living room.
“Can I . . uh . . can I get you some coffee? Tea?” I asked.

He shook his head.
“No thanks.”
He stared at me, his eyes unreadable.

“I see you found my cap.” He said with a small smile.
“Yes.” I said. I took it off my head and held it out to him.
“No.” He said. “You keep it, it suits you.”
“Thank you.” I replaced the cap on my head.
“I read your new book.” He said softly and I nodded.

He took the book from under his arm and laid it on the coffee table.
“It’s . . different to your others.” He continued. “Beautiful . . but sad!”

Again I nodded. Seeing him again, so real; so handsome; so there; was beginning to choke me up and I didn’t dare risk my voice right then.
“Mr. Clark.” He began and I winced at the formality of my name. “I’m sorry that it ends like it does. It should never have ended like that.” He paused, his eyes on me and then he continued softly. “He should have listened.”
“Yes, he should have listened.” I said taking a chance on my shaky vocal chords. “It wasn’t how I originally planned it to end but halfway through, there was a terrible misunderstanding and . . it changed . . I changed.”

“I’d like you to change it back.” He said carefully. “I’d like it to end the way you intended.”
“I think it’s too late for that now.” I said carefully. “Don’t you?”
“Is it?” He asked and stepped closer to me. “Is it really too late . . you can change it . . we can change it . . or should I go and drive my car off the cliff?”

“I know how I want it to end.” I said, hope rising in me like the gas in a newly opened soda bottle. “You tell me what you want.”
“Mr. Clark.” He said and smiled his familiar dimpled smile. “Simon says . . kiss me!”

I knew without a doubt, that I would always want to do what Simon says, so I did.