Kissing Through a Pane of Glass by Peter Michael Rosenberg Page B

was a construction, a mirage, a figment; it was a false emotion. Only people who were insecure, frightened of being alone, felt love. When people say to each other, “I love you”, all they’re saying is, “You take away my feelings of isolation, my aloneness, and that makes me feel safe”. It was all bullshit, said Richard. No one can take those feelings away, and to put that sort of responsibility on to someone else’s shoulders was not only foolish but dangerous. No one can make you feel safe, said Richard, it was all just an illusion. Face facts. You’re alone. No one can see inside your head, no one can see through your eyes, no one can share your thoughts. You are a self-contained, hermetically sealed package, and the best thing anyone can do is admit that to themselves and get on with living.
     
    Most importantly, if you start bringing all that love nonsense into the bed- room, all you’ll succeed in doing is screwing up one of the few genuine pleasures left to human beings. Sex was both and fun; like eating and drinking, you should it often, change the menu frequently, and always be a hungry before you start. Don’t discuss the ingredients afterwards, and don’t complain about the cost or the service; if you’re not enjoying it, eat somewhere else.
     
    I could not help but be full of admiration for Richard and his approach. It was so uncomplicated, hedonistic, easy, and I don’t suppose he would have cared the least bit if I’d told him that his ideas were all well and good, but that he’d never be a poet.
     

Chapter 14
     
    Liana and I stayed in Udaipur for a further week. On the second day I left my hotel and moved in with her. We took a double room which also had a balcony and spent every afternoon and most of each night making love. I had expected the hotel owner to express disapproval of us - we exercised little discretion - but he merely smiled whenever he saw us, a mischievous grin which, if anything, sanctioned our liaison.
     
    For the first two days, we left the bedroom only to perform necessary functions like washing and eating. Our evenings were spent at the rooftop restaurant where we had dined on that first, fateful evening. We would sit close together, holding hands. Our hours and days were marked with a seemingly endless flow of fun and laughter. We revelled in each other. It was not just in bed that we communicated so completely. We would happily talk for hours about our lives, our worlds, travelling, philosophy, art, creativity. We rarely spoke of love. There seemed no need; words were a poor medium for expressing something that coursed through every vein, saturated every cell, electrified our spirits.
     
    For the time being, I was happy. The memory of Liana’s outburst faded but did not disappear, and if I was self-conscious in any way, it was only with regard to my movements; that is, I avoided making any swift motions of my hands or arms. If, as was often the case, I wished to stroke Liana’s cheek, I would usually place my hand first upon her shoulder and slide my fingers gently upwards to meet her face. In time this became an habitual movement rather than a conscious one, its origins soon obscured.
     
    We returned often to the terrace overlooking the lake where we had first met; sometimes Liana would bring her notebook and make sketches of the surroundings, although she would never let me look at them. I questioned her about this and she said that, being a perfectionist, she didn’t like to exhibit incomplete work, and that sketches were by definition unfinished. Even though I longed to see her drawings, I didn’t push her on this; although I had yet to write anything of any value, I felt sure I’d feel much the same about my own work, unwilling to let anyone read it until it was complete, polished, ready for publication.
     
    On those occasions, whilst Liana sketched, I would simply sit and look at her. I would watch her intently, as if I could not be worthy of her until