polished them . The pressure of his arms makes it hard to breathe. She moans softly, her mouth under his mouth, his tongue against hers.
When they finally stop spinning, she finds herself pressed against the cold tile wall of the pool. Up close it stinks of dank,
chlorine and rotting leaves.
"I'll be leaving soon," he whispers hoarsely. "Will you miss me?"
She nods in his arms, although what she feels most sharply is not his loss, but jealous of his leaving. She presses her head against his chest, away from the hard wall. Take me with you , she prays.
"I'll miss you," he tells her, his lips to her ear. "We could be at the front this time next month. I wish I had something to remember you by. Something to keep up me fighting spirits."
She feels him picking at her blouse, the buttons. She feels a hand on her knee, fluttering at her hem, under her skirt-- "Mermaid!" he croons--sliding against the silk of her slip.
"Nice," Colin breathes. "Who says you Welsh girls don't know your duty? Proper patriot, you are. Thinking of England." Her head is still bent towards him, but now she is straining her neck against his weight. She can feel the bony crook of his elbow pressing against her side, and across her belly the tense muscles of his forearm, twitching.
" Nargois ," she tells him, but he doesn't understand. " Nargois! "
"Fuck," he whispers, as if correcting her. "Say 'fuck'." There's pressure, then pain. Colin grunts into her hair, short,
hot puffs of breath. She wonders if she dares scream, who would hear her, who might come, wonders if she's more afraid of being caught than of what he's doing to her. And then he's covering her mouth anyway, his tongue opening her lips, thrusting against her tongue, entering her mouth, even as she feels him, with a darting suddenness, enter her below. It drives the air out of her like a blow, breaking the kiss. She clenches her teeth, but his face is in her hair now, his neck arched as if to spit. She twists her head against the coarse wool on his chest, trying to shake it, and he says, "Almost, almost," and bucks against her. Something jumps inside her, and she lifts
her head sharply, catches him under the chin with a crack.
He cries out, stepping back, clutching his jaw, his tongue tipped with blood.
"Oh! Are you all right?" She starts to reach for him. "Cunt!" he says, snatching at her wrist. She doesn't know
the word, it's not in her schoolbooks, but she knows the tone, pulls away, curses him back in Welsh.
"Speak English, will you?" he tells her, turning her loose.
She leaves him there, then, wiping the blood from his lips with his sleeve. She recalls a flirty argument they had over the bar one night last week. He'd wanted her to teach him some Welsh, but she'd laughed at his pronunciation and he'd got mock mad. "Ah, what's the point?" he said. "Why don't you just give it up and speak English like the rest of us?" She'd turned a little stern then, mouthed the nationalist arguments about saving the language, preserving the tongue.
"Oh, come on," he hisses after her now. "Play the game. I didn't mean it. Come back, eh? We'll do it proper. Comfy like. Get a mattress from a chalet, have a lie down."
But she keeps going, slipping a little on the tiles, tugging her skirt down, shoving her blouse back in, and she hears him start to chuckle again, the laughter ringing off the tile walls.
There's a last shout from the deep. "Who were you saving it for, eh? Who you saving it for, you Welsh bitch?" He spits wetly.
She expects him to come after her then, feels her back tense against his touch, won't run for fear he'll give chase. But before she reaches the opening, she hears shouts, a harsh scrape of feet on the concrete above. It's as if she's willed her own rescue into being, and yet she cowers from it. Torchlights dance over the cover of the pool. Despite herself, she turns to Colin with a beseeching look-- to be found like this! -- but he's already past her, his head in the shelter
When they finally stop spinning, she finds herself pressed against the cold tile wall of the pool. Up close it stinks of dank,
chlorine and rotting leaves.
"I'll be leaving soon," he whispers hoarsely. "Will you miss me?"
She nods in his arms, although what she feels most sharply is not his loss, but jealous of his leaving. She presses her head against his chest, away from the hard wall. Take me with you , she prays.
"I'll miss you," he tells her, his lips to her ear. "We could be at the front this time next month. I wish I had something to remember you by. Something to keep up me fighting spirits."
She feels him picking at her blouse, the buttons. She feels a hand on her knee, fluttering at her hem, under her skirt-- "Mermaid!" he croons--sliding against the silk of her slip.
"Nice," Colin breathes. "Who says you Welsh girls don't know your duty? Proper patriot, you are. Thinking of England." Her head is still bent towards him, but now she is straining her neck against his weight. She can feel the bony crook of his elbow pressing against her side, and across her belly the tense muscles of his forearm, twitching.
" Nargois ," she tells him, but he doesn't understand. " Nargois! "
"Fuck," he whispers, as if correcting her. "Say 'fuck'." There's pressure, then pain. Colin grunts into her hair, short,
hot puffs of breath. She wonders if she dares scream, who would hear her, who might come, wonders if she's more afraid of being caught than of what he's doing to her. And then he's covering her mouth anyway, his tongue opening her lips, thrusting against her tongue, entering her mouth, even as she feels him, with a darting suddenness, enter her below. It drives the air out of her like a blow, breaking the kiss. She clenches her teeth, but his face is in her hair now, his neck arched as if to spit. She twists her head against the coarse wool on his chest, trying to shake it, and he says, "Almost, almost," and bucks against her. Something jumps inside her, and she lifts
her head sharply, catches him under the chin with a crack.
He cries out, stepping back, clutching his jaw, his tongue tipped with blood.
"Oh! Are you all right?" She starts to reach for him. "Cunt!" he says, snatching at her wrist. She doesn't know
the word, it's not in her schoolbooks, but she knows the tone, pulls away, curses him back in Welsh.
"Speak English, will you?" he tells her, turning her loose.
She leaves him there, then, wiping the blood from his lips with his sleeve. She recalls a flirty argument they had over the bar one night last week. He'd wanted her to teach him some Welsh, but she'd laughed at his pronunciation and he'd got mock mad. "Ah, what's the point?" he said. "Why don't you just give it up and speak English like the rest of us?" She'd turned a little stern then, mouthed the nationalist arguments about saving the language, preserving the tongue.
"Oh, come on," he hisses after her now. "Play the game. I didn't mean it. Come back, eh? We'll do it proper. Comfy like. Get a mattress from a chalet, have a lie down."
But she keeps going, slipping a little on the tiles, tugging her skirt down, shoving her blouse back in, and she hears him start to chuckle again, the laughter ringing off the tile walls.
There's a last shout from the deep. "Who were you saving it for, eh? Who you saving it for, you Welsh bitch?" He spits wetly.
She expects him to come after her then, feels her back tense against his touch, won't run for fear he'll give chase. But before she reaches the opening, she hears shouts, a harsh scrape of feet on the concrete above. It's as if she's willed her own rescue into being, and yet she cowers from it. Torchlights dance over the cover of the pool. Despite herself, she turns to Colin with a beseeching look-- to be found like this! -- but he's already past her, his head in the shelter
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