by John Riley
HER DREAMS OF THE new neighbour were strange, perhaps out-of-body events.
Why does young love want to move out of a warm bed, morning sunlight filling the room, lying with your pregnant wife by your side, taking up the space?
“Oh… just then…”
Gemma, feeling the kick.
Martin rolled over, hooking himself up on one elbow.
“There, that one feel it?”
“No,” seconds later. “Yeah, that one just then, keen.”
His hand circled her lower belly, his touch soothing.
Martin leaned over and kissed her lips, drawing back onto his side, nuzzling up close and teasing her earlobe with his tongue. She giggled.
“I dreamt again, about the new neighbour.”
“Oh,” gripping the lobe between his teeth.
“Hey! Animal.”
Martin whispered into her ear. “Minx.” His hand wandered lower.
She moaned at the sensation.
“Honest I dreamt about him… I’m sure there were others.”
“What was he doing this time?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” teasing him.
“He’s gay, anyway he fancies me.”
“How does that make you feel?” She asked.
He turned onto his back. “Kinda flattered, you know another man thinking I’m hot!”
Her eyes were mocking, and her mouth smiling at him.
“Not you! I mean me, dreaming about our new neighbour. Are you jealous?”
They lay back, staring at the ceiling.
“Now, should I wear my lycra shorts to help him move that stuff he wants upstairs?”
“No!”
“Ha! Caught out! He’s mine Gemma Tate.”
Martin cuddled in closer, embracing her, Gemma returning his affection.
Ten minutes in, Gemma reluctantly said he had better sort the job out, then come straight back, and, don’t wash when he’d done, come to bed. She’d this thing for him all hot.
He held the embrace for a few more minutes, gave in to a sigh, and then slipped out of bed, deciding on tracksuit bottoms and a sports top. Gemma watched him.
He called to see if the neighbour now ready.
***
Gemma lay in the bed when Martin burst into the room.
She screamed, drawing up the bed sheets.
“It’s me, Gemma!”
She screamed again when he stepped closer. Martin panicking, frantic now crying.
He froze, holding up his hands to surrender. He wore the same clothes.
“Gemma, it’s me, please…” He pleaded.
He looked frail.
Maybe seventy in age.
Begging her to listen.
“Gemma, how long ago since I went next door?”
He looked so old. Her voice cracking. “What happened? Oh, God is this real? Tell me it’s a joke, who are you?”
“It’s me, Gemma.” His face and body turned old.
“It’s not a joke, please, how long since?”
She cried, how could it be real?
“Ten minutes!”
“I’ve left you for seventy years when I stepped in that house next door. He brought me back too late. I thought it some joke, is this real? Gemma! Where do I start to explain what’s happened?”
-end-