Diary of an unborn writer #6

Then it became OK between us.

Settled down.

Mute loneliness became our accepted barrier, knowing we could not breach it anywhere so we became easy, patient.

And for the first time I didn't move.

Enjoyed her company. Stopped trying to be the perfect couple, or love like the perfect man and gradually the boundaries softened.

Sex was the first to ripen. Halting fits, nowhere near the realms of climax yielded to soft, mellow orgasms - the kind of thunder quake you catch at the end of melting summer breeze if you're sly enough to witness it.

And this woman - never lacking aesthetically - began to glow in my eyes. A quiet companion, indefatiguable. The depths had not been plumbed and excitement was easily found elsewhere but perhaps our ideas of love had been misplaced anyway.

The easy times gave way to a deeply devoted peace. Acceptance of her became like a realisation of the gift she was.

Some angels speak in secrets, hers was a speech plain less refined.

She'd tell it like it was and the music of it grated, then moulded, made me the man I have become.

Not better, but different. Moulded by gratitude of her.

She died a year ago, next Tuesday.

Car crash - could have happened to anybody.