Come Inside

‘Come inside, you must. You must.’
I let Natasha walk into the kitchen as I undo my boots by the front door. Her house is broad and, I think, grand for my liking, so I let her pass into the body of the building whilst I untie my laces and tremble slightly from my knees. Something has happened, and, for a moment, I remember why I am here, but nothing lasts for me. There is now not a little bit that I remember of my journey here, but I feel Natasha knows more than I can, and her invitation inside is dominating my present state.
My boots are off, and I gain the kitchen and there is her mother. I struggle out a hello, but try also to appear calmer than I think I am. The mother is arranging some bottles on a shelf above a wooded cupboard. I follow the trends of her fingers as she slides a glass about, trying to find its position. Natasha has told me her mother is drastically neat always, and this one statement is sitting like a leadweight in my head so I’m doing my best to stand very straight and nod carefully, like a learned antiques dealer deliberating something only he would know. She hands me a wide brown bottle. It says Peroni on its label, in white writing on a red background. I do not know if it’s new or old, but the mother tells me it is the Italian style of bottle and she likes very much to collect these things. My smile has cracked before I realise it, and she is currently smiling back. Despite her neatness, I don’t think she yet minds me being here. I don’t think I’m being untidy.
The room glows yellow and I notice that the kitchen has a door, and beyond the door is a green garden. There is grass and I am now outside to watch Natasha as she lies down. I caught a glimpse of her while I was still in the kitchen, and I saw a boy with her which made me upset. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly homesick, but now I’m outside I can see that the boy is actually a girl, but she has thick legs that push out at her dark, thin jeans and I don’t really notice her face although her hair is most likely a dark brown. She is not attractive at all, she even looks like an unkempt, greasy boy but Natasha’s hair is blonde and she is skinny like me. Not skinny because underfed, but rather, she must be built that way.
Natasha is on the grass which is raised above me. No, not above me, but about waist-height; so it’s only above half of me. I don’t know why they are doing this, but the boyish girl is being held by Natasha. Perhaps they are in love. But I will not stay here because the mother has just called for me. Back inside, the kitchen I notice has a tall ceiling and the walls are half bottle-green and half cream coloured, but they are well-suited I think and everything seems much better and tidier than me. But I am not expensive, at all.
‘Come here, and see,’ the mother says to (hopefully) me.
Now she is not holding any bottles or glasses. Now she is holding a can and outwards she is pouring the beer and – this must be – it is falling into a glass, a pint glass, and I am holding it.
‘Drink up!’ she glitters a smile at me ‘its such a pleasure to drink a cold beer when outside it is so hot,’ she is whispering to me and her lips fold in the middle downwards and yes, again I watch her smile. I almost throw the glass to the floor because she is being so lovely, and her heart must be so warm because there are broad veins in her arms and I breathe in the scent of her skin and she smells like hot Monday lunchtimes at school. I look to check the glass is in my hand and not broken in pieces everywhere on the floor, or worst even, cutting her feet, or any bit of her. Or even me. But I never get cut, really. I am trying to keep in order for her.
‘And will you take anything to eat?’ The mother asked. Natasha was inside now also. I had watched her bury her face between the boyish-girl’s thick legs that shuddered like wet rubber. But now she was inside, now she was quite next to me.
‘Just buttered bread,’ I replied. Still, I cannot believe really that butter comes from a cow. I can’t grasp that at all. But it appeals to me in a sensuous way and anyway Natasha’s hair is butter-coloured and I do, in my own single way, want to bring scoops of it up into my mouth because she let me come inside and despite the boyish-girl, I really do want to fuck her. But do I really? No. I want to melt inside her, so I ask for buttery bread please and think about Natasha as I bite it. As the butter melts on my tongue I think I know how beautifully she tastes.