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A Feast Of Food – And Sex

Christmas can put relationships under a different kind of strain. Sometimes the best thing to do is lie back and enjoy its pleasures – and let the new year take care of the future…

Anne Sexton, 08 Dec 2011

She saw him under the Christmas decorations on Grafton St. He had his collar turned up against the cold. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be elsewhere, in a different city, a different country.

Maybe it wasn’t him – perhaps it was just a trick of the darkening winter light. She hoped so. But just to be safe, she turned on her heels and fled down the street in the opposite direction. She didn’t want to risk running into him, having to make polite conversation as if they were old friends.

She remembered the last time she’d seen him. It had been Christmas, years ago. The first time she’d seen him had been Christmas too, or near enough – their time together was neatly book-ended by tinsel and fairy lights.

The first Christmas there had been laughter and dancing and long days spent in bed. She had found him, or perhaps he had found her, on a crisp December night. The cold was a marvel to her. The standard decorations of snowflakes and fat snowmen had always seemed incongruous under the hot December sun. This felt like Christmas should. Not that there is snow often in Dublin, but she was an optimist and the biting cold held out the tantalising possibility.

He sent her text message after text message – invitations to meet for a drink, to see a film, to have dinner. These were pretexts to get her back to his flat and into his bed. She knew that and she didn’t mind. She appreciated his determination that the niceties be observed.

The second Christmas things had taken a darker turn. There had been arguments and suspicions and long days spent not talking.

It was cold in his flat. He gave her a fleece to wear. It was too large, shapeless on her body. Underneath she wore black lace lingerie and perfume as concessions to femininity.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked.

“I look ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just us.”

She felt suspicious of his kindness, as if he knew that she was pulling away, that she wasn’t as keen as she used to be and this was a last ditch attempt to keep her close, or at least, off-guard.



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