The Englishman
The New Yorker - Sept 7th 2020
“…It was those lemons I thought of, years later, lying in this stranger’s bed. The Englishman was standing over me and all I could smell was his Penhaligon’s cologne with its undertones of lavender and peppery, heady citrus.
I didn’t know how long William had been watching me sleep, but the curtains were alive with London sunlight. The day threatened a sticky sort of heat that we rarely enjoyed in the North. The air was heavy, as if there were too much of it crammed into the small room, and it didn’t hurry or sing like it did at home on the island. William was moving quietly, unaware that I was already awake. He set my tea upon the dresser. Then he carefully lifted my cotton bedsheet as though he were peeling a bandage from tender flesh.
His eyes travelled up my bare leg as it emerged from the sleep-twisted sheets. I pretended to be asleep. I let him travel. William ran his finger along my calf, then he tapped my anklebone gently. I stirred as if he had woken me. He was glowing—stewed pink from his morning bath—and everything about him smelled lemony and bright and feminine…”
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