They have escaped.
Their bolt-hole, far beyond the cities, out of reach of the railway, along narrow roads of high wind-swept hedges. Where the sea is always cold and clean and the air is fresh; mewing with gulls and tangy with salt on the rugged coast.
Where their walls are stone and two feet thick, the floors wood and slate, the same reassuring grey as the roofs and the sky when it is brooding. Where there is no telephone, no broadband, almost no connectivity in the ether. Where work has been left far behind and any lover is out of reach.
They are easy together. They have grown as close as blood family over the many years of knowing. They are silent often, contentedly sharing each others’ thoughts. They read, listen to music, walk for miles across the wild countryside, laugh at the same things. They eat and drink well. Expensively and healthily. He writes. She designs.
She is tall, elegant, slim, intelligent, shy and blonde. He is taller, long-limbed, distinctive, creative, with friendly but sometimes piercing eyes. They are a well matched couple.
But they never, ever fuck.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Anne Magill