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She had a visitor yesterday. I chuckled; I wondered if he were her lover! He wasprobably a minister of religion coming to say welcome, or an insurance agent. It'snone of my business. She doesn't look the sort who'd have a lover. But you needto watch out for the quiet ones, my mother used to say. I never knew what I wassupposed to watch out for.I had a lover once, years ago. We met on the beach. When I looked up frommy book, I caught him watching me. He gave me an embarrassed smile, a fascinatinggrin. We got into conversation, mainly about the book I was reading. MterwardI walked home with a spring in my step. Warmed inside.The next day we met again; we hadn't exactly arranged it but we had lookedout for each other. Lying side by side on the sand, we soaked up the sunshine andchatted animatedly. It was years since I had talked like that to anyone. We swamtogether, splashing and laughing. I felt fresh, young. Restless with a new stirring.Mter that, we met five days in a row. A closeness developed between us, an ease,a trust. On the fifth day, he became serious and poured out his troubles to me andI reached out my hand to touch his, for comfort. Our eyes met, and held. Excitementcharged through me like a current.We made love on a sandy bed in a clump of shady ti-tree. Tenderly, yet witha forceful urgency. Soaring into moments of exquisite excitement, purely physical,then calming into a gentle awareness of each other and a sweet new understanding.Melting into each other and not wanting to let go. I had never been held like thatbefore.That night I couldn't believe what I had done. I tossed with guilt. Then with anger!Why should I be condemned to know only years of hurried routine couplings withmy spouse?We visited that shady cradle six times more. That season was special for me: Icame alive that summer, at forty-two years of age.He transferred to another town in autumn and I missed him badly. I still misshim.He was a good tennis player, my lover. The woman next door plays tennis, too.I've seen her carry her racquet out and sling it in the car. When I was a teenager,I used to play tennis well. Our team often won trophies. I was slim and lithe andplayed with style. But things changed after I got married. You can't take a tribeof little babies to the tennis courts, can you? I didn't know anyone who'd look afterthem. My husband couldn't because he was always toe busy with cricket or football.He's still always busy at weekends with something or otlier. I wonder what the womannext door's husband is like. I haven't spotted him yet; I've only heard him driveoff in the car each morning.It's getting late! I've been watching her through the kitchen window for almostan hour and its already eleven o'clock. I hate getting out of my quilted gown; itbuttons right up to the neck and keeps out the cold. I'll have to do something aboutrepla~ing these slippers. They're a nondescript grey now, but if you lift up the pompomon the left slipper you can tell that the color was once a soft mauve. The catripped the right one off and I haven't sewn it back on yet. It's still sitting on thekitchen bench; the mauve on the yellow-green laminex nauseates me. So does thegrime on the stove top but I can't be bothered scrubbing it off.I can never decide what clothes to put on these days. I don't go out very oftenso I usually just grab something loose and cosy for comfort around the house.The woman next door has just gone out, all dressed up. One day, I'll get dressedup and go in and visit her. But I'll wait until spring. I...might feel more like it bythen ...WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989 71