Free Yearning by Kate Belle

day of lonely freedom. With twelve more days of holidays ahead of him, he luxuriated in the sensation of being satiated and alone.
    Later that day Solomon stood by his letterbox and shuffled through a handful of mail. He uncovered another pink envelope. He looked up and down the street before hiding it between the bills and catalogues and carrying it inside. He put the envelope on the kitchen bench while he made a coffee. He was delaying opening it, toying with returning it to the letterbox next door, hoping it was a final farewell after the cruel disposal of its predecessor. He took a deep breath and pulled the letter out.
    I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of what I feel for you. When I look at you I am taken by some kind of god. I imagine you kissing the sensitive parts of my skin, my body running with rivers of desire. I feel the rhythm of lovemaking in my body. I know you won’t touch me, but it doesn’t stop me wishing you would. My senses are consumed with my longing for you.
    We don’t talk but somewhere, in my imagination, our bodies are entwined. Our fingers explore each other’s skin and our mouths embrace each other. In my heart I feel the longing and I give in to it in the only way I know how, in the only way I can. In my imagination we are always making love.
    How I long for a window to a time that is not connected to this life, a window through which I could escape, even if it were only once, where I could make love with you. A space in time where there are no consequences, a place where I can’t be judged or told I’m doing wrong. In this place we could be free from shame, free to explore the love that swims between us.
    He tried to laugh but his smile felt crooked and unconvincing. He knew he shouldn’t keep it, this sinful secret. He should talk to her parents and put an end to it. But would the drama be worth it, for either of them? With his history he could take no more risks, and if he exposed her she may decide to talk about what she’d seen with Tracey. And Tracey wouldn’t deny it. He’d been rash and stupid. She had him in a corner and he wondered if she knew it. He read the note through again, studying the rounded childish print.
    Folding it he pushed it back into its envelope. For God’s sake, they were only letters. Harmless scraps of paper. He was being paranoid. What was there to worry about? As long as he left her alone she could send him as many as she liked. It was a meaningless crush and would amount to nothing. There was nothing wrong in receiving and enjoying her letters. He was just allowing her to express herself. He was her muse. If her creativity was inspired by him, who was he to stem it? Creativity was what life was all about and he was the last person to quash it.
    He took the note to his bedroom and locked it safely away in his bedside drawer, with the other two. When he returned to the kitchen he picked up the phone and and called Alison to invite her over for dinner, wine and some guiltless pleasure.
    *
    Two nights later Solomon lay on his bed reading listening to the sound of The Bee Gees thumping in the garage next door. It was her sixteenth birthday, a girl’s party of dress-ups and potato chips and soft drink. He watched them arrive from his lounge-room window, a handful of giggling and silly teenagers dressed in wigs and glitter and platform shoes. Three straggly boys, their hair hanging over their collars and eyes, stood on her front lawn swigging from bottles of beer hidden in the bushes. Her hassled parents ferried platters loaded with party pies and chunks of kabana and cheese across the uneven driveway. Squeals of delight and tuneless singing trilled through the tin walls. Even though the loud music didn’t bother him, it took Solomon longer than usual to fall asleep.
    *
    Friday. The mail arrived at three. Two bills, a magazine and another envelope smelling of cheap perfume. Inexplicably excited, he slipped a butter knife along the seal to open it and