Free Songs From Spider Street by Mark Howard Jones Page A

impossible well within our reach.
    Ecstasy was
easily attainable within our love box and, every time I released myself into
Rie, it seemed to eradicate our lives outside that confined space. The
restraints of married life, of my position as a salaryman, and of the capsule
itself, dissolved into an ocean of love. Anything was possible for us.
    It would have
been a particular delight to have detailed our daring positions, recording them
in our own capsule hotel Kama Sutra to share our joy with all, but discretion
dictates that the manual should remain unwritten.
     
    We have been keeping our appointment with love for over 15 years now. It
is something that has perhaps gone on for too long.
    Rie suffered
terrible back pain following the loss of our baby six years ago. The problems
following the dislocation of my hip during a road accident last year have not
faded. Our bodies are no longer as young and as supple as they once were.
    For over an
hour now, Rie has not spoken. Condensation and sweat have made the narrow
mattress sodden and my beloved has begun to grow cold beneath me. Try as I
might, I cannot untangle my limbs from hers.
    We last made
love at 2.30 a.m. – just after the last of the drunken salarymen retired to his
room. It is now 3.50 a.m.: I have grown soft and am no longer inside Rie.
    I have only
enough mobility to tap feebly on the door with my left elbow. My other limbs
are locked tightly in Rie’s love embrace. I cannot draw sufficient breath,
doubled over as I am, to be able to call for assistance.
    Checking out
time is not until 9 a.m. It is possible that we will remain undiscovered until
then. I cannot see how they will be able to extricate us even then; I imagine
that several of our limbs will have to be broken.
    I do not know
which is worse; to be discovered like this, knowing the great dishonour it will
bring upon us and our families, or to know that our wonderful love box will
become our coffin.
    Through the
tiny window I can see the lights of a tower crane at a nearby building site.
They waver as I struggle for breath, fighting back the urge to vomit, and my
tears splash onto a patch of semen that has dried on the beautifully smooth
skin of Rie’s back.

INTERIOR DESIGN
     
     
    They moved into the flat just two months after the wedding. Mike would
never really think of it as their flat; Jen’s father – rich old bastard
that he was – had ‘given’ it to them as a wedding present. Which meant, as far
as Mike was concerned, that he would always be there with them, checking and
judging.
    There was
virtually no furniture, beyond the essentials like a bed, when they moved in.
Nothing comfortable or familiar and certainly nothing that would induce him to
feel ‘at home’. Jen had announced that she wanted to furnish it in her own way
and, as she was the one with taste and breeding and money, Mike just went along
with it.
    Money seemed
to drip from every orifice of Jen’s family, whereas his humble job as a very
junior reporter for a downmarket daily newspaper couldn’t keep his new wife in
the style to which she’d become accustomed. Mike knew her something-in-the-city
father saw him as nothing but a big zero and the old man took every opportunity
to underline that fact ‘subtly’.
    He’d wanted
to honeymoon somewhere nice and warm, somewhere sunny, but Jen – ice maiden to
her sub-zero core – had insisted they spend time at some trendy ice hotel in
the Arctic Circle. Only the sight of her naked body, open before him, had
introduced any heat into the occasion. At least that was one place that he and
Jen really were compatible – in bed; a mere 14 fucks and they’d decided
marriage was the right thing for them, much to the consternation of Jen’s
family.
    They’d met at
a friend’s party. He didn’t know how she’d come to be at such a ramshackle
affair and he didn’t care, being drawn to her slightly otherworldly prettiness
and her smart way of dressing. “You’re perfect,”