Some songs you remember because you are intensely happy or sad when you hear them, not because they are such great songs. ‘White Flag’ by Dido is like this. It just happened to be number one during that summer. I am not proud to list it as one of my favourite tracks. But then I am not proud of lots of things that are true.

I had just emerged from what felt like a very long sleep, but was in fact 21 years of marriage. I was with my kids, camping in the Lake District, and it felt strange being the only adult. Off balance. Scary. It had not been a bad marriage, but deep down I had always felt we were frauds. From the outside, normal, but on the inside – nothing really. Just two strangers rubbing along, pretending we weren’t disappointed. Sometimes bickering, sometimes being grateful, but most often I felt…well, it felt odd to live with someone who would never really know me. I assumed something would happen to make it stop, and in the end something did.

So there I was, feeling my way into a new way of being. It was unusually hot. He was with his sons, in the tent next to ours. A small man; dark and muscular and he moved like he loved movement. Like a dancer. The kids all got along, so I asked if he wanted to rent a boat with us. Later, we drank beer, and leaned closer and closer, talking over the midge candles. I watched his mouth as he talked. His lips were soft and thick. My husband’s lips had been thin.

The lake was black, and there was just a sliver of moon, but still our bodies shone pale as we slid into the water. How can the ingredients for happiness be so simple? Why was the lake not full of smiling naked bodies in the moonlight? Later, his skin on mine felt smooth and cool, and I kept thinking how he was not my husband, and also that he might be my last lover.

For a long time, I had thought I knew how the rest of my life would go, but now anything could happen. Or not.

So I kissed him, this dark stranger, my holiday romance, as if I might never kiss another man for the rest of my life. I wanted to be in love, drunkenly and hopelessly, like in ‘White Flag’.

I’d wanted to be in love again for such a long time. But I’d forgotten how love goes. How first kisses like these are always last kisses. They have to be; when the sun comes up, they change into something more ordinary. And I began the long missing of my husband.

Cynthia Rogerson used to be a californian, but after 30 years in Scotland is starting to mutate into a being not quite scottish, not quite american, not quite anything interesting at all. she claims to love writing, yet procrastinates insanely to avoid the actual act. she also currently (as of nov. 22, 2006, 8:45 pm) loves Amaretto, emailing, fiction, red wine, poetry by John Glenday, black and white movies, black and white photographs, stories by Laura Hird, mainstream blockbuster movies, white wine, long walks on rainy beaches, beachs in any weather, any movie with shirley henderson, or meryl streep, or kevin spacey, or marilyn munro. oh, and her 4 kids and her scottish-italian boyfriend. Any or all of these things may be different at time of reading. To read her story, ‘Instead of Beauty’ on the showcase section of this site click here, for her thoughts on Neil Young’s ‘A Man Needs a Maid’ click here or to read a review of her novel ‘Love Letters from My Death-Bed’ click herehere.

© 2007 Laura Hird All rights reserved.