Pink Shirt

Brett sat at the kitchen table sharpening knives.

An old tea towel lay beneath the stone. Three kitchen knives rested beside it, along with the folding knife from his ute and the secateurs Sarah used on the balcony.

The work could have waited.

It still needed doing.

He drew the first blade slowly across the wet stone. His shirt pulled against the round weight of his stomach as he leaned forward. Grey ran thick through the lower half of his beard. The television murmured from the lounge room.

Sarah came up behind him. She bent over and kissed the back of his neck, just beneath his beard. Brett stopped moving. A cold beer appeared beside his hand.

Then a sheet of paper. And a pen.

Sarah squeezed the back of his neck once and walked away.

The loose white shirt fell straight over her flat chest. Soft black shorts left most of her long legs bare.

Brett looked down.

Across the top of the page, in Sarah's sprawling cursive, were the words:

NEW THINGS YOU WANT TO DO TO ME

The letters curled into one another in long, loose loops.

The same handwriting as the tattoo inside her thigh.

Beneath the title were three empty numbers.

Brett looked toward the hallway. She had already disappeared.

He placed the knife down, picked up the pen, and began.

The first letter appeared slowly.

Large.

Uneven.

Pressed hard enough to mark the page beneath it.

Then the second. Every word in capitals.

His handwriting looked like something painted across the side of a shipping container by a man running out of room.

He knew exactly what he wanted to write. Writing it was the difficult part. He hunched over the table, thick fingers locked around the pen.

The television changed programs. A car passed outside. Water gathered beneath the beer bottle.

He continued.

One square letter at a time.

When he reached number three, he read the list once, then placed the pen down.

He rapped his knuckles against the table.

Three heavy knocks.

Nothing.

He did it again.

Sarah appeared in the hallway. The white shirt was unchanged, but the shorts were not. They now stopped high on her thighs.

Not slightly higher.

Ridiculously higher.

Brett looked at them. Then at her face.

Sarah glanced down as though she had only just noticed.

"What?"

He pushed the paper across the table.

She walked over and picked it up. Brett opened the beer.

Sarah read number one. Her mouth moved slightly. Number two made her glance at him over the page. At number three, she stopped.

Her eyes moved back to the beginning of the line.

Then across it again.

Brett drank.

Sarah lowered the page.

"You filthy bastard."

He held out his hand. She pressed the paper against her chest.

"No."

Brett waited.

Sarah read the line again.

Then looked at him.

"You've thought about this."

He reached for the paper. She slapped the back of his hand with it.

"Perv."

Brett caught her wrist. Squeezed. Sarah smiled immediately.

He held it for a moment.

Then let go.

She folded the paper in half. Brett held out his hand, but she tucked it behind her back.

He reached again and she stepped away.

"Too slow."

Brett pushed his chair back. Sarah moved around the other side of the table.

He stopped.

She stopped.

They looked at each other.

Sarah picked up his cigarette lighter. Brett frowned at her.

She walked toward the balcony. He followed her to the flyscreen.

"What're you doing?"

"Destroying the evidence."

She flicked the lighter beneath one corner.

The paper caught. Sarah held it between two fingers while the flame crept across Brett's terrible block capitals.

He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. Sarah glanced at him.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself," she said.

Brett scratched through his beard, watching as the fire reached her fingers. She dropped the paper into the metal ashtray. The sheet curled inward. Black flakes lifted into the warm afternoon air.

Sarah watched until the last corner disappeared.

Then she walked back inside. Brett returned to the table and sat.

Sarah stepped between his knees and lowered herself into his lap. One arm went around his shoulders, and Brett's hand settled against her waist.

"Number three," she said.

His eyes stayed on hers. She snatched the beer from his hand.

"Tonight," she said, and drank deeply.

Brett's fingers tightened slightly at her side, then loosened.

Sarah grinned.

"Actually asleep?"

He nodded.

"And I don't know when."

Another nod.

She shifted against his belly.

"You're a fucking creep."

Brett took the beer back. Sarah slapped his chest.

"Don't ignore me."

He caught her hand and held it flat against him.

Her smile changed. Smaller now. Less smug.

"The idea's hot," she said.

His thumb moved once across her wrist.

"Fucking hot."

Sarah leaned against his shoulder. Her long hair slid over his arm.

"But I'd be completely out of it."

His hand loosened.

She hooked two fingers into his beard and tugged.

"I'm not saying no, pussy."

Brett closed his hand around her wrist again. Sarah's eyes brightened at the pressure.

"I'm saying shallow end first."

He kept his eyes on her.

"When I wear a pink shirt to bed, it means yes for the night."

Brett looked down at the white shirt. Sarah slapped his stomach.

"Pink, idiot."

He leaned back in the chair.

"No pink shirt, no. Shirt comes off, no."

Brett nodded.

"Safeword goes both ways."

Another nod.

"And the first time, you don't do either of the things you wrote."

His hand moved from her wrist to her waist. Sarah drew in a breath.

"You can touch me."

His thumb pressed lightly into her side. She shifted against him, pressing into the contact.

"You take care of yourself." Her voice went slightly singsong.

Brett's hand stopped. Sarah held his eyes. Her face warmed.

She shoved his shoulder.

"Stop looking at me like that."

He did not move.

"Creep."

His hand tightened around her waist.

Sarah kissed him.

Hard.

One hand disappeared into his beard. She pressed herself against his stomach for several seconds, then pulled away before he could hold her there.

"Shallow end," she said.

Brett looked at her mouth.

Then nodded once.

Sarah kissed his cheek. She stood, took his beer and walked away.

A moment later, the vacuum started in the lounge room.

Brett picked up the knife.

Drew it across the stone.

Slowly.

The vacuum stopped and Brett looked up.

Sarah stood beside the couch with one hand on the handle. She had changed shirts.

Bright pink.

Almost violently pink.

Tied tightly at the waist above the tiny black shorts. Brett stared as Sarah looked down at herself.

"What?"

His eyes returned to the knife.

"Nothing."

"Pervert."

She pushed the vacuum forward.

Brett wet the stone.

Thirty seconds later, the vacuum stopped again.

Sarah appeared in the doorway.

"You tired?"

Brett looked toward the balcony. Sunlight still cut across half the carpet.

"It's four-thirty."

"I didn't ask what time it was."

He turned the knife and drew the other side across the stone.

Sarah came closer.

"You could be tired."

Brett continued sharpening. She prodded him between the shoulder blades.

He reached backward without looking and caught her wrist. Sarah leaned over him.

"We could go to bed."

"Too early."

He released her.

Sarah poked him again.

Brett placed the knife down.

She stepped back quickly.

He turned his head.

Sarah smiled.

"Pussy."

Brett picked up the next knife.

"Good night, babe."

Her smile vanished.

"You prick."

He began sharpening.

Sarah stood there in the bright pink shirt.

Brett kept working.

She walked into the kitchen. The fridge opened. A bottle cap clicked against the bench. Sarah returned with a beer and dropped onto the couch.

She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, then crossed them again.

The vacuum remained abandoned in the middle of the carpet.

Brett sharpened the knife. Sarah drank and watched him.

After several minutes, he looked up.

She immediately turned toward the television.

Brett returned to the stone.

By dinner, she had stopped sulking.

Mostly.

She kept the pink shirt on.

They ate on the couch with their plates balanced on their knees.

Sarah pressed one cold foot against Brett's calf. He moved his leg away. She followed. He moved again. Sarah pushed harder.

Brett caught her ankle beneath one hand.

She tried to pull free. He held it there.

Sarah watched the television for perhaps ten seconds.

Then stopped pretending. Her eyes moved to his hand. Brett ate with the other.

At nine, Sarah carried their plates into the kitchen.

At half past, the bathroom tap started.

Brett remained at the table.

The knives were done.

He moved on to the secateurs. Metal scraped across stone.

From the bathroom came the sound of a drawer opening. A glass bottle placed on the sink.

Water running.

Another drawer. The hairdryer.

Then silence.

Sarah appeared in the doorway. Her hair lay perfectly smooth down her back.

The bright pink shirt hung loose on her.

Black fishnet stockings covered her long legs.

Nothing beneath them.

Brett stopped sharpening.

His eyes moved slowly down her body.

Sarah leaned against the frame.

The smug expression she had brought into the room began to weaken beneath his stare.

His eyes returned to her face.

She shifted one leg across the other.

"I'm going to sleep."

Brett looked at the clock. Then back at the secateurs.

Sarah frowned.

"Did you hear me?"

He nodded.

"I'm going to bed."

Brett ran the blade once across the stone.

Sarah walked over and slapped the back of his head.

He stopped.

She stood beside him, one hand still raised. Brett turned slowly. Sarah looked down at him.

"What?"

His eyes moved over the pink shirt again.

Then the fishnets.

Sarah's breathing changed.

Only slightly.

Brett reached out and hooked one finger into the hem at her waist. He pulled her closer.

Sarah stepped between his knees.

His hand settled against the back of her thigh.

She swallowed.

Brett squeezed once.

Then released her. He turned back to the table.

"Good night, babe."

Sarah stared at him.

"You absolute prick."

Brett picked up the secateurs.

She stood there for another moment and then turned and walked down the hallway. Slowly at first. Her pace increased before she reached the bedroom.

The door closed.

Brett returned to work.

He sharpened the blade. Tightened the central bolt. Oiled the hinge. Opened and closed the handles until the movement became smooth.

The television murmured behind him.

The clock passed ten. Then eleven.

Brett washed the stone beneath the tap, dried it, wrapped it in an old cloth and put it back in the drawer. He wiped down the table, carried the empty bottles into the kitchen, checked the balcony door and turned off the television.

Near midnight, he looked at the clock.

The unit had gone completely quiet.

Brett stood.

His knee cracked.

He switched off the kitchen light and walked down the hallway.

The bedroom door stood slightly open. He pushed it wider.

Sarah lay on her side beneath the duvet. Her hair had been spread across the pillow in a perfect brown fan.

Too perfect.

The pink shirt showed above the covers.

Brett remained in the doorway.

Sarah's breathing was slow. Measured.

He stepped inside and closed the door. The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he sat beside her. Sarah did not move.

Brett rested one hand on her shoulder. His thumb moved once against the pink fabric.

Her breathing remained steady. Almost.

He drew the duvet slowly down her body. The fishnets appeared beneath the shirt.

She lay still.

Brett slid one hand beneath the outside of her thigh and rolled her gently onto her back. He pushed the shirt higher. A strip of bare stomach appeared above the stockings.

Her lips pressed together. Only slightly.

Brett saw it.

He said nothing.

His hand moved slowly along the outside of her thigh, then her waist, then rested against the bare skin of her stomach. Sarah's breath caught. Brett waited until it settled again.

He pulled down his shorts and underwear. His other hand stayed on her stomach.

Sarah kept her eyes closed.

Brett closed his hand around himself and began slowly.

Then Sarah's hips shifted beneath the fishnets.

Barely anything. A tiny smile touched her mouth.

Brett stopped.

The smile disappeared.

He started again.

Sarah made a soft, frustrated sound before she caught herself.

A rough breath left Brett. His hand moved faster.

Sarah remained on her back, breathing carefully through her nose.

Brett's grip tightened.

His body went rigid. He stopped, held himself there, tried to force it back.

Sarah's stomach rose beneath his palm. The effort lasted only a moment.

Then he came on the bare skin.

For several seconds afterward, Sarah remained perfectly still.

Then her eyes opened.

She hit him before he could move.

One shoulder drove into his chest and carried him backward onto the mattress.

Brett let out a startled grunt.

Sarah climbed over him. Both hands disappeared into his beard.

Her mouth struck his cheek.

His nose.

His forehead.

Brett tried to turn his face away. Sarah caught his beard and dragged him back.

"No."

She kissed him hard.

Again.

Again.

The shirt bunched between them. Brett laughed beneath her.

Sarah made an angry little sound and pressed her mouth over his.

His thick arms closed around her waist.

She kissed him until he stopped laughing.