Elana Dennison had been in three blockbuster movies, one hit television drama and several head-shakingly bad Pepsi commercials. Despite this, I was not entirely surprised when she turned up on my doorstep.
"Come in," I said before she had to say anything. "It's cold out here."
I took her expensive (but not extravagant) jacket from her shoulders. She'd dressed down for the occasion, her famous, blindingly red hair tucked under a hat. This I also then took, loosing the mane to cascade down her back, almost to her waist. I hung her things up, shut the door and we stepped into the lounge room.
"It's been a long time," she said, running her thumb slowly along her fingertips, the way she did when she was nervous. I sat down. She stood, hesitating.
"It has," I replied. "Can I get you a Pepsi?"
She looked startled for a moment, then narrowed her bright liquid-emerald eyes.
"You haven't changed at all, have you?"
I leaned back in the couch. "Of course not. You didn't have any doubt that I'd be here five years later, did you? Grab me a beer, and get one for yourself."
She stalked out to the kitchen where her shoes clicked on the old linoleum and bottles clinked in the fridge door. She returned with two bottles, sitting down next to me in a cloud of light perfume, shoving one of the bottles at me. I opened it, then took hers from her ineffectual, soft hands and opened it too.
"Why are you here?" I asked. She took a sip and made a face.
"I just thought I'd, you know, catch up."
"At eight o'clock at night. Without calling first."
"Stop it!" she spat. "You sound like an ex-boyfriend."
"You sound like an actress playing an ex-girlfriend. Why are you here?"
"To see you, you cunt!" she shouted, then looked mortified. I clicked my tongue.
"Such language," I said with mock horror, and put my arm around her. She leaned into me, and back into the couch.
"Why do you always do this to me?" she sighed.
"Love you? I have no idea. Maybe I'm insane."
She slapped my chest, but didn't reply, instead putting her head on my shoulder and closing her eyes. Time passed. I finished my drink and put the empty bottle on the side-table with a quiet hollow clink.
"Why are you here?" I murmured, and kissed her cheek softly.
"I'm tired," she whispered back, only just opening her lightly made-up eyes. I stood and offered her my hand, pulling her to her feet and leading her to my bedroom. I wondered vaguely when I'd last washed my sheets.
When her dress -- which probably cost more than my bed -- slid to the floor she was left with only a lacy black bra and a tiny black-string thong. She lay on the bed and when I'd stripped to my jocks I motioned her to roll onto her belly. She did, gathering a pillow under her breasts, and I straddled her. I tucked the shining mass of her hair to one side, wondering at the feel of it.
"Talk," I said.
I don't actually know anything about massage. I touched her. I ran my fingers over her neck and more firmly over her shoulders. I held them, gently squeezing, trailing my fingers down to her elbows and back.
"I just broke up with Ash Turner for the millionth and final time."
I moved my hands, the palms coming up the back of her arms, over shoulder blades to rest on her lower back.
"Tonight?"
"Last week."
I spread my fingers, rubbing slowly up until the tips curled over her shoulders, then back down until my palms met the string of her thong.
