Okay. I need to do this. To write. I need to tell someone, but not anyone I know. I can't tell Peter. It would devastate him. Not my sister. She would judge me. Not any of my friends. Some of them would judge me too. The bigger risk is their not keeping it a secret. One drink too many, something said in what they think is fun, or maybe shared with a husband, who then says it somewhere else. Not worth the risk. So there is no one.
Not even a priest, either. Not that I am Catholic. But the idea of confessing makes me think of sitting in the confessional that I have seen in films, whispering to a man in black, telling him my sins, receiving absolution, and the admonition, not to sin again. That is not what I need. I cannot make that promise. I know that now. What I need is just to tell someone.
My laptop is where I write, so that will have to do, for now, at least. It doesn't judge me. It does not tell other people anything. Password protected, my confession will be safe here. Besides, this is where I write. My job. The articles for magazines that I get published. Most of them, at least. So this is what they call my 'safe space'. Digital therapy, when you cannot tell another human being.
The irony is that it was an apple tree. That was where Eve sinned. Tempted by that snake in Eden. Biting the apple. Betraying Adam. My apple tree was not in season. It was still summer. The blossom had fallen, but the fruit were not yet ripe. The wrong time of year for pruning, but we had put it off too long, and Peter had arranged it. Had he known, he would have waited even longer. But he must never know.
Any other guy, and it would not have happened. Would not? Might not? What I've learned is that it's not a man's looks that turns me on, or how he speaks, or what he says, or what kind of job he's in, or anything like that. It is just instinctive, some kind of chemical response to the vibe that they either have, or don't have.
With most men, it doesn't happen. It did with Peter. It did with other men before him. And with some since, although I never went there. Not before I opened the door to the guy who came to prune the tree. I felt it then. It even phased me. I don't know if it showed. But I felt a tingling. I sensed my nipples stiffening. I felt the wetness lower down. It just happened.
He was tanned, black hair, short sides, unkempt on top, what might have been designer stubble except I doubt if he gave it enough thought to design it. Just unshaven. Sleeveless tee-shirt, gray, with khaki shorts, the kind with pockets everywhere, a belt with holsters for his tools, well used workman's boots. Tattoos. All down his arms. His calves. Even on his neck, right side, below his ear. Maori style. Patterns, not pictures.
"Hi."
"Hi."
Then nothing. Just looking at each other. Maybe he had felt it, the way I had. That vibe. But we just stood there, saying nothing, for that bit longer than we should. Before he broke the silence.
"Your husband said you have an apple tree needs pruning?"
I forced myself to think and answer.
"Yes," I said. "Sorry. I'm not sure where I was. But, yes. It's in the back garden. I can let you in around the side."
His flat-back truck was parked in the street, not on our driveway. Green, with a yellow logo, contact number and address. Well worn. Battered might be the best description.
Another moment's silence.
"I'll get my gear," he finally said.
"Okay," I said. "I'll go through the back. I'll meet you at the gate."
Closing the door on him seemed strange. Losing the connection. But leaving it open would have seemed stranger. I went back through the hall, into the kitchen, out the back door, round to the narrow alley that runs beside the house, undid the double bolts on the side gate, more a door that a gate, opened it, used the hook to hold it.
I should have worn more beneath my dress. I knew that, standing there, waiting for him, as he unloaded a ladder and a barrow, and wheeled them expertly, somehow managing both of them together, into the driveway and lining up to bring them down the side.
I should have worn something, anything, a thong, panties, not nothing, even though I love the feel of air around me in the summer months, the sense of freedom. Not that he could tell. The dress was just a cotton day dress, button fronted, knee length, and buttoned to the hem, so not threatening to open, but I knew that where I was feeling wetness for him, there was nothing there. All he would have to do was lift the dress to find me naked there.
The side access was to narrow for him to get the barrow past me. I had to go back to the patio to let him through. The barrow trundled noisily. Well worn, unpainted steel that had been knocked around more than a bit. The ladder was wood. Just as well used. It might have been painted at one time, or it might not. The kind that opens to stand on its own.
He wheeled them both across our lawn. The tree was obvious. Right in the middle of our family's private Eden. He stopped before he got there. Set up the ladder below the tree. Then turned to me.
"You'll lose some fruit," he said. "I can't help that now. But I can get it back into shape, if that's what you want."
My cunt was telling me that it would love to have his fruit. It wanted him. I knew that. Pure sexual instinct. Hormonal. Pheromones. I just hoped he did not realise how I felt, and answered.
"That's fine," I said. "It always has too many apples anyway, and they just go to waste."
"You've been here long?" he asked.
"Eight years," I said. "We moved here after we had our first."
