Ewan

Marocs

It was good. Back in Jessie's bed, we made love like the first time.

It's strange how being apart makes reunions so passionate. Like strangers we learnt how to make love again. New surprises, a caress that was just slightly different than past routines, has me in shivers of excitement. It was though I was with a new lover.

Jessie surprised me whenever I got back from work assignments. Each time she would be more uninhibited, more willing to please me, almost shocking me with her own desires. And this time, there was a new dimension to her lust. All the small things that would normally annoy, the sand on the sheets, just added to the exoticness of our reunion.

Afterwards, as we rested in the afternoon heat, Jessie's sticky body next to mine, I decided it was the sensuality of the beach that had so aroused her. Beaches do it to me, too. I love the indulgence, the naked flesh, the warm water, couples frolicking. Everywhere, the mating ritual. Everyone feels young and lazy in the afternoon heat. Pheromones rule.

It was going to be a great fortnight. We had the place to ourselves. Jessie's kids had been packed-off to their father for Christmas. I would see them for a week afterwards, which was enough. Jessie had already spent the best part of a week with them anyway. Now it was our time. We could make love anytime we wanted and anywhere in our little beach shack.

I'd been working in Borneo. While there was ocean everywhere, the beaches were too hot and humid, the locals too inhibited, the water murky and the sand too covered in coral debris to elicit the same desires. No beach sensuality there, not where I was working. The only sensuality to be found in this oil area was in the dark, smoky, over air-conditioned bars, frequented by foreign workmen and the very young, beautiful girls who would entertain us. These girls, with their delicate, strong hands, working our shoulders and serving us beer, removed stress and loneliness. Management payed a commission for every drink we bought. We bought lots.

Of course they were available. The older girls were there for the cash, the younger ones were there in the distant hope that they would be taken away from their poverty by some handsome westerner. The young girls were the easiest to tease, to woo, but you might have to wait a week or two before they would shyly accept an invitation back to your room. The older girls were more practical. They weren't really old. They were still very young and beautiful, no more than twenty most of them. It's hard to tell with some of these girls, but you knew which ones were past the naive stage. These girls knew what the going rates were and they had no pretensions about love and romance. They might even have families for all we knew.

And none of these girls were virgins or lacking skills in bed. I can vouch for that.

And now I was lying in bed with Jessie, wondering where the hell she got the skill of a whore from Borneo.

It was the beach. It must be the summer beach.

Jessie and I had a sort of open relationship. We’ve been going together for just over two years. We had no pledge of fidelity. We both lived busy lives, with busy careers. Jessie had custody of her two children, which kept her busy enough. I travelled frequently. Our rule was when we were together, we were lovers. When we were apart, we were best friends. Always sending each other emails or calling each other most days. It fitted us. I never asked about any other relationships she might have, she never asked me. We left it like that.

I'd been looking forward to this holiday together. Just the two of us. I'd booked and paid for this house right on the beach at Avoca. It was expensive, but I wanted it to be just right. Jessie had it for the first week with the kids, which was my Chrissy prezzie to them before they went back to Sydney. Jessie had a couple of days by herself before I could get here.

After our afternoon reunion, we went down to the surf to wash off, playing like two children. What a joy it was to be with the one you love. We wandered down to the village and bought a bottle of chardonnay and some fish and chips, sat on the beach as the sun set and had our feast, drinking straight from the bottle. We barely made it inside before we made love again. And again, Jessie had the ferocity of a Borneo whore. The world could not be better.

At breakfast the next morning, we caught up with each others lives. We hadn't had a chance to call each other since the week before. I wanted to know how my present went with the kids and how she coped by herself. She admitted she was a bit lost, left to herself. It's not often she's alone. What am I saying, she's never alone. I couldn't get much detail from her on this point, other than for her to say, she missed me so much.

We walked, we read, we played on the beach, then went back to the house to make love. I tried not to think how she had acquired these new lovemaking skills. That was her business. I was just thankful that I was her object of desire at this very moment.

I woke in the early evening to an empty bed. I stole naked to the bathroom, showered, and dressed in a sarong went looking for Jessie. She was not to be seen. I went looking for my sandals lost somewhere in the bedroom. I didn't immediately find them, but I found a Maroc box with a couple of cigarettes intact, just on the floor on the window side of the bed. How unusual to find a cigarette packet in Jessie's bedroom. She didn't smoke. She never smoked.

And such an unusual brand. I'd never seen these before. I examined the box. It had an elaborate design of Arabic and English characters, highly decorated in red and gold. It was similar to an elaborate small cigar box, but far more decorated than any I'd ever seen. The cigarettes were surely not available locally, been made in Morocco. Someone must have bought them from overseas.

I wondered what story they must silently be hiding to end up besides Jessie's bed.

I knew it was none of my business. I slipped the empty packet into my bag. Distractedly, I went down to the beach, and there was no Jessie to be seen. I sat on the sand, and just waited, wondering. The passing parade of people kept me amused.

Finally, Jessie called me back to the house. She had slipped out to the shops while I was sleeping. We breakfasted, and afterwards went down to the sand and huddled together, talking about nothing in particular. It was good.

That night we retired early. Jessie quickly went to sleep, but I couldn't for quite some time. Jet-lag. I listened to the thunderous roar of the surf. It's so much louder at night, just like my heartbeat. I watched the soft light from the moon flood the room. I couldn't stop thinking about the Marocs.

Days passed. Each day, the Marocs would eat a little deeper into me. I didn't mind Jessie having lovers. But why did she need to have some cheap fling at a house that I'd paid for? Couldn't she wait just a couple of days for me to arrive? Each time I saw some guy smoking, I would look carefully to see if I could recognise anything distinctive about the cigarettes.

And each day, her ardent sexual vitality would make me just a little more uncomfortable. Slightly repulsed. I became increasingly withdrawn. Engaging less and less, I was happier for us to go to the local movie theatre, or just hang out at the bar, than to have to endure an evening together. I went for long solitary walks, surfed far longer than normal. All so I could avoid the senseless talk we would otherwise have had. I knew I had no right to be jealous and refused to give into it. I savagely repressed the green monster deep within my chest. And each day it grew stronger.

I picked at loose threads. I slowly worked out that when Alan came for the kids on the Thursday, it was too late for him to go straight back to Sydney. He stayed over. He slept on the couch. Sure. He had an early swim with the kids and then they left.

While I'd only met Alan briefly in the past, I was sure he didn't smoke. And if he did, he certainly wouldn't smoke something so exotic. It couldn't be Alan.

By the time Alan returned with the kids, I was very down. Jessie had started to complain about my behaviour. I had ruined our little romantic holiday. I could barely wait to return to Borneo.

With the kids back, Jessie was at least occupied. I would wander along the beach, read the paper at the beachside café, and avoid the house. Jessie determinedly had her holiday, a little revived with the attentions of her young ones.

Finally, I found him. The cigarettes put off a strong scent of spices that could not be ignored. He was at the café. The cigarette box, too distinctive to miss lying on the table. His sun burnt skin, thin weak arms and lined face, crowned with soft wispy grey hair. Almost effeminate, he wore white linen pants, a soft apricot polo top and ridiculously large dark sunglasses.

I was disgusted that Jessie could have bothered with such a creature. I would have understood if it was one of the many bronze beach gods but not this pompous faded relic. And how could she have learnt the things she did from him.

I had to leave. I went back to the house, declared I was leaving, and started packing my bag. Jessie was taken aback and a little angry, her little toddlers looking on confused. She wanted to know what had got into me. I refused to say. She demanded to know. I thought what the hell, you whore, you've ruined our little sojourn, you may as well have the reason shoved into your face. It was over, anyway.

I pulled the Moroccan cigarette box from my bag and threw it on the bed, like a trump card, declaring I guess you know who owned these. Jessica was completely blank. Before she could declare me totally insane, little Luke ran over and grabbed them, crying they're mine, I found them first, where did you find them?