After father died, or rather the day he died, i met him. He was attractive, tall and muscular, not beefed up like an unprepossessing gym product but well built. I met him at a pub where after dad's funeral i ,in need of solace, sauntered in. In the impersonality of the pub i felt reassured, anonymous and indeterminate.
I was nursing a diet coke and i felt his gaze fall on me. Throughout father's protracted death by cancer i'd been having vivid sexual dreams, dreams i couldn't replicate in life for fear of desecrating his illness yet dreams which, with their disconcerting intimations of primal sexual energies, discomfited me, robbed me off sleep.
In the period while father's illness lasted i was stoical. My courage was commended, my unfussy imperturability appreciated. And indeed i greeted his actual death with considerable equanimity, prepared as i had been, in the intense phases of the impossibility of his recovery, with the prospect of inexorable demise.
The dusk was inclement and penumbral. We went back to my flat where we fucked, indefatigably, passionately and primordially. Given the nature of what had occurred that day my ardor must have surprised him, caught him unawares. As for me, i was staving off anxiety, purloining, with this furious lovemaking, any vitalization of life that life itself proffered to me.
The next morning he was gone. I had father's clothes to tidy up and dispose of. And i undertook this task with grim displeasure but out of an unavoidable sense of duty. Diffuse memories, non linear, cropped up, refracting into areas of dismay here, entombed as future misgivings there.
And this cavalcade of reminiscences i would sort out with my therapist. I looked forward to endless hours of colloquy, with ,i hope, not unprofitable conclusions. But for the moment, with the dismal hour veering irrevocably towards the crepuscular i wanted him again. He'd left a number by the bedside and i invited him over.
This night was a etiolated version of yesterday . My ardor was substantially less frenetic however, more circumspect. I gave less of myself and often, most surprisingly, saw in the window which reflected our intersection not his impassive profile but the face of my dead father.
In the morning we parted. Already father's death seemed less fatalistic. I felt emboldened to hope for a positive outcome, to hope for a future uninflected by my father's intractable being. The past would hopefully be consigned to oblivion.