The Virgin in the Treehouse: extract
Prologue
With the tip of her tongue, Zoë licks Roy’s warm breath from her lips as he stands in front of her, untangling dark strands of hair from the knot of purple cloth at the back of her head. She turns her head to follow his shadowy shape as he moves over to Constant, fastening a similar strip of cloth across his eyes. Then waits, with head bent and eyes closed, as he ties his own. Resuming his position between Zoë and Constant, their naked bodies form a triangle against the painted cloudscape of the room.
‘Follow the sound of my breathing,’ Roy says, reaching for Zoë’s hand and pressing his square, dry palm against her moist one as their fingers entwine.
Earlier, Roy had turned her narrow palm to the splash of moonlight on the windowsill to study its intricately patterned surface; a bustling intersection of heart, head and life. ‘There’s hope, after all,’ he had concluded before resting an ear against the strong beat of her heart. Smiling, he had lifted his head away and tucked a stray dark cinnamon curl – which had briefly marked the slope of her small breasts – behind his ear. Zoë had offered a small smile in return, and placed the scrutinised palm against the rosy flush on her skin.
Zoë’s right hand reaches for Constant’s left one as she inhales deeply; a shuddery intake of oxygen that lifts and expands her ribcage. Her thoughts slowly disappear into the ebb and flow of their slow, synchronised breathing. As the tempo increases a space opens inside her – walled, empty; a darker imprint of the blue room in which they are standing. Gradually, the walls reveal their true nature: a massive rock face rising up next to the colourless eye of a broad river.
Roy and Constant start to hum with each exhalation, and this low sound seems to vibrate against the rock’s wet surface, turning its forbidding façade into the taut skin of a drum. The sound emanates from deep within their bodies, amplified by ribcage and visceral matter.
After a while the rhythm of Roy’s breathing changes again, and Zoë grips Constant’s hand as her legs buckle, barely aware of the large, transparent ball rushing towards her on the surface of the unblinking eye.
Letting go of both Roy’s and Constant’s hands, she slides into this warm capsule, surrendering.
With the tip of her tongue, Zoë licks Roy’s warm breath from her lips as he stands in front of her, untangling dark strands of hair from the knot of purple cloth at the back of her head. She turns her head to follow his shadowy shape as he moves over to Constant, fastening a similar strip of cloth across his eyes. Then waits, with head bent and eyes closed, as he ties his own. Resuming his position between Zoë and Constant, their naked bodies form a triangle against the painted cloudscape of the room.
‘Follow the sound of my breathing,’ Roy says, reaching for Zoë’s hand and pressing his square, dry palm against her moist one as their fingers entwine.
Earlier, Roy had turned her narrow palm to the splash of moonlight on the windowsill to study its intricately patterned surface; a bustling intersection of heart, head and life. ‘There’s hope, after all,’ he had concluded before resting an ear against the strong beat of her heart. Smiling, he had lifted his head away and tucked a stray dark cinnamon curl – which had briefly marked the slope of her small breasts – behind his ear. Zoë had offered a small smile in return, and placed the scrutinised palm against the rosy flush on her skin.
Zoë’s right hand reaches for Constant’s left one as she inhales deeply; a shuddery intake of oxygen that lifts and expands her ribcage. Her thoughts slowly disappear into the ebb and flow of their slow, synchronised breathing. As the tempo increases a space opens inside her – walled, empty; a darker imprint of the blue room in which they are standing. Gradually, the walls reveal their true nature: a massive rock face rising up next to the colourless eye of a broad river.
Roy and Constant start to hum with each exhalation, and this low sound seems to vibrate against the rock’s wet surface, turning its forbidding façade into the taut skin of a drum. The sound emanates from deep within their bodies, amplified by ribcage and visceral matter.
After a while the rhythm of Roy’s breathing changes again, and Zoë grips Constant’s hand as her legs buckle, barely aware of the large, transparent ball rushing towards her on the surface of the unblinking eye.
Letting go of both Roy’s and Constant’s hands, she slides into this warm capsule, surrendering.
