THE MINGELLA BOY

There was a chill in the air as Michael Spokes wandered down the lane towards Kathy’s house. It was the height of summer and the chill seemed out of place, but he hardly thought of that. His mind, instead, was wonderfully preoccupied by thoughts of Kathy.
Kathy was his girl, his very own loving property. He knew that she was, and what’s more he knew that she knew it too. He’d told her so many times and even though she had sometimes creased her face with that little frown that he found so endearing when he said it he knew she understood. She just had to.
He sighed and hardly shivered at all despite the chill.
Kathy was one of those gorgeous lasses that only get born once in a generation. She had the smoothest most unblemished skin, the longest, gorgeously fragrant, hair that was neither dark nor blonde but something enticingly between the two, the bluest eyes, the most perfect of legs that seemed to go on for ever, the pertest of bosoms – and the finest of tastes when it came to the things she chose to wear.
“You’ll have to wear that tiny plaid skirt,” he had said not so long ago, and although she had said it was too short for comfort (folks can see my undies from behind when I bend down) in the end he had worn her down and she had worn it despite worrying about the visibility of her knickers, just to please him.
Then, on another occasion he had extolled the wonders of a particularly pungent perfume, had said how it made him feel horny just to sniff it and she really must plaster it all over herself, and she had grudgingly said something along the lines that if he really insisted, but plastering it was one step too far and she’d read it might be carcinogenic, and he’d sniffed and muttered something about selfish women, and had grudgingly accepted what she offered. But he had liked that smell.
So she was his girl, all right.
Why, only last week he had become almost uncontrollable with a wild lust that suffused his whole body at the very sight of her, and even though she had said it was quite the wrong time of the month and she didn’t want that kind of thing right now, after he had insisted she had acquiesced and he knew it was because she loved him. Anyway, what did the time of the month have to do with it? He had told her it was an old wife’s thing, like saying making love on the Sabbath was wrong, or on Fridays or any of the other days the medieval church had decided was ungodly for lovers.
Yes, she was his girl and he was going to make everything all right with her. Not that anything was particularly wrong, but he wanted to be really, deeply loved, and maybe he wasn’t, just yet.
He had a bunch of flowers for her, and not a cheap bunch from the garage but a really decent bunch from the garden centre on his way to her home. He’d just bought them on the spur of a romantic moment – flowers were the sort of thing you need fresh, aren’t they? And women love them, don’t they? Oh, she might have once told him that flowers should be attached to the roots that they grew from because they were living plants and mutilating them by cutting them was quite inappropriate in her opinion, but that was garbage really, wasn’t it? She’d love this bunch because it was so … so pretty. And what’s more he could smell the fragrance of the bright blooms wafting at him as he walked along, the perfume of lovely flowers on the chill breeze.
But it was to be more than flowers.
She’d be wearing that gorgeous little skirt with its sexy pleats and bright tartan pattern, all red and warming and inviting, and she’d smell of that special perfume she wore, again all inviting, and her hair would be long and clean and fragrant, and she’d smile at him and before you could say Jack Robinson he’d have a hard-on and she’d giggle and tell him not to be greedy, he’d have to wait and she’d put the kettle on…
So he had a diamond ring. A bright and shining thing, beautiful and made of the feelings in his heart. She’d love it even though she’d said she never wore jewellery because it was either tacky and cheap or genuine and much to expensive to wear in public. But what did she know about such things?
Her home, when he arrived there, had a sudden bleak look to it as if something secret had been going on.
He hoped that Mingella boy hadn’t been calling on her. She’d get rid of him all right, she knew that he, Michael, was due to call and anyway the Mingella boy was a pest. He fancied her, but no chance. Not with his, Michael’s, girl. They were a pair, as intertwined as any two people could be and she would be wearing … she would be fragrant with …
He knocked the door and the Mingella boy opened it.
“You’re too bloody late,” he said, dully, “so fuck off…”
Nobody spoke to Michael Spokes like that! It was a no-no, as forbidden as farting at the queen or putting two fingers up at the pope. You didn’t do it. Nobody did!
He put the flowers on the ground by his feet and clenched his fists.
“She knew you were coming,” growled the Mingella boy. “She was expecting you. That’s why she did it. That’s why she killed herself, with tablets…”
And suddenly Michael Stokes could feel the cool breeze as it flooded out of his girl’s home. Out of Kathy’s front door. That’s what it was, blowing at him as he’d walked along. He might have known…

© Peter Rogerson 24.02.16