Indigo Bloome Collection: The Avalon Trilogy: Destined to Play, Destined to Feel, Destined to Fly

He laughs as he returns his hand safely to the handlebar. ‘Okay, fair enough.’

‘Thank you.’ I can’t stop myself smiling, just as I can’t deny enjoying the ride. The wind, the speed, the engine, the closeness is awesome … even the blackness is exciting, in a strange, surreal way. I allow myself to submerge in the exhilaration of the journey, not knowing where it will lead me.

We eventually slow down after quite some time, maybe an hour or so, maybe more. I’m not sure and I’m not going to ask. Jeremy assists me off the bike, my legs slightly numb from the ride, and removes the now-constricting helmet from my head. It’s good to stretch my legs, as they are a little shaky from being in the same position for so long. I’m more than a little self-conscious and adjust my sunglasses nervously.

‘Don’t worry, nobody is looking at us.’ He is able to read my discomfort.

‘Are you sure?’ The words leave my lips before any filtering can occur.

‘Yes, I’m sure. Because I can see and you can’t.’

‘Right, point made.’ My nose greedily sucks up the air around us when the fumes subside. There is a real freshness to it. The smell of it, combined with the gentle breeze and birdsong, reminds me of fond childhood memories with my cousins during school holidays.

I remain standing in place until he reaches out and holds my hand in his and we start walking.

‘I can’t believe you never told me you got your bike licence.’ I try to sound indignant.

‘There are many things you don’t know about me, Alex. Hopefully that will change over the coming years.’ Years? I think to myself that even when I try to be light and conversational, he manages to insert a hefty undertone and it keeps taking me by surprise. We pause as I hear him ask for two skim flat whites, no sugar, and could we have takeaway cups, please. Once again, the lack of consultation is a little astounding. Let it go … I relax my mind.

‘Coffee, how perfect,’ I say, thinking it gives me a hint that it must be between 10 or 11, Saturday morning. Or perhaps Jeremy has orchestrated the coffees to make me believe it is morning tea-ish. Stop thinking about time, I lecture myself. You have no control over it so forget it.

‘I thought this might be easier for you than a cup and saucer. Be careful though, it’s hot.’ He sounds like me instructing my kids to be careful when I take something out of the microwave for them. He places the container in my hands and leads me to an outdoor table and helps me to sit.

I raise the cup slowly to my mouth, happily anticipating the aroma and taste, although I certainly don’t need the caffeine to wake up as my nerves are more than fully engaged. Keeping the adrenaline pumping through my veins doesn’t require any additional assistance.

‘Great coffee,’ I comment, after taking a long, cautious sip. I am beginning to realise how much of human conversation is dependent on questions or visual indicators. My lack of both makes my small talk sound shallow and superficial. It’s almost as if we are on a first date that isn’t going very well. My conversational flow is dismal and I don’t know whether Jeremy is experimenting with this, or leaving me in limbo deliberately. Maybe my whole conversational style is question-based these days and, given my background, I suppose that would make sense. Perhaps I find it difficult to develop other short-term strategies when placed in an unanticipated circumstance? How strange that I have never noticed this about myself until this moment, when I’m sitting next to Jeremy, with my coffee, in leather, unable to see.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Jeremy finally breaks the silence between us and grounds me back to the present.

‘Funny you should ask. I was actually just pondering the idea of how much of human conversation is based on questions, either direct or indirect. And whether I actively engage in real conversations in any other way than asking questions. And as I say the words out loud, the concept horrifies me if it is true. It’s only an underlying thought at this stage, but the more I consider it in theory, the greater relevance it appears to have for me.’

After my speculating comes to an end, there is an excruciatingly long silence.

‘Jeremy?’ Has he left me? Gone to the toilet?

‘Are you still there?’ I ask. Shit, I am prattling on to myself like a lunatic and he isn’t even here. I curse my blindness yet again.

‘Yes, I am still here,’ he says quietly, taking hold of my hand across the table. ‘I’m really pleased you’re beginning to understand this about yourself. Do you think it is fair that you ask the questions and we don’t ever get to hear about you? Your thoughts? Your feelings? You are so caught up in your professional self it has overflowed into your personal relationships. You are so busy trying to work out everyone else, I sometimes think you forget about yourself. Who you are. What you stand for.’

I am a little taken aback. Well, that’s an understatement. I am a lot taken aback. ‘You really think I’m like that?’

‘Yes, I do. You always had that tendency and it has become more acute with your profession. That is why you are finding it so incredibly difficult to refrain from asking questions this weekend, and letting go, as I knew you would.’ I suddenly feel much younger than Jeremy, psychologically small somehow. Stuck somewhere between the parent/child and doctor/patient relationship. This paradigm is exceptionally uncomfortable for me. I can’t say with any authority how it is for him, although I could calculate a guess.

‘How are you feeling, by the way, about not being visually stimulated?’ His curiosity has a slightly analytical tone to it.

‘It’s not as if I haven’t been stimulated in other ways …’ I say, trying to lighten the mood.

‘No, seriously Alex, tell me.’

Given he has just provided me with feedback on not being open I decide to answer honestly. ‘It is really, really difficult, as I’m sure you would assume, Doctor Quinn. Harder in some ways than I ever imagined … There’re times when I just feel like screaming at the complete and total frustration of it and there are other times, when I am totally caught off-guard and it’s, well … it is …’ I can feel my cheeks warming.

‘Go on.’ He strokes my cheek, gently encouraging more words to flow.

‘It’s just so strange being unable to anticipate, well, anything really. No actions, no words, I just don’t know where the twists and turns are coming from or whether we are coming to a complete stop. Conversations can feel a bit like the bike ride for me, figuratively speaking.’

‘And the other times?’ I notice I’m fidgeting and almost squirming in my seat. I’m used to being the one asking the questions, not answering them.

‘Other times I find myself nervously excited at the thought of not knowing what’s coming next, like when I might be touched or caressed, or even spanked!’ I blush, remembering the exceptionally swift slap on the arse that took me by complete surprise before dinner. ‘I don’t know where all this is leading and I’m really tempted to, well, you know, surrender control … but it is just so hard.’

‘I was hoping you would react this way and you’ve gone way beyond my expectations. If you would just trust me a little more, let me in. I do want you to surrender yourself to me this weekend, more than ever before. I want to reveal the true Alexa, the woman who has been hiding behind a controlled façade for way too long. We know the ins and outs of each other better than anyone else on the planet. We have nothing to lose and everything to gain. And frankly, along with discovering a cure for depression, which by the way I hope to achieve in the next year or two, you are my life’s mission.’

How and when did I become his life’s mission? His words scare the living daylights out of me, as I know what sort of man he is and he doesn’t say such things lightly — ever. Even though his comments are uncomfortable to hear out loud, somehow I sense the truth in them, whether I like it or not. Jeremy has always been able to see straight through me, sense what I’m feeling or wanting before I could put it into words, enabling him to be a step ahead of my thought processes. It seems that this weekend was playing out in the same way. We have never been able to fully let each other go.

‘If that is what you believe, then why do I always feel slightly on edge with you, Jeremy? I always have and I can’t believe it’s still happening after all these years.’ A little frustration enters my tone as I continue. ‘Look at me now, completely dependent on you. You know how much I value my independence, how hard I have worked for it, and that is exactly what you have taken away from me. You ask me to let you in, but how much further can I go? How much more do you want? Is this really about me, Jeremy, or is it honestly more about you?’

‘Interesting insights, Doctor Blake, to which I will give you one, honest response. You know when you are with me to always expect the unexpected. That is what I give you, that which cannot be controlled. Fear, excitement, anticipation, pleasure, the unknown, trust, surrender, all bundled up together. Somewhere in your psyche that combination proves an intoxicating mix. Why do I do it? Because I know, deep down, you love it, and ultimately it will free you from the constraints and boundaries you have set yourself. Think about it, Alex. If I were not in your life, the very thing that would be missing from it is freedom. Even if you get angry or frustrated with me, it is only ever short-lived, so I am willing to take the risk for the phenomenal rewards.’ He pauses momentarily as his words hit me like a brick. ‘There exists between us the ultimate sexual tension, and honestly, as much as we have tried to ignore it over the years, it will simply not be extinguished.’

‘Wow, that is a lot for a blind woman to absorb.’ The power of his words creates insightful paths that branch through my mind and pound in my head as I try to assimilate too many thoughts and emotions at once.

Could it be true? Do I love it? The unknown? The unexpected?

What does he mean by freedom? He keeps using this word …

Does he honestly believe we are destined to be this way?

I feel like he is reading me like a book this weekend, coherently, thoughtfully, cleverly and at whatever speed he chooses.

‘And rest assured, my dearest Alexa, the promise still stands from last night, and I am still counting.’

‘Sorry?’ I say, distracted by the sudden change in topic, still lost in the previous conversation. He repeats his statement.

‘I’m sure you remember only too well that I’m an excellent statistician!’ His tone is fully loaded with innuendo.

‘Yes, of course, Jeremy, how could I ever forget!’ My response equally loaded. I do remember only too well. The memory makes me squirm in my seat — initially uncomfortable, but amazing recollections.

‘What a classic night. One of my sweetest victories and ultimately one of our greatest discoveries about your incredible body …’ Jeremy’s voice trails off as we reminisce and I return to that time in our lives.

There has always been rivalry between us at uni as to who is best at what subjects and we often place bets with each other. Jeremy and I are both taking an elective Quantitative Methods course and had made a bet —whoever topped the class could choose one thing that the other had to go along with for the night, without complaint. I agreeably shook hands and had thoughts of Jeremy cleaning my apartment naked, preparing dinner, giving me a massage and generally being at my beck and call. Yes, I thought, this is an excellent idea for a bet, even more so because I had topped the class in all of our assignments. It never really occurred to me that I wouldn’t win; after all, it wasn’t his area of expertise.

The marks are finally announced: Jeremy scored half a mark more than me because he provided a more complete explanation for the final question. I head straight to Professor Jarlsberg’s office to go through the exam paper with him question by question. Annoyingly, although understandably, Jeremy accompanies me, unable and unwilling to hide the grin that looked far too big and wide for his face. No amount of argument or protest will convince the Professor to either increase my paper half a mark, or reduce Jeremy’s, though heaven knows I try. Jeremy’s smirk seems to double in size, if that were possible.

‘Not a word,’ I said harshly, waving my finger at him before storming off. Jeremy didn’t say a word, but his face spoke volumes.

I deliberately avoid him for the rest of the day, or else he wisely leaves me alone. We cross paths later that evening at our friend’s birthday drinks at a swanky gay bar just off Oxford Street in the city. I have calmed down and am not as devastated by my loss. An hour or so later, when we are all in a group talking, he whispers in my ear.

‘I think I’ll take my winnings now.’

‘Pardon, what did you say?’