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But they are nice people and fun to be with and so I go. I arrived at their flat straight from work wearing an A-line skirt and shirt. He opens the door in what appears to be his gym gear; she is also casual, in jeans and a hoodie. They invite me in and as he goes to pour me a drink, she invites me to sit. I choose a spot on their sofa and they recline in two matching grey armchairs. We spend about an hour chatting about general nothingness and soon the conversation turns to relationships, sex and sexual fantasies. It was obvious that they have been drinking before I arrived and feeling braver then I. She starts to tell me about her fantasy of being with another woman and I admit that this is something I had thought about too. He just sits there with a grin on his face. I know where this conversation is going and yet I am still surprised when they ask. "Would I go to bed with them?"I suppose I asked to take a shower first so that I could get my head around their request. I step out. She mimed her surgery, explaining as best she could with exaggerated gestures the threat of gangrene. He looked puzzled until she held her nose and then he nodded grimly. He had obviously seen the effects of untreated frostbite. She helped him up and the blankets fell away. He was confused, embarrassed by his nakedness, not wanting her to see his shrivelled manhood. She tutted, a universal sound of dismissal, but handed him the blankets to cover himself and he managed a shy smile. She steered him to her low bed and tucked him in. Again she fed him soup, not too much, for his shrunken stomach couldn’t cope. She smiled as his head started to droop and he subsided back into sleep. She gathered up the tattered clothing, staring hard at the tarnished buttons with their two-headed eagle. She knew, then, what he was. The long boots, soles worn through and bound with rags, the ragged dolman. She muttered to herself and crossed herself sketchily. This was the hated enemy, the ravisher of.
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