Human Remains

this. I wanted to sleep and be left alone.

Colin
     
     
    Justine came to me via that most prosaic of meeting places, an internet dating site. It was all made so much simpler after Eleanor’s death, when I let go of the idea of a relationship. Why had I aspired to it, for all these years? There was nothing of any value in it for me. No, what I really wanted was sex, with a woman, preferably an attractive one, who would do everything I required of her and would have no expectations of anything further. Having had limited success with Eleanor, I went back to the books and worked out a refinement of my technique, which I thought had the potential to work. And, if it didn’t, then having made contact via the internet would facilitate a severance with the minimum of awkwardness.
    It took no time at all to find one. I created a fictitious profile, inventing myself as Mark Baxter, an IT consultant, single; spent a frustrating evening working my way through hundreds of female profiles looking for one that might at least be tolerable, and nearly gave up. The next evening I tried again and this time I spotted Justine. She was single, no children, and lived in north London. She said she was looking for ‘no-strings fun’ and listed various bland characteristics that I neither possessed nor fully understood. What the hell was a good sense of humour, anyway? What was a ‘kindred soul’? Her image showed a woman in her early thirties, shoulder-length brown hair, a smile which showed white, even teeth. She was looking at someone to her left, out of the picture. Maybe it was the lack of eye contact that I found particularly appealing.
    I sent her a message. Within a few minutes she replied. For half an hour or so we corresponded using the messaging system on the website, and then she asked for my email address so she could send me a picture. I hadn’t anticipated this. I messaged her to say my phone was ringing and I would be back shortly, then I went to create a Hotmail account in the name of Mark Baxter.
    A couple of minutes later I was back and she was still there, waiting for me. I messaged her the email address and said I was breathless with anticipation.
    Hope you like it
     
    When the email came through I was half-expecting a picture of kittens or some awful artwork or something, but it turned out to be Justine, wearing a pale blue bikini, sitting on some rocks, yellow sand between her toes and a foamy wave to the right. I was looking at her belly, tanned, not tight and muscular but a little loose, a small roll of flab just over the top of her bikini pants. Her hair was dry on the top, the wind lifting her fringe, the ends of her hair wet and hanging in rat’s tails.
    What do you think?
Very nice.
Thats called damming with faint praise
You mean damning.
Whatever
Alright, it’s better than very nice.
Hmmmm
Who took the picture?
My sister
You were on holiday somewhere?
Greece, 2 summers ago
Looks as if you were having a good time.
Yes. My sister died six months after
I’m sorry to hear that.
She had cancer
     
    I had no reply. This wasn’t the way I needed the conversation to go, and I had no idea how to get from here to asking her for sex, which was, after all, the purpose of this phenomenal waste of a perfectly good evening. As it turned out, though, she managed to surprise me. A few moments later another message came.
    You can cheer me up Mark. Do you want to meet?
     
    I met her in a bar in Crouch End. She was three minutes late. I was wearing a black jacket, as agreed, although there were other men in there wearing black jackets I was the only one who was alone and therefore I assumed she would have no trouble recognising me. I had also provided her with a recent picture of my face and shoulders.
    She’d aged a lot since the Greece picture, I thought. Her hair was still brown but it had an inch of grey at the roots, and her face was pale, not tanned, and lined around the eyes and mouth. Other than that, she was perfectly acceptable. I shook her hand when she came over.
    ‘So…’ she said.
    ‘Shall I get you a drink?’ I asked her.
    ‘Dry white wine, please,’ she said.
    I went to the bar and handed over a ten-pound note in exchange for a small wine and a half of Coke. I would have quite liked a pint with a whisky chaser, but not at these sorts of prices. And besides, if Justine invited me back to her house
    I would still need to drive home afterwards. I asked her about herself, avoiding the topic of her