The Boathouse – Part 2: Long Breakfast

Breakfast was bacon rolls and big mugs of tea at a little cafe on the towpath, with the river slow and bright beyond the window. They sat at a scratched wooden table in their rowing kit, still damp, still glowing. They talked about nothing and everything. Races won and lost. The aching, miraculous silence of a sunrise on the water.

"I've rowed for twenty years," said Aaron. "I've never rowed with someone who listens."

"I was terrified."

"You were brilliant." Aaron smiled. "And I've been wanting to say something for three weeks."

"Say it."

"I would like to kiss you. When we leave. If you would like that."

"I would," said Sam. "Very much."

They walked back along the towpath, shoulders brushing, the morning bright and the willows whispering. At the old boathouse, empty on a weekday, Aaron stopped in the shadow of the doorway. His hand came up to Sam's face, steady, hesitant, warm.

The kiss was slow and tasted of tea. Sam slid his arms round Aaron's neck and laughed with joy, and they leaned against the sun-warmed timber, kissing, as the river slid past outside.

"My flat is above the boathouse," said Aaron. "It's small. It has a view of the river. And a very good kettle."

"I'd like to see the kettle."

"It's not the kettle," said Aaron.

"No," said Sam. "I know."

The flat was tiny and bright, with a bed by the window and a pair of oars hung on the wall. They undressed slowly, laughing at lycra and damp socks, and under the sun-warm quilt they discovered a different kind of rhythm, steady, unhurried and sure. The river glittered beyond the glass. Neither of them heard the clock.

On Saturday they raced together in the club regatta, the double scull sliding through the finish line a length ahead of the next boat. Sam raised his arms and whooped. Aaron laughed and pulled him close, damp and happy, in front of the whole crowd on the bank.

Someone cheered. Then everybody did.

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