The Sail Loft – Part 2: Reefing

"Yes," said Dev. "Please. I've been trying not to ask for weeks."

"You're a terrible liar."

"The canvas told you."

Graham laughed, soft and warm, and kissed him. The fog wrapped around the roof like a blanket. The kiss was salty and unhurried, and Dev slid his hand into Graham's silver-flecked beard and held on. Far out in the bay a bell buoy clanked, slow as a heartbeat.

"Is it cold?" asked Graham, when they came up for air.

"Freezing."

"I have a blanket. And a thermos. And a very comfortable old sail in the loft, if you'd like."

"A sail?"

"We're sailmakers." Graham smiled, a little shy. "It's the best bed in Newport."

They carried the blanket downstairs to the loft. In the lamplight, Graham spread an old mainsail across the floor, soft and heavy, warm against the chill, and they lay on it in the quiet. The tall windows framed a hazy sky, and the foghorn sounded again. The thermos steamed.

"Are you sure?" Graham asked, his hand at Dev's shirt.

"I've never been surer. Are you?"

"I've thought about you every day since you couldn't thread the needle."

They undressed slowly, laughing at cold hands and tangled collars, and then not laughing at all. Their lovemaking was gentle and sure, with canvas whispering under them and fog pressing soft at the windows. Time slowed to a long, easy swell.

At dawn, the fog lifted. Dev woke wrapped in an old mainsail, with Graham's arm around him and a tray of coffee on the floor. Across the harbour the first boats were heading out into pearly light.

"There's a race on Saturday," said Graham. "Crew's short. I thought you might like to come."

"I don't know how to sail."

"You know how to make one." Graham kissed his hair. "That's the better half."

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