Kissing Through a Pane of Glass by Peter Michael Rosenberg

her. The tears welled up in my eyes and although I tried to control myself, the effort was too great. My legs felt weak, I started to shake. How much of this was due to the drink I could not have said. All I knew was that a moment later I had sunk to my knees, head in hands, and was sobbing uncontrollably.
     
    Sometime later - I don’t know how long - I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up. Liana was kneeling before me. A certain calm had returned to her expression, but she looked terribly sad.
     
    ‘Don’t cry, Michael,’ she said softly. ‘Please don’t cry.’
     
    I shook my head. She put her hand to my cheek. ‘Please don’t cry,’ she said again.
     
    I was still so choked I could barely get the words out. ‘Who did this to you Liana? Who did this terrible thing to you?’
     
    Her eyes filled with tears. She put her arms around me, pulled me towards her, and cradled my head against her breasts.
     
    ‘Poor Michael,’ she said, rocking me back and forth. ‘Poor, poor Michael.’
     

Chapter 19
     
    I have known Rachel for over twenty years. We were childhood friends. We went through school together. When I went to Sussex, Rachel continued her education at Bristol. We maintained contact during this period, although we saw each other rarely. For the last eight years, Rachel has lived in London; she is my one real link with the city. Rachel understands me better than my own family, and I am probably her closest friend.
     
    She is a lovely woman: tall, strikingly attractive, exceptionally intelligent, very warm. She draws people of like mind and disposition around her; she has the most loyal friends of anyone I know; she is generous to a fault, and people will do anything for her. Yet she is not married and rarely has a man in tow. She has one problem, a problem that hangs over her head like the Sword of Damocles. Rachel would love to have a partner - but she hates sex. Penetration causes her extreme pain, and after intercourse she is often physically sick. Three gynaecologists have assured her that there is nothing wrong with her physically, that the sharp, shooting pains she feels are almost certainly psychosomatic, and that perhaps she should seek a different sort of professional help. Which is a great irony, since Rachel is, by profession, a psychoanalyst.
     
    We have talked about her difficulties often, but have rarely made any headway. She says she has normal feelings of desire; she finds certain men attractive, and will often want to go to bed with them. But once she’s alone with them, once clothes are removed and the first moves are made, she is overcome with a sense of panic. No matter how much she tries to control this, it is to no avail. Nine times out of ten, sex will be abandoned before it has even started, with much distress on both sides and, inevitably, dreadful recriminations.
     
    You would think - bearing in mind her experience, connections and common sense - that Rachel might have attempted to seek advice from her professional colleagues, but she has not. When I suggested hypnosis, perhaps, as a way of discovering the source of this debilitating condition, Rachel dismissed it without rational explanation. Which is a pity, because I am certain that the key to releasing her from this prison lies buried in her past. My only evidence is something she once said to me, early one morning, whilst still half asleep.
     
    Rachel likes sleeping with me. We can lie together in the same bed, completely naked, and there is no possibility that anything of a sexual nature will occur. We have known each other too long for that and, thankfully, are not physically attracted to each other. Even these days, if I am not abroad and Liana is not around, Rachel and I will seek each other out. It is a fine, mutual arrangement that gives us both comfort and warmth. Rachel feels safe with me; we often fall asleep in each other’s arms.
     
    After one such night I woke a little earlier than Rachel, and stayed