Night

*NIGHT*

A woman and a man in their forties.

They sit with tea.

'I'm talking about that time by the river,' Vernon's loud voice echoed through the empty kitchen.

Across from each other at the kitchen table, sat Vernon and Petunia Dursley. They were talking over a cup of tea. Because everything here in the UK seemed to be done over a cup of tea. Petunia had her pink bathrobe on, curlers in her hair, her feet were bare. She sighed in annoyance, took a sip of her tea and held her teacup high in her hands.

'What time?'

'The first time. On the bridge. Starting on the bridge.' There was a pause, she broke away from her husband's intense stare.

'I can't remember,' she almost whispered.

'On the bridge,' he said, his voice overruling hers,'we stopped and looked down at the river. It was night. There were lamps lit on the towpath. We were alone. We looked up the river. I put my hand on the small of your waist. Don't you remember? I put my hand under your coat.' Petunia stirred her tea, and frowned.

'Was it winter?'

'Of course it was winter. It was when we met. It was our first walk. You must remember that.'

'I remember walking.' Petunia looked straight in his eyes. 'I remember walking with you.' Vernon ran his hand through his silvering hair.

'The first time? Our first walk?' he said in a reproachful tone.

'Yes, of course I remember that.' She pictured their first walk, looked dreamily into space, and smiled. 'We walked down a road, onto a field, through some railings. We walked to a corner of the field, and then we stood by the railings.'

'No. It was on the bridge that we stopped,' he said, his eyes searching hers.

'That was someone else,' she answered defiantly.

'RUBBISH!' Vernon said louder than he had intended, punching his fist down on the table. Then, getting up and clutching the back of the chair tightly, he repeated, 'Rubbish...'

'That was another girl,' Petunia stated.

'It was years ago, you've forgotten.' Vernon circled the kitchen table. 'I remember the light on the water.' Petunia smiled again, it was a genuine smile- tonight she travelled back to that night so many years ago.

'You took my face in your hands, standing by the railings. You were gentle. You were caring,' she said bitterly. 'You cared. Your eyes searched my face. I wondered who you were. I wondered what you thought. I wondered what you would do.'

Vernon sat down again, and leaned across the table to his wife.

'You agree we met at a party. You agree with that?' Right?

'What was that?' Petunia looked away from her husband's searching eyes, and looked up to the ceiling, and towards the door.

'What?'

'I thought I heard a child crying.'

'There was no sound,' he stated, his tone accusing.

'I thought it was a child crying, waking up.' Vernon chuckled -Dudley past waking up and crying, and Harry...

'The house is silent.' He glanced at his watch, it read one A.M. 'Listen, It's very late. We should be in bed. I have to be up early. I have things to do... Why do you argue?'

'I don't...' Her voice trailed off. 'I'm not...' She paused 'I'm willing to go to bed. I have things to do. I have to be up in the morning.' None of them spoke for a moment. They were both thinking.

'A man called Daughty gave the party. You knew him. I had met him. I knew his wife. I met you there.' Right? 'You were standing by the window. I smiled at you.' He looked up and met his wife's eyes. 'And to my surprise you smiled back! You liked me. I was amazed. You found me attractive...' He cut short after those few words: Vernon - at least now - was anything but attractive. 'Later you told me you liked my eyes.'

'You liked mine.' She closed hers and when she fluttered them back open she could see the scene before her. 'You touched my hand,' Vernon started shaking his head, but she went on, her hand stroking her other one, seeking the lost touch. 'You asked me who I was, and what I was, and whether I was aware that you were touching my hand, that your fingers were moving up and down between mine...'

'No,' he answered, still shaking his head. 'No. We stopped on the bridge. I stood behind you. I put my hand under you coat, onto your waist,' he sighed an continued, 'you felt my hand on you.' It wasn't a question.

Petunia snapped back to reality and stared at Vernon for a moment, examining the forty year old man that had once been the handsome young boy she'd met. She took a sip of her cold tea, and bit her lip.

'We had been to a party. Given by the Daughtys,' Petunia started, and he nodded in approbation, 'you had known his wife. She looked at you dearly, as if to say you were her dear. She seemed to love you. I didn't. I didn't know you. They had a lovely house. By a river. I went to collect my coat, leaving you waiting for me. You had offered to escort me. I thought you were quite courtly, quite courteous, pleasantly mannered, quite caring. I slipped my coat on and looked out the window, knowing you were waiting. I looked down over the garden to the river, and saw the lamplight on the water. Then I joined you and we walked down the road through some railings, into a filed, must have been some kind of park. Later we found your car. You drove me.'

She got up, and during the uneasy silence, walked to the counter she poured herself another cup of tea. Her back was turned when her husband spoke again.

'I touched your breasts.' There was a new note in his voice: pride. She kept her back to him as she spoke.

'Where?'

'On the bridge,' he replied quickly. 'I felt your breasts.'

'Really?' she asked sceptically.

'Standing behind you,' he went on as if she hadn't said anything at all.

'I wondered whether you would...' Petunia said, as she turned around, teacup in hand, leaning against the counter. 'Whether you wanted to, whether you would.'

'Yes.'

'I wondered how you'd go about it, whether you wanted to, sufficiently,' she emphasised her last word as she stared back at him intensely.

'I put my hands under you sweater, I undid your bra. I touched your breasts.'

'Another night, perhaps, another girl.' She gave herself a satisfied smile as she sat back down next to him, sipping her tea silently.

'You don't remember my fingers on your skin?' he questioned his tone now dangerous.

'Were they in your hands...?' she asked, deep in thought. 'Fully in your hands?'

'You don't remember my hands on your skin?' he reiterated.

'Standing behind me?'

'Yes!' She shook her head.

'But my back was against the railings. I felt the railings... Behind me.' She touched her back. 'You were facing me,' she looked up to Vernon, and continued in a gentler tone: 'I was looking into your eyes. My coat was closed. It was cold.'

'I undid your coat'

'It was very late. Chilly.'

Vernon touched his greying moustache pensively, and sighed.

'And then we left the bridge and we walked down the towpath and we came to a rubbish dump,' he said.

'And you had me. And you told me you had fallen in love with me. And you said you'd take care of me always, and you said that my eyes were incomparable and that you would adore me always.' And with that she looked away.

'Yes I did.' He gave her a warm smile.

'And you do adore me always...?' Her eyes pleaded.

'Yes I do.' She let out a sad laugh.

'And then we had a child, and we sat and we talked and you remembered women on bridges and towpaths and rubbish dumps!'

'And you remembered your bottom against railings and men holding your hands and men looking into your eyes,' he said his tone matching her ironic one. She looked up at him.

'And talking to me softly-'

'And your soft voice, talking to them softly at night.'

'And they said...' Petunia's voiced cracked. 'I will adore you always.' A tear rolled down her cheek as she spoke. He swallowed with difficulty.

'Saying, I will adore you always.'