We met in the Algarve. He sunned on decorative rocks. I sipped Love on the Rocks by the pool. He approached me – drawn, perhaps, to my scarlet bikini or maybe my crimson drink. Initially, I was put off by his leathery hide. Didn’t like his independently roving eyes. Or his two-inch claws. Then he fanned his crest, flashed bright-bold shades of reds, blues, greens and golds – a mating ritual I supposed. What can I say? His primitive nature struck a chord.
Khem wasn’t much of a looker but the things he did with his tongue… And when his tail wrapped tight around my waist, I felt safe – like he’d never let me go.
We didn’t have much in common it’s true – except a shared love of basking in the sun. Sometimes that’s enough.
Back in Bolton, I introduced him to Mum. She cried. Said even Dodo Darrell was better than this. I pointed out at least chameleons chew their food. Friends said a relationship between an Old-World lizard and a twenty-first-century lass wouldn’t work. Perfect, I said – Khem wasn’t work. We married in a registry office, accompanied by more tears from Mum. I wore plain cream while Khem blazed like a Christmas tree, nearly noble, with a thimble-sized top hat balanced on the tip of his crest. The sun shone on us that whole glorious June day and I knew I was right.
We were ridiculously happy at first. No one understood how easy it was to communicate. Myth says chameleons colour-match to their environment. Fact knows it’s mood. The men I’d known before Khem had kept their feelings buried, hidden deep. With him, emotion blazed across his skin. No game playing. No need to guess how he felt. It was bliss. We humans think we’re better – so sophisticated, more complex. Simple ways are often best.
We didn’t last but it’s not what people think. Chameleons prefer a solitary life and everyone wanted to meet. At cocktail parties when Khem opened his mouth wide and bobbed his head from side to side, it was mistaken as friendly greeting. Once introductions were made, I’d find Khem a quiet room with curtains he could cling to. I’d explain it wasn’t bad manners – chit-chat just wasn’t his thing. Once he got to know someone in a quiet arboreal setting, he sometimes enjoyed a gentle stroke under his chin. He was a creature at ease on his own.
I saw the pity-smiles and shaking heads. Heard what narrowing eyes said: our relationship wasn’t real. A couple couldn’t be apart and still truly together. Some even suspected he was nothing but a lounge lizard, just along for a free ride.
I fell into that people-pleasing trap women do. Posted staged scenes on social media of domestic bliss cuddled up with Khem. Ensured I always colour-coordinated with him instead of acknowledging my own moods.
When Khem turned brown I told myself it was brumation – brought on by winter dark, damp and cold. I bought a basking bulb, additional heat lamps. Refreshed all the yucca and rubber tree plants. Pleaded with Khem to pretend Bolton was the Algarve.
He left anyway.
Mum came round all dry-eyed and canary-smile, wrapped smug-tight in I-Told-You-So’s. Proclaimed I was a silly goose not knowing marriage had to manage rainy days too. Said I’d be alright, even happy, as soon as I was Bolton-normal like them. Friends offered to help me throw a party – everyone could take a plant. I saw it then – the problem wasn’t Khem, but them.
I moped for months. Dressed all in grey. Wore a neon-yellow scarf as a warning for Mum to stay away. She didn’t understand my colours. Nobody in Bolton did. A well-intentioned friend suggested I look for love in Antarctica. The place was full of penguins. They mate for life she said. I shuddered. I had nothing against tuxedoed birds but knew my heart would never find love in a cold world.
I returned to the Algarve. Moved into a block of flats with extensive grounds and a communal pool. Met Tadeu – the on-site gardener. He’s shy, slow-paced, has a seductive sunbeam smile and wears an impressive array of Hawaiian shirts. With his bald head and stocky build, he bears more than a passing resemblance to a terrapin – especially when basking on one of the larger, flat slabs of rock near the pool. Now his tongue isn’t as long or strong. I only speak one word of Portuguese, still – we’re off to a promising start.
Tadeu works early mornings, then joins me poolside afternoons. Often, we are the only two, appreciating the glorious heat, sunshine and each other – communicating through bouquets of flowers he presents, his bright shirts and my vivid bikinis. Now sometimes we complement each other. Other times we clash – and that’s absolutely fine. What matters is we show our true colours. Let rain enhance our relationship.
It’s true Mum had a point with her tough-love marriage message. But I also learned something valuable from Khem – self-love. When he appears one day out of the blue on a stone, all healthy-glow and rainbow-shimmer, I smile and wave hello. Giggle when he tongue-flicks my way. Whisper as he lumbers off to catch some lunch, Obrigado, Khem.
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Originally from Missouri, USA, Sherry Morris writes prize-winning fiction from a Scottish Highland farm where she pets cows, watches clouds and dabbles in photography. She also presents Sherry’s Shorts – an online radio programme of short fiction with Highland Hospital Radio. Visit Uksherka.com for her published work and listen to episodes of Sherry’s Shorts on hhr.scot.
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