FLING

FLING

That was some time ago when my mother’s friend came over from somewhere in the North. I didn’t much care for the social civic duties, because, albeit I’d just celebrated my 24th, and decided it that was my precious time to spend home on holidays. Life in the city had been driving me crazy, and things hadn’t been sound at home lately.

There was a spacious apartment with several rooms in the hometown—a long corridor, giving out to the suites, like in some expensive hotel your firm pays you to stay and cheat on your wife at. This friend, Helen was her name, had a couple of brats—I knew that from the old days, but didn’t expect them to be anywhere over 14. It turned out she had a daughter that was actually 17, all grown up and pretty.

I shut the door to my room, to seal myself from the outside world, but, of course, eventually, they barged in, expecting a welcome wagon. There was an awkward talk, because I was trying to get them off my case. Helen’s son was in his phone, and the daughter kept scrutinizing my room with that puzzled look. When I said I had things to do to leave them to their own devices—the talks about their jobs, about Steves and Jacks, who drive a decent car and could sustain a household, “You’re not that old, dove,” and so on—the girl wanted to tag along, saying she needed to see the town. I rolled my eyes and said “Okay,” just to get this over with. I couldn’t help noticing, though, the jacket she slipped on fit her slender figure all too well. I barely talked—delegated it to my new acquaintance—she seemed to be unable of keeping it zipped, but the more she asked, the more I registered that the questions were interesting to answer. Before going to bed, I kept thinking about some of the answers that, I was sure, she would have liked to hear.

Next afternoon she dropped by my room, and it was a relief, because I didn’t have to come up with an excuse to go to hers. We talked. A lot. She told me she wanted to travel—to break free, but where—that was a mystery even to her. I inadvertently caught myself admiring her eyes. When she got up and approached the window, there was that look on her face—the one I recognized; the one I had at that age; the best and dreamy. I dropped whatever I was doing and came up on her from behind. There was neither drama, nor hokum. She heard my footsteps and turned around to face me. She looked so lonely, as, I guess, she thought, did I. I took her in my arms, and she melted in this quiet and sweet embrace. We discussed our stupid lovers, if you could call them that—mine was a control freak, hers was a brainless boy. When Helen walked in, we distanced ourselves, even looked the other way.

She slipped past the dark hall to visit me at night. We held each other while the pole lights shone goldenrod all over our faces.

“I am… not sure that’s just a fling,” she whispered, as we hugged the next morning before they had to leave.

I took me a while to collect my thoughts. I knew it the very instant she said it, but I was so afraid to answer.

“No, it’s… not,” I said, as I helplessly watched her drive off.

We never saw each other again.

08.02.2022