our little talks

7/27/2019 our little talks

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our little talks

the complete short story


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dedicationfor you.


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one.October.

And morning.

And the two of us.

My guitar beside the bed. My diary on my bed table.

A cup of coffee. Empty.You're still sleeping. Your back is bare, my hand

wrapped around you. The warmth of your skin. The

smell of the blanket. My feet, high in the air. The dust,

swirling.

Everything.

Simplicity. Between us. In this room. Between meand the Sun. The Sun's shining. That's the October I

love.

"Hey," I say, as soon as you open your eyes.

"Hey." Your voice is raspy.


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"Want some coffee?"

"Mhm."

"But you'll have to wait," I say. "I'm lazy. I won't get

out of bed so soon."

"There's no rush."

Our hands. Your hair, messy. The smell of them.

"What is it?" I ask.

"What?"

"That feeling," I say."It's called love."

"Uh."

"Pretty tough, right?" you say.

"Yeah."

"Want some breakfast?"

"I don't know yet," I say. "Let's just stay in bed.""We can't stay here forever."

"Sure we can." I smile. You smile. The ticking of

the watch. The books on my table, tons of them.

Poetry. Fiction.

You like fiction.

My fingers, touching your forehead."You're a strange person," you're saying. I love the

timbre of your voice.

"Are you afraid of me?" I ask.

"No."

"Okay. You should be."


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"Why?"

"Because I'm a very unhappy person," I answer.

"You don't look like an unhappy person."

I shrug. "I am. Most of the time."

"Are you unhappy now?"

"Now? No. I'm happy now. Or at least I think I

am."

"Okay."

"Okay.""Let's get some coffee," I manage, standing up.

"And cookies."

"Okay. And cookies."

The morning.

The two of us.


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two.When I come home from school, I find you there,

sitting in my kitchen behind the table. And you're

smoking.

"I've never seen you smoking before," I say aloud.

"I do smoke," you nod, "but just occasionally; whensomeone offers me the cigarettes. These are left from

the last week's party."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Do you mind that I smoke?" you ask.

"I don't," I reply. "Breathe the smoke into my lungs," I

sing in a falsetto voice.

"What's that?"

"A song," I answer. "Do you know it?"

A shake of a head.

"It's by Ellie Goulding. Figure 8. Do you want to

listen to it?"


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"I don't have a mood for sad things," you say.

"It's definitely not sad," I squint at you.

"Okay."

I turn the player on.

The shape of your jaw as I trace it down with my

finger. Mornings are always better. At least I think they

are.

"It's Saturday," you say.

I nod.

"What are we going to do?" you keep saying.

"I don't know. I don't want to do anything today. I

just want it to be a lazy day."

"You've got a lot of lazy days." Your laughter. Your

eyes. The sun is slowly sneaking into them, makes

them brighter. That colour makes me feel good. Your

eyes and your eyebrows. Everything. The symmetry of

your face.

The nature was very generous to you.

A bottle of wine on the table. We were drinking last

night, but not so much. I hate wine and you know that,


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but you brought grape. And cheese. Many of them.

You taught me how to drink wine; how to savour it.

"Try this cheese," you say, pointing at it.

"What is it?"

"That's Gouda. And there is Parmesan. And Edam.

And Mozzarella, and..."

"Okay, okay, I've got it. I'll just pick one, right?"

"Yes."

"I think I'll choose Gouda. I've never had it before."Gouda is good. Wine is good, too.

"I don't want to get drunk," I say. "I have to do a

lot of things tomorrow. I can't afford a hangover."

"We won't get drunk."

"The last time you said it you were actually lying."

"I didn't know you hated wine." You're smiling."I still hate it, but I'll drink it."

"Okay."

"Okay."

It's Saturday.


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three.I want to find some remarkable words.

And some remarkable sentences. The ones that

would give me the feeling that I've always known whatthe right thing to do was. We haven't spoken a lot. We

are not in a good mood for talking. The weather is

cold and my hands are cold, too. As if the blood in

them had suddenly stopped running.

"Are you cold?" you ask.

I had a literature class today. We've discussed thehidden symbols. The symbols that author had used;

the ones that aren't recognizable at first sight. The

symbols like hands and eyes.

"I'm fine," I answer.


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My hands are cold.

The symbol of hands. I can't exactly remember

what the teacher was saying, because in my thoughts, I

was home, with you. In my bed. We weren't doing

anything; just silently lying there. The windows were

open; the curtains were swaying like waves of the

ocean. I don't know why it reminded me this. Strange

thoughts occur to me when I'm at least expecting

them."Come to me." Your voice is barely a whisper.

I shrug. "You should go. We're done for today."

"I don't think so."

"I don't have energy. I certainly don't want to fight.

I'm weak enough and you're just making me weaker.

Don't make me weaker."The relationships are like that. Sometimes, there's a

sun. Sometimes, there's a rain. Now, there's a fog.

A husky, cold, and thick fog.

"You're strange. I haven't done anything bad."

"You haven't done anything at all. That's the thing."

I know I'm being rude. My eyes would be filled withtears in a minute. I'm also tired; I didn't sleep last

night. The blankets are cold, because the warmth from

them has already disappeared into the air.

"I think it would be best..." you start, but then stop.

I never liked unfinished sentences.


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I'm staring at the opposite wall. This one is green.

It's a spring colour; I picked it with my mother. It

doesn't fit this autumn weather, where everything is

slowly dying.

Why is autumn so beautiful, when everything dies?

The question lingers in my mind.

"Hey," you say, patting me on my shoulder. "Please.

Please, I'm begging you."

There's a blur on the mirror. I should have cleanedit a long time ago, but I was lazy.

"Have I gone mad?" I ask, louder then I wanted to.

"You're not mad."

"I'm not mad."

"Yes, you're not mad."

We hug. The hug is tight, you just can't let me go.I'm squeezing your chest. Our heartbeats harmonize

and I'm breathing slowly. My cheeks are wet in a

minute and yours are too.

"I'm sorry," I whisper into your ear. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"I don't know what I'm doing, but I want it gone. Iwant to be normal again. Happy."

"You'll be."

"I have to be," I say.

"I know."

"I love you."


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"I love you," you reply again.

"Don't let me go."

"I won't."

"You promise?" I look into your eyes.

"Promise."

The next morning, I feel good. You're lying next to

me; we're together here. You didn't leave me last night.

That's a proof.

That's enough for me.


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four.I wake up in the middle of the night. This has been

the strangest dream so far. I'm alone here; you went

home. The side of the bed where you were lying has

still the remainders of your presence. I'm trying tosleep again.

My mother used to serve me milk with honey when

I couldn't sleep well. The kitchen is empty and cold,

but that doesn't stop me; I'm searching for milk.

The bottle of honey is on the top shelf and I have

to stand on my tiptoes, so I can reach it. I hope thatthis medicine will help me.

It has to.


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In my dream, it's May.

The weather is fine; the sky is clear, without any

indication of clouds. I'm late, so I'm in a hurry. I don't

want you to wait too long. I know how you hate it

when someone's late.The coffee house is full; people are talking and

laughing. The mixture of sounds reaches my ear. I'm

looking for you.

And you're there.

"Hey," I say, sitting down behind the table.

"Hey."

"I'm sorry that I'm late, but..."

Your hand stops me. "It's okay." Then a warm smile

spreads on your face.

The waitress comes and we order. I can't decide, so

at last I take a cup of hot chocolate. I think something

sweet would calm me down, but I'm not so nervous; I

do not feel the butterflies in my stomach anymore.

Those times are gone, but the spark of love still

remains.

"I have to tell you something," you start, slowly

sipping of your cup of cappuccino.


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"Yes?"

"I think we've reached that point when we have to

consider where our relationship is heading."

The chocolate burns the tip of my tongue. I raise

my eyebrows at you. I feel like I misheard something.

The buzz around me rises on its intensity. People are

smiling, sipping of their coffees.

"What?"

"I think we should take a break," you say, staring atthe table.

A lump forms in my throat. "What the hell?" I blurt

out. Some heads turn towards us. The heat rises in my

cheeks. I suddenly feel ashamed. "You want a...break?"

"Yes."

"But...why? Have I done something wrong?""No."

"Then?" I ask.

You shrug.

I feel anger. I want to go away and leave you there.

I'm clenching my hands into fists. What the hell is that

supposed to mean?"I think you've said enough," I say. "You should

probably leave."

You say nothing. Then you slowly rise from your

seat, heading toward the exit.

"I'm sorry," a whisper forms on your lips.


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I'm not looking at you. Your unfinished cup

remains on the table. I raise my head after you leave.

The coffee house is full, but I feel lonely.

"Yes?""Did I wake you up?" I ask, suddenly feeling guilty.

"I wasn't sleeping at all. What happened?"

"Nothing, I just needed to hear your voice," I say.

I'm feeling like a stupid thirteen year old girl. They do

things like that. And I'm twenty, by the way. And I'm

not a girl.

"Okay. Do you want to stop by?" you ask.

"Are your parents out of town?"

"Yeah. They had to attend some party."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

There's a silence. "I had a strange dream."

"What kind of a dream?"

"You broke up with me," I answer.

"Then it was a nightmare, not a dream."

We laugh. My heart feels light weight. It's 1:30 a.m.

"Can I really come?" I ask, after a while.


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"Yes. You should have been here already."

I laugh, louder. This makes me feel good.

"Okay. I'll put on some clothes."

"It would be risky if you came naked. The night is

really cold."

"I know. And by the way, I'm not an exhibitionist."

"I thought you were."

"And I thought you were funny," I say, with a

teasing voice."I am funny!" you shout into the phone.

"Okay, okay," I say, laughing. "You win! You are

funny."

When we hang up, I put on some clothes. The

mirror in the hallway shows me the features of my

tired face.I couldn't sleep and it is still visible.

The night is cold, but I feel warmth.


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five.The resonance of the words in my head.

And the slow movement of my hand, touching your

cheek and tracing it down alongside your jaw.

"So?" I ask."So?" you repeat.

"How did you sleep?"

"Very good."

A smile on your face.

"I think we are going to spend the rest of our lives

in this bed," you say."We are definitely not." A laugh. A breath, coming

out of your lungs in a slow motion.

I heave up on the bed, leaning on my elbows.


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"Hemingway, Woolf, Joyce,"I read aloud. "Where did

you buy those books?" I ask.

"In the charity shops," you answer. "They were very

cheap."

A Farewell to Arms. The Waves. Dubliners.

"Did you read all of them?"

"Yes."

"I've never quite understood Virginia Woolf's piece

of writing. Or Joyce's. The only author who hasimpressed me the most is probably Hemingway."

"That's because he writes about war, I guess," you

say.

I shrug. "He uses short sentences," I say. "And he

writes in a very realistic way. When I was reading

books by him, I suddenly imagined the moviehappening in my mind. I guess that's one of the

purposes of literature."

"If you just quit thinking and let the words overflow

you, you would like Woolf's books, too."

"Maybe."

"I'm sure of it.""Until then," I say, putting the finger on your lips,

"no more words about experimental literature."


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The sun; heating my back. The chair, which is

probably older than anything in this room; but I like it.

I like it all. The smell of turpentine. The old

gramophone, which is placed on a small cherry table.

"Have you ever brought anyone in your studio?" Iask.

"Are you asking if I have ever painted anyone of my

previous lovers?"

I hesitate for a moment. "Yes."

"Then the answer is no."

"Okay."

"Okay. And don't move," you say, the brush is

quickly moving over the canvas.

"I didn't move."

"But you're speaking," you say.

"Okay. I'll be quiet."

When you're done, you show me my portrait.

Indians say about photographs, that when someone

captures you, it takes a piece of your soul from you. I

don't know how it is with paintings, but I like it a lot.

I gave you my piece of soul a long time ago, I guess.

There's nothing left to lose.


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"Thank you," I say. "I never knew you could paint

like that."

"You never asked."

"What else can you do?" I ask.

You shrug. "Painting is the only thing I am good at.

Or at least I think so."

"There has to be much more," I smile.

"And what about you?"

"Me?""Yes. We've been dating for two months and you

hadn't even shown me what you're good at."

I think for a while. "I like writing."

"Really?"

I nod.

"What do you write mostly?""Poems. And short stories."

"Could you write me a poem?" you ask.

"Do you think it's romantic? Because, I really don't

know anyone of my friends who would write poetry. I

think boys don't like poetry as much."

"But you like it.""I do. I really do."

"Then write me a poem."

"Okay. I will."


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The bed is cosy.

"I feel like a middle-aged man."

"Why is that?" you ask.

"I don't know. It's the entire sleepover thing. I will

vanish in the morning, okay?"You're silent for a minute. "Okay."

"I have written something for you."

"A poem?"

"Exactly," I say. "Does it matter that it's not

rhyming?"

"It does not."

"Okay. Do you want me to read it?" I ask.

"Yes, please."

So I do. I take a deep breath, which is suddenly

reminding me of the times when I was a kid and went

to competitions where I had to recite poetry or prose.

I only won once.

I've lost myself

many

times

before.


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Because love

sometimes

does that.

It takes the piece

of you

and

just doesn't

return it

back.But I think

that someone

else

will repair that

empty space.

And it's upto you

if you will let

them

do

that.


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six."Come down," you say.

"No."

"Come down, please," you say again.

"No, no, no." I know Im behaving like a little kid,but sometimes, it's hard to persuade me.

"Oh, please, it'll be just one ride," your voice goes

through the speakers.

I'm standing in the hallway of the apartment. My

parents are gone; they went to work. I'm standing

there barefoot, feeling the coldness of the ground."I told you," I raise my voice a bit. "I can't ride a

bike. I've never learned it."

"It is not that hard."


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"Do you even imagine how ridiculous I would look?

Twenty year old boy, who learns how to ride a

bicycle," I say.

"It isn't ridiculous," you say. "I'll teach you."

"No."

"Please."

I sigh; a long and heavy breath comes out of my

lungs. "It's cold out there."

"It's October. And by the way, it's a beautiful Indiansummer."

"It's cold out there," I repeat.

"Put on a jumper," you don't give up.

I reconsider it for a minute. "Fine. I'll go down."

Trees. And their leaves, splashing the colours of

brown, red and yellow all around the world. I've never

seen such beauty.

"You're doing great," you say.

"That's because you're holding the bicycle," I say

sarcastically.

"Nope. You've got a talent for it."

"I just feel embarrassed."


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"Embarrassed? Why?" you ask, as surprise sneaks

into your voice.

"I just...don't...I think I had enough for today," I

jump off the bicycle and walk along the path. I never

spent time in this park. Truth be told, it looked

horrible. There was a mess all around it, trash bins

were thrown down and homeless people were sleeping

on the benches. Now the park is renewed. It looks

really beautiful."I'm just not in a right mood today, I guess," I spill

out, as a form of an apology.

You look at me for a while. "That's okay."

"I don't know what's going on with me. I feel

depressed."

"Depressed?""I don't know. I want to go home."

Then you hug me. Then we go away.

The jumper is scratching my skin all the time, but I

don't even notice it. I'm sitting in my bedroom; you're

sitting next to me.


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"Herbal tea," you say, giving me a warm cup into

my hands. "It'll make you feel better."

"That would be great."

"Do you still feel bad?" you ask.

"Just a little."

Your hand brushes my bangs out of my forehead.

"You've got a high forehead," you say.

"And what about it? I ask.

"Do you know what they say about people withhigh foreheads?"

"That they are mad?"

You laugh. I try the tea. It tastes good.

"No," you say, right after you stop laughing. "They

say they are very intelligent."

"Then you have to be blind. I'm definitely notintelligent."

"I don't think I'm dating a stupid guy."

"Maybe you didn't notice that because we're equally

stupid," I suggest.

"Are you saying I'm stupid?" you're trying to fake

anger."Oh, come on," I say. "It was just a joke."

"Okay. Do you feel better now?"

"A bit," I answer.

Then we kiss.

And the rest of the day ends quicker than we think.


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seven.Silence.

What? you ask.

Nothing, I answer. I just ... We were reading a

short piece of drama today, I continue, and we were

discussing symbols that were hidden there, youknow?

Symbols? Again?

Why are you so surprised? I study literature; I

think there are always going to be some symbols.

Okay. Go on then.

And, I say, we mentioned symbols like mouthandheart.

Really?


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I nod. We were talking about the connection

between them; about the relationship between the

heart and the mouth, I repeat.

Please, elaborate, you say.

Just that we never say whats in our hearts; what

our heartswould say.

It can be pretty tough sometimes, you say.

Tough?

You know, the words. They can hurt sometimes.The truth always hurts, I point out. But its up to

you if you want to admit it to yourself.

Thats right. What else did you learn?

I cant remember everythingprecisely, I say.

Did you pay attention?

I certainly did, I squint at you. Even though Islept for like only4 hours.

Oh.

Yeah.

We are silent for a minute.

But I do remember what our teacher said, I

murmur.You raise your eyebrows, waiting for the answer.

I mean something about true love.

Im listening, you lean closer towards me.

Well, I cant remember it word byword, so Ill just

try to summarize it somehow, I say.


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Okay.

He said that if you truly love someone, you dont

have to say it all the time. That person would know it

even without saying it out loud.

I agree with that.

And that true love reflects itself not in words but

rather in actions, I explain.

I think he was right.

I nod. Sometimes, when were reading something,we dont see the purpose of that piece of literature.

And the only option how to understand it is to remind

yourselfthat youve experienced those things.

And that means...? you ask.

That means that today I couldnt fully understand

Lessings piece of drama because I have neverexperienced true love before.

But times are changing, arent they? your voice is

teasing me.

I hope so. Theydbetter be.

Then were silent.

And in that silence is everything what we need tohear.


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I sleep.

I sleep all day long, because I feel very exhausted

and I dont even know why. As if these days were

sucking the life out of me.

Maybe its because of the weather.

I reach for the book of poetry, trying to read it. We

have not been together since last week, and days are

going by slower than ever.

Im trying to focus on a poem. I cant recognise theauthor; I bought that book because I really liked the

cover and its somehow selfish, because I never judged

books by their covers.

This one says: Selected poetry of 19th century.

I give up.

I dont know what is going on with me. Depressiontakes over me, and I feel anxiety.

Sometimes, I think my life is like a poem.

And Im lost in its meaning.

So it goes like this.


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Its all about us. It has always been. Our life is like a

book, and every chapter offers something new. Its

been a long time since Ive read a good novel. I miss it.

And I couldnt give up on the thought that I would

somehow leave you. Or that you would leave me.

We are sitting on my bed, youre next to me. Were

hugging; then kissing. I never felt so happy in my life

before and I really think I could bear this all. I could

beat the loneliness and depression that has beenhaunting me all my life.

And after a long time, I can see the colours; I can

distinguish the white from the black.

Music plays in the background; slowly. I

concentrate for a second. Its a piano.

Are you all right? you ask.Yes, I am.

Should I bring you something? you keep asking.

I shake my head. I should be the one to ask that,

I say. You care about me more than I do about you.

Thats not true.

Yes, it is, I protest. I dont know if I am a goodboyfriend.

You are a marvellous boyfriend, you whisper. I

lean towards you, until our foreheads touch.

I just... I say, slowly, Ive been alone my whole

life. And then I came across you. And youre here,


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with me. And Im sad all the time and you tolerate it.

And Im often not in a good mood and you tolerate it.

And there are lot of things I do and you tolerate

them.

Where theres love, theres tolerance, you say.

And Im thankful for that. Im thankful that I

could meet you. And fall in love with you. Even

though at the start it seemed like a wicked game; even

though I had to wait for you. And maybe you waitedfor me, too.

But we are here and now.

And itll be for as long as possible, I say.

I hope its going to be forever, you say.

Forever is a really long time.

I hug you tighter, our cheeks are touching. Yours isvery warm. I love the smell of your skin.

Thank you, I say. For everything.

We kiss.

We are together.

And we are here and now.

our little talks

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