Between the lines

A short story

I haven’t always lived abroad. I was an adult before I set sail, or I should say, took a flight. When I landed, planting my feet on foreign asphalt, I couldn’t comprehend the peace I felt. Early on, I wrote it off as my innate reverence for the world with all its unseen offerings and unheard tongues. The more unfamiliar, the better. When others heard foreign as a dirty word, it hit my ears as something to be treasured. After living overseas for a few years, the illusion crumbled, swept away by relentless winds. The last specks dissolved in salted water. She was always better than me, preventing me from surrendering to my lazy assumptions. Without her, I fell quickly — crossing the road when a group talking in a foreign language walked by. I turn my nose up at the tastes of others or look down on their life choices. I’m no better or worse than anyone else. We all have those instincts buried in our DNA.

If this godforsaken country has a love language, it’s human touch; a day doesn’t go by without it reaching out to feel your face. It’s one of the things the tourism board leaves off the brochure. No one wants to live in a country that’s so… touchy-feely. But after a while, you grow to deal with it. People are quick to complain but equally as swift to adjust; given enough time, you lose all perspective and fall in love with its spontaneous caress, so much so that you miss them when you leave. The same thing happens when you move to a small apartment; sooner or later, you swap the word small for cosy.

Every morning in the week — the mornings I wake up early — I wait awhile after snoozing my alarm and listen. Today she’s howling; a dog left outside in a storm. She’s in one of those rants you strain to keep up with, jumping from one thing to the next without a gulp of air.

“And then… and then… but… can you believe that!” I smile and nod as we learn to do after we realise fielding solutions isn’t the answer. Then, with a deep breath, I pull the heavy feather-filled duvet off my chest and roll out of bed. Even here, in the comfort of my cosy apartment, she reaches me, wrapping her breeze around my ankles.

“Good morning,” I mutter, stepping into my worn-out slippers and shuffling to the bathroom.

“Jó reggelt.” Her voice is muffled from the duvet smothering her face. Only first thing in the morning, while the corners of her eyes are crusted with sleep, does she speak to me in Hungarian — her mother tongue. I think sometimes she wakes up at home.

“Jó reggelt. Did you sleep well?” I used to love learning languages. I was even talented. But this one is a tricky mistress to understand, and speaking involves an unattainable level of oral gymnastics. Each time I pick up a phrase, I feel it slipping away a second later. As if every word is a wave being dragged back into the sea after washing ashore.

“Not really, the storm was crazy.”

“Mhm,” I mumble between brushes. Pink foam splatters into the white sink. That always happens after a restless night. “Are the trains running?”

“You didn’t charge your phone?”

“I forgot,” I say on my way to the charger waiting beside her. It’s funny how she can already read between the lines. When you’re with someone long enough, it’s second nature; you hear what they don’t say as clearly as what they do. I guess we are entering that territory.

“Are you going in today?” She’s wrapped up in bed; only her head and long, flowing hair are exposed to the whistling wind and faint rays of sunlight.

“I’ll be back around nine. Julia has planned a dinner with John.”

“She’s such a bitch.”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“Well, if I was you, I would only stay until six. That’s what you’re paid for.” When she says stuff like this, I realise how young she is. One day, whenever she finishes university and joins the real world, she’ll be devastated at the life most people endure.

“What are you doing today?” I ask, filing through my wardrobe for something decent to wear. Is it just me, or is March the worst time to dress? One second, the sun’s out, and then the next, it’s pouring.

“Wear your blue suit,” she says, pulling herself up on her elbows. I lean over her head, reach for the curtains, and open them. Her arm hooks around my neck, and she yanks me on top of her. Her lips are soft on my neck, and her nibbles on my earlobe are welcome, but I can’t submit. Once I’m up and out, I stay that way until I’m ready to face the nightmares again.

“Stay,” she pleads with such expertise: big, toxic eyes, uncovering just enough duvet to make me think twice. “I’ll make it worth your while.” Her eyes glide down my torso as if they have wings and a healthy draft.

“I know you would. But I can’t. Tonight?”

“I won’t be here.” She snaps, drawing the duvet back over herself. Thank god, she almost had me that time. Women have an advantage over us, and we’re easily ruined when we meet one who knows how to weaponise it. One day, she will ruin me, I know it, but I’m fighting every wave she throws at me — every wide-eyed plea and provocative pose. The blue suit fits me like it did two years ago on my walk to the town hall. Back when I still loved the hum of foreign languages and avoided my most destructive impulses.

Dirty plates, pots and two wine glasses meet me in the kitchen, waiting patiently in the sink. I can feel crumbs pressing against the soles of my feet and smell the grease from the chicken wings we devoured in the early hours. We morph into different people when it’s dark out and a couple of glasses of wine are coursing through our veins. Yesterday, we went from a couple strolling through galleries, commenting on light and shade, brush strokes and sensitivity to animals. Eating, drinking, smoking, fucking. And all without a word. Not once did either of us suggest a sudden behaviour change. But there was no need for it; it was as clear as day when we strolled back home through the city, swapping telling glances.

I check the jacket pockets for any surprises. A forgotten bank note, a number scribbled on a napkin or a Polaroid from those wandering ‘photographers’ weaving through bars, preying on the lubricated. But they are empty. All apart from the breast pocket, but I never dip my hand in there. There’s movement in the bedroom; I think she has closed the curtains again.

“I’ll text you later,” I peek through the gap in the door.

“Not without this.”

‘Argh, thanks. See you later?”

“Maybe. I might be at home. I have a lecture at two.” She always leaves me in suspense, as if every day needs a cliffhanger. “The suit looks good on you.”

“Thanks,” I say and turn to leave, but she’s giving it one more shot — pulling herself onto all fours and crawling towards the end of the bed. Is there a more tempting sight in the world?

“You know…” she starts, looking up at me through her lashes.

“Nope. I never do. See you later.” I turn, shut the door and leave.

The sky is rosy when I step onto the street. The wind is blowing itself out. What was a howl is now just a sigh. Maybe it’s a reflection of those of us heading to work, or perhaps she’s tired that no one listens anymore.

“I heard you,” I say under my breath. The rosy clouds split in two, and sunlight floods the city, turning our canals gold. I can’t help but think about her lying in my bed and how she crawled towards me. I feel the lust thumping my heart. But that is all it is. Lust and love are two very different things. The woman I loved would never crawl like that, but she would never need to. And that’s not to say she wasn’t provocative in any way; she was. I lost all control just after a glimpse at her on more than one occasion. But with her, it always came second. Love and lust can live together, and they often do, but now I only have one. And it is my fault. You find yourself presuming, settling, and cutting corners because you trust the love burning in your chest; you soothe yourself with foolish words, allowing your mind to believe nothing can take that away.

I stop at the traffic lights and glance into a café, the owner unstacking chairs outside. It was our favourite when we first moved — back when the language was both foreign and a delight. One man runs it alone; recognition sparkles in his eyes. Four bar stools cramp the interior, leaving enough space for a game of sardines. But it’s the best coffee in town, so the size doesn’t matter.

“Morning, chap,” he always calls me chap. It’s the result of being an Englishman on the continent. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.

“Morning. How are you doing?” I reply, keeping tabs on the lights.

“All good. You look sharp today.”

“Ha, thanks. Anyway, better go, I’ve got a train to catch.”

“Pop in for a coffee at the weekend. It would be good to catch up.” He calls after me, and I smile over my shoulder. I wonder if he has noticed her absence? People like him make this city worth living in; they make the language barrier small enough to hurdle and the grey winters bearable. She would always point them out; that was her love language. Her subtle nods, whispered observations and timely nudges were her acts of service. They were constant reminders for me to battle my worst instincts.

When she left — the day of our ceremony — I thought I would pack up everything and move somewhere no one could ever find me. Chile, Peru or somewhere equally as far. But in the end, she moved…or ran. I never even got an explanation. But I suppose it wasn’t needed. Language is for those interactions between people who still haven’t figured each other out. I knew what she wanted to say, and she knew my reply. When I told her, ‘I’ll be better,’ she smiled and changed the subject.

The station is busy when I reach it. Too busy. Walking across the square to the entrance, I feel the wind picking up again. It’s blowing straight at me, trying to push me back. A tear rolls down my cheek and lands on the lapel of my jacket — right beside the breast pocket. If that isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is. I reach in and pull out the note. It’s as crisply folded as if she had slipped it in this morning. My heart starts thudding again. This time to a different beat.

I’m a step away from the station when the crowd at the entrance turns and streams towards me.

“They’re all cancelled,” a woman tells someone over the phone, rolling her eyes with her tone. I don’t need to be told twice and start heading home. The folded square of paper is turning in my fingers. It’s not the time, I think, slipping it back and retrieving my phone.

“Hey,” she sounds half asleep, dazed.

“The trains are cancelled.”

“So, you’re coming back now?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll probably be gone. I’ve got classes.” Her voice has changed. Gone is the playful seduction; in its stead, cold distance, as if I’m her father catching her bunking off.

The flat is empty when I turn the key, though her fragrance is still here, drifting amongst the draught. A scent can be as good as a well-crafted sentence — stating your intentions for the day. I tap my pocket, the one with the note, and her voice starts whispering in my ear.

“I’m sorry.” she starts. I look over my shoulder. But I’m alone. “I never wanted to run. But that morning, I woke up and saw no other way. You won’t believe me, but I still love you. I always will. I just fell out of love with our life. I felt like I was marrying our life rather than you, so I ran.”

“But why didn’t you just talk to me?” My voice sounds hollow, bouncing lifelessly off the walls.

“Sometimes words are enough, and sometimes they aren’t. If you can forgive me — if you still love me like I do you, you’ll find me again.”

“And what? You expect me to drop everything?”

“I expect nothing,” she says, and her voice turns into the howling wind.