It was the second day of our trip to Madrid. We were in a restaurant not far from Plaza Mayor with the massive stone walls whispering the secrets they knew, trying to eavesdrop on ours. We had almost finished the bottle of Cava, I was a little dizzy from the alcohol and too high on you, my friend. You watched me with those magnet eyes of yours, a wicked smile played on your lips, and I was asking myself if you’re even real.
“Let’s go crack this city,” you said, getting up from the chair, and offered me your hand. That time I took it. You tangled our fingers with such casualness as if you did it a thousand times before, and we left the restaurant.
Outside, evening was coming on; the sun, still warm, was dropping toward the horizon. My heels clicked on the paving stones, and the pulse of my heart beat with them in unison as you led me deeper into the city. We glided along the streets, running out of sight, hiding in the shadows of old buildings, sharing our story with them. We could be everything and nothing.
The hours had slipped away through soft murmurs and a rustle of our clothes echoing in the air. The moon hadn’t yet risen, and the night was very dark — darker than your eyes, darker than my dreams about you. That night when you knocked on my hotel room door, I let you in.
We went home four days later. New York buzzed and hustled. Life had resumed its casual rhythm, but over the noise, if I listened more carefully, I could hear a whisper of new beginnings.
I flew to you across the city, through rushing crowds and shining window displays, fighting heavy traffic. Days were passing by in a flash. Time we had never felt enough for me. I had lost track of my life. Only dates I occasionally caught in newspapers kept me in reality.
You taught me to slow down, and morning became my favorite time of day. A coffee smell and the scent of your aftershave in the air, a taste of fresh baked croissant on my tongue, the light playing on the crumpled bed sheets, and a new day ahead — promising and anticipated. I got my first real job. You got some gray in your hair.
“You’re old,” I said, smiling, and ran my hand down your stubble cheek.
“It’s wisdom,” you replied.
Trees started turning yellow. Strangers on the streets had wrapped themselves in coats. I had been feeling sick for two weeks, and then two lines appeared.
You waited for me on a bench in the park near your office. A haze hanging in the air scattered the sunlight, making it shine around you like a halo. You’ve always had this mystery about you that scared and mesmerized me all at once. I sat next to you. You looked at me, a half-smile touched your lips but didn’t reach your eyes. I wanted to kiss you, but I didn’t.
“You know there’s no place for kids in my life,” you said.
I was only twenty-three. I only wanted you.
One day, riding the subway, I realized that a week had passed, and I hadn’t heard from you for a week. And then you showed up at my door at midnight, still charming in the old-fashioned way, still in total control. I was so happy to see you, my heart spasmed. I began to question my sanity.
A month later, my coworker, the one you never liked for some reason, threw a birthday party. You insisted I should go and picked out the dress from my closet, short but not too provocative.
“He can look but can’t have,” you whispered in my ear before kissing me goodbye.
I didn’t find a word in reply.
The party was in full effect. Cheerful voices filled the bar, glasses clinked, The Doors’ song played. He told me a joke that made me laugh like crazy, his hand brushed mine accidentally. He smiled. I smiled back and found myself thinking about you. You never made me laugh.
I started catching myself staring out a window for hours when I was alone. Sometimes the salty taste of tears touched my lips. I had stopped reading books and singing in the shower and had been losing sleep. Silence, once soothing and comforting, became unbearable. I was carrying myself through the day, praying it would get over sooner.
That winter was snowless, and the cold wind blew cruelly. The gray skies covered the city, short days never seemed to end. I told you I felt melancholic. You said it’s because I have my head in the clouds.
One night, I came over to your place. You said you missed me badly. We ordered some Indian food and watched one of those documentaries from your list. “Too pretentious”, I told you when the film was over. You smirked and called me a kid, as if I was one of your students.
An hour later, you fell asleep, your figure sprawled out on the sofa and a carefree, almost childish expression appeared on your face. I looked at the sterile living room, at your ridiculous art, at the slanting rain outside the window, and felt nothing. I got up, took my bag, and left.
Coming down the stairs, I heard your voice behind calling mу name and I quickened my steps.
You know, I couldn’t let myself be nothing when I was everything.
Image by Steid from Pixabay – A used pregnancy test stick lying in the grass.
literally stories 
Lydia, this was a wonderful, sensitive tale on many levels. I felt as though I were in the young woman’s mind, experiencing her thoughts and her emotions, her awakening. Candy often looks enticing, but it often isn’t good for us. This man had ideas, but they all orbited around himself. When she realized that he “never made me laugh” his days were numbered. You go, girl! I loved it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much for your feedback!
Lydia
LikeLike
Lydia
So often this sort of thing is told from the other POV, usually third person. The younger person is usually an object of obsession in those pieces. Although technically in the second person, the center of the story is doubtless and the piece very well done and has a beat, like a song.
Strange rule in modern life: if a person lives in a fairly nice place and creates art, it is usually crap. Not writers. But painters and such.
Leila
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Leila.
It was exciting to “play” with these characters and places writing the story. I’m very happy to appear on Literally Stories!
Lydia
LikeLike
Thank you, Leila!
It was exciting to “play” with these characters and places while working on this story.
I’m very happy to be on Literally Stories!
Lydia
LikeLike
This has a very well crafted arc to it – a compelling and beautifully told piece.
LikeLike
Thank you!
Lydia
LikeLike
I really liked how the tone of this went from upbeat, hopeful, kind of innocent, to a dark and cold, reflected with the weather metaphor.
LikeLike
Thank you, Alex! That was the idea:)
Lydia
LikeLiked by 1 person
I really enjoyed this. Lovely melancholy and a good ending!
LikeLike
Thank you!
Lydia
LikeLike
It was the writing that I loved about this. The story, when you dig into it, is eternal but the way that it is related here, the POV and the excellent prose really raised it up a level to something more special. Great stuff. – Thanks – Diane
LikeLike
Thank you very much, Diane!
Lydia
LikeLike
Lydia,
Can there be love without laughter? Without teasing? Without an accidental touch sparking a smile? Without tears?!
Probably not.
I love stories that go on after they end. Like, I wondered what the joke was the guy at the party told. I bet it wasn’t that funny relative to her laughter.
It made me think about being tangled up in love again.
Thanks so much!
Gerry
LikeLike
Thank you, Gerry! I’m happy the story evoked these thoughts and feelings in you!:)
Lydia
LikeLike
Hi Lydia,
You built this very well. The MC slowly but surely realised the partners control, selfishness and passive aggressiveness. She maybe needed to simply see the alternatives at the party to know that this wasn’t healthy. So many don’t.
Understated but with depth.
Hugh
LikeLike
Thank you, Hugh!
Lydia
LikeLike
Evocative and beautifully written. The MC experiences growth that is portrayed subtly and believably. An excellent flash fiction.
LikeLike
Thank you, David!
Lydia
LikeLike
Happy to see the script flipped. I expected the mc to be abused, abandoned when pregnant. But no, she was too smart. Her awakened awareness was skillfully handled.
LikeLike
Thank you!
Lydia
LikeLike
He never made her laugh? And yet she fell for him? Very odd, but I guess it can happen. Interesting that when she felt nothing for him, this god guy, she became everything, because before she was so immersed in the play. The funny thing is we don’t exactly know what it was she did like about the guy in the first place…. it was all ambiance and atmosphere… an interesting perspective.
LikeLike
Thank you for your feedback!
Yes, that happens more often than we can imagine, falling for a person who doesn’t make us laugh. He – a mysterious and “charming in the old-fashioned way”, a distant man, older than she is. She – young and even naive in the beginning. It takes times sometimes to see things as they really are.
Lydia
LikeLiked by 1 person
I also believe that this is about a woman who realized that she was forcing herself to fall for the sort of guy she had thought she should fall for, but catching on to the fact that she had played herself for a fool.
Leila
LikeLike
The narrative voice in this is so strong and well written. I thoroughly enjoyed this realistic story of near-love and how the narrator developed throughout.
LikeLike
Thank you!
Lydia
LikeLike