Eventually, he jumps down and turns around. His skin is glistening with perspiration, the hairs on his chest are damp, and his stomach is now not just flat after all the exercise, the muscles prominent, but also covered in droplets of sweat.
Alex still hasn’t seen me because his hair remains as it was, hanging down over his eyes, and I....
*** ‘Wish You Were Here’ by Bliss ***
I feel like I’m descending into madness. The animal attraction overloading my above-average brain is sending me into a fury with a feeling close to hatred.
Intelligent, artistic, hard-working, well-mannered, educated, decent... good! Strong! Masculine! What else... Oh yes! Good-looking, sexy, experienced, exceptionally knowledgeable in bed, always fashionable, stylish, fragrant, flawless, faultless, I’m-just-perfect Alex!
And me? I’m just like everyone else: a cocktail of virtues and shortcomings served with a couple of flaws. And that’s why this superhuman is starting to infuriate me. I desperately want to hurt his feelings or at least offend him in some way. This seems like an unhealthy reaction at first glance but is actually completely healthy, because next to people like him – if others like him even exist – you feel more awkward, more flawed, more stupid, and more subhuman than ever.
But I’m not going to do or say anything because Alex has never done anything to hurt me; there is a basic sense of justice holding me back. I have now come out of hiding, however, and am leaning boldly against the granite wall, my arms folded across my chest. And to hell with the fact that I’m still holding his hoodie!
Alex reaches for his damp t-shirt but notices me and... freezes. The expression on his face changes instantly from one of pure concentration to one of anguish, then becomes cold, icy even, and now I do feel hurt.
It seems to loosen my tongue, so used am I to his smiling generosity, because I say, ‘Trying to be the MOST good-looking man ever?’
The question doesn’t contain quite as much poison as the tone and intonation in which it is delivered.
‘No, that’s not what it’s about,’ he replies calmly, almost gently, despite the icy expression on his face.
‘What is it about, then?’
‘To be a man, you have to be strong and physically developed.’
‘Come on!’
Alex quickly puts on his sweat-soaked t-shirt and I cringe at how uncomfortable it must feel. I don’t know why he has bothered. He just needs to walk past me and across the room to reach the bathroom and have a hot shower, after which he’ll be able to put on clean, dry clothes.
‘Please... don’t... do that... again,’ Alex says, so slowly that it feels like thousands of little insects are running all over my body.
‘What?’
‘Don’t watch me.’
I feel jubilant. Here we go! This is it! It’s like we were groping for a skeleton in the cupboard and now I’m starting to drag it out. If I push hard enough, we’ll have a fight, and then I’ll finally see what he’s really like, because only in arguments do people reveal their true selves. I start spinning the wheel of conflict gleefully.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t like being watched.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s one of my idiosyncrasies.’
‘How come?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘And I say I do. I’m sleeping with you.’
*** ‘Evening OST’ by Jan A.P. Kaczmarek ***
With these words, Alex lifts his eyes to mine and I see how wide they are and how quickly they fill with fear, even panic – what exactly is he afraid of? – but he quickly pulls himself together and starts down his usual path of persuasive conflict resolution. I noticed early on that Alex has a particular strategy for communicating with people: he avoids conflict. If a conflict does flare up, then he skilfully douses it using the same method every time: either by asking questions or making leading statements that will result in the person listening arriving at the right conclusion seemingly independently. Whether he taught himself to do this or not I don’t know, but it works every time.
My aim today is to provoke an argument and I watch with pleasure as this frightened, conflict-averse man tries to wriggle out of it.
‘It’s nothing for you to worry about,’ he assures me. ‘I’m just protective of my privacy. I don’t let anyone in. Such things must be respected!’
‘You don’t like people looking at you? Am I not allowed to look at you right now?’
‘That’s different. You were watching me.’
‘You can’t stand being admired?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Why?’ His face is an abyss of fear.
‘You say you don’t like being watched, but you do everything you can to make yourself more attractive. So you’re a liar.’
There has been a sarcastic smile on my face throughout this whole conversation.
‘I already explained to you that what I do has nothing to do with my appearance.’
‘What a lie! I don’t like liars,’ I say, my voice as cold as metal.
I look at him and see that I’m making him physically ill. His eyes are wide like a child’s; he is open, vulnerable. My onslaught has caught him by surprise. He is unable, or doesn’t know how, to withstand it; his well-honed method isn’t working.
So instead he walks slowly up to me, gently takes my hand and says, ‘Stop, please!’ He looks me straight in the eye, his gaze imploring.
But I’m cruel, very cruel. He didn’t know this about me, but he’s finding out now.
‘Then tell me!’
‘Believe me when I say I can’t. I’ll never tell anyone about it. Ever.’
‘Why?’
‘I just can’t.’
‘Then I’ll never trust you. Or believe you. I have no idea who you are. No idea at all! And that, to me, is dangerous.’
Something like horror fills his eyes and, clueless what to do next, he opens up a little.
‘It’s too painful for me. Talking about it is difficult, like reliving it all over again, and I’m just not sure I can. But I’ll do it right now if that’s what you really want.’
There is nothing but sincerity in his eyes, an almost childlike openness, and that is what stops me. Well, that and his mention of painful memories. This playboy has an old wound that hasn’t yet healed and he does everything he can to hide it.
My heart is breaking for him but I can’t give in so easily, so I say, ‘I need to think.’
‘Then think.’
So I do. For a long time. Almost two hours. Alex doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hasn’t even been in the shower and is still wearing his dirty t-shirt, which has dried on his body. I have knocked the stuffing out of him, but this no longer has anything to do with my fury.
Finally, he can bear it no more and comes to me. His eyes are resigned.
‘What have you decided?’
‘I haven’t decided anything yet. I’m still thinking.’
‘Would you really cause me so much pain out of curiosity?’ he asks, and I can hear in his voice how deeply he is hurting.
So I let him know my thoughts.
‘Alex, my curiosity was thrown overboard a long time ago and floated away to goodness knows where. It is unnecessary, anyway, because I have stumbled upon a problem – your problem – that needs to be solved. My goal is to help you. You know what I do for a living – I’m an analyst – and right now I’m analysing the situation. Incoming data: there is a secret that, judging by your emotions, is hiding a tragedy. Then there is you, who has never shared it with anyone and has no intention of ever doing so. Divulging the secret will cause you unbearable pain, so I now have to decide what to do.
‘One – I don’t put any pressure on you, and you carry on living with your secret. It will eat away at you from the inside, but you seem to know how to protect yourself. Two – and this is the option you’re mistaking for curiosity but is actually a common ps
ychological approach – problem sharing. Imagine you’re carrying something heavy. You’re joined by somebody else and you drag it together – now the load is more or less halved. In the States, that person would be a psychotherapist, but we manage perfectly well without all that in our poor little country because, for centuries, that role has been filled by close family and friends. I have personally been using this method since I was a child by dumping all my problems on my mother. She takes all my negativity, all my father’s and all my sister’s. She has been shouldering our burdens her whole life and it is part of her duty as a wife and as a mother. She doesn’t carry anyone else’s, just ours.
‘So, right now, I’m trying to work out whether I have the right to shoulder your burden, but, most importantly, whether it would actually help you. People usually use this method voluntarily and, more than that, they instinctively seek out support, but you don’t want to. You’re not like everyone else, so it might not work or, worse, it might actually do harm. There is no such risk with the first option and I was always taught to choose the path with the least risk, so that’s the one I’m going with.’
Alex stares fixedly into my eyes for a long time, before slowly moving closer and trying timidly to hug me. He smells of sweat and, for the very first time, I recognise his smell. I feel a terrible ache in my lower abdomen and realise I want him badly. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I pull him to me and only then do I feel all the incredible tension flood out of him with a sigh. Alex holds me tightly, buries his face in my hair, and I hear a quiet: ‘Thank you!’
And now I know he’s not perfect...
*** ‘Dream of You (Chillout)’ by Schiller ***
It rains later, after lunch. There is a picturesque hiking trail that winds its way along the whole of the Costa Brava coastline like a ribbon, intercepted by large and small beaches and elegant stone steps leading up to rocky ledges, where well-maintained viewpoints await aesthetically minded tourists. But the breathtakingly beautiful landscapes of azure bays, grottoes, lagoons, solitary fishing boats and romantic white yachts are not only for admiring. They are also conducive to thinking about and reflecting on life’s dilemmas and identifying truths, enabling you to easily put your thoughts and feelings in order.
After our almost argument, I leave Danny playing chess with Alex and go out to clear my head. Before I know it, I’m heading towards some secluded beaches where there are no hotels, no seafronts, no restaurants, just nature’s masterpieces. I’m so lost in thought that, without even realising, I walk three or four kilometres from Palamós and the hotel where my son is waiting for me with the man and lover who tore at my heart and mind, but who now seems far more important. I need to make sense of it all and understand what is happening to me, why the pain, torment but also tenderness in his eyes causes me so much suffering. It is tenderness I will never find in anyone else.
And then it starts to rain. Lightly at first, teasing me with its microscopic drops and dampening my face welcomingly. Then it gets stronger and stronger until it’s a downpour and, although I turn and start running back immediately, it is still a fair distance to our hotel. My hair, jacket and jeans are all soaking, the cold sea air rips through my clothes, and the tumultuous sea now inspires fear rather than awe. It seems that nature and the weather are so incensed at my sins, they have decided to drown and freeze me to death at the same time. Except I don’t know what’s a sin and what isn’t, what’s true and what’s not. I don’t know what I should do. What is more important: the loving heart of Alex, who yearns for me like no one has ever yearned for me before, or my family, to whom I gave my word that I would love and take care of them until the end of my days?
I’m running as fast as I can and am so frozen that I’m shaking all over, although the shaking might not be due to the cold. As I sprint along the stony path and around another cliff jutting out into the sea, I literally crash straight into Alex. And it’s like some kind of fairytale magic, because I instantly find myself in a cocoon of security, tenderness and care, and I take refuge in it from the elements and from my own equally destructive thoughts. Pressing myself against his chest, I notice it is still hot from running in his effort to find me as quickly as possible, to warm me, calm me, protect me.
I greedily soak up his warmth and smell, burying my nose in the neck of his t-shirt, pressing my lips against his skin and all the little hairs there, and experiencing something close to an orgasm. It is a unique moment in my life in terms of intensity of emotion. It is the peak of my sensuality.
I don’t even notice Alex peeling off my jacket, which is so wet it’s like a second skin, and dressing me in his warm sweatshirt – the same one I almost wasn’t brave enough to throw over my shoulders that morning. And that’s not all. He has also brought his waterproof jacket, which he pulls on over the sweatshirt. Once I’m in dry clothes, my saviour doesn’t rush to hug me. Instead, he grabs my hand and drags me in the direction of our hotel. But I’m desperate for his embrace. I also want to warm him up, because he’s now soaking wet himself in just his greyish turquoise t-shirt. I run after him and can’t help thinking that my husband would never have done what Alex has just done. He would never have run to find me, driven by a concern for my health. And when we arrive back at our apartment, I find that this really is what Alex is most worried about: no love and affection, just strict instructions to get undressed and climb into the hot bath he has already started running for me. While I’m warming up in the bath, Alex goes to collect Danny, whom he had left with the owner of the hotel. He had thought of everything. The fact that he had a child to look after didn’t stop him in his efforts to alleviate the plight of a woman who might be foolish, but whom he loves.
Yet even this didn’t convince me. Sometimes, we supposedly grown-up people are as blind as newborn kittens. Our vision is inevitably obscured by someone else’s negative experience – an unwanted opinion, the moralising of both those close to us and indifferent strangers – and we are prevented from seeing the shortest and straightest road to the unlimited happiness put aside for us by a higher power.
CHAPTER 8. ALEX’S BIRTHDAY
*** ‘For You’ by Coldplay ***
Today is November 25th – Alex’s birthday. We haven’t agreed to meet, and he is not even aware that I know he will be turning twenty-six today. Nor is he aware that I know exactly how to help him celebrate. I don’t need gift-wrap or flowers; all I need is my notebook of recipes.
I’m not sure if he’s at home or not, but it doesn’t matter because I have his keys and I just really want to cheer him up – he has been in low spirits since we got back from Spain.
Alex opens the door looking sad, but, when he sees me, a genuine smile crosses his face – he’s obviously pleased that I’ve come. He looks adorable in his around-the-house clothes: a greyish-turquoise t-shirt and soft jogging bottoms. I love seeing him in clothes like these more than any other because of the contrast between their casualness and comfort and his natural beauty and sexuality.
Alex helps me with my coat and softly kisses my cheek, his eyes filled with sadness and joy at the same time. I head into the kitchen and place my old, much thumbed-through notebook on a large table with a black mirror surface set in the middle.
‘What’s that?’ Alex asks.
‘Today, we’re going to make a chocolate cake. You like chocolate cake, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he smiles. ‘Probably.’
I start unpacking the food I’ve brought with me onto the table while Alex sits on a high stool and watches my every move with a smile. His eyes are an ocean of warmth, tenderness and love.
‘Have you got a blender?’ I ask.
‘I don’t even know what that is,’ he replies, without taking his beautiful eyes off me, his face one big smile.
There is so much awe in his gaze that I feel like a Christmas tree.
‘Just as I thought,’ I tell him. ‘That’s why you’re going to help me.’ And I hand him a whis
k.
He perks up and it even seems as if the shadow of sadness in his eyes evaporates. They are lit up with enthusiasm and the desire to learn something new, which Alex loves like nothing else.
I separate the egg whites from the yolks, hand him the bowl and say, ‘Whisk!’
He is at a loss for a while, but I deliberately don’t show him what to do and he quickly works it out and starts beating the soon-to-be sponge cake. In the meantime, I prepare the cream. His kitchen, and in fact his whole apartment, fills with the deliciously sweet smell of baking, pastry cream and chocolate. It is the smell of homes where families live, where children live, where love lives.
*** ‘Olei’ by Nino Katamadze & Insight ***
Outside, it is an inexpressibly gloomy, cold, overcast November day, and although I love this time of year for the beautiful abundance of yellows, purples and oranges in its fading leaves, I want today to feel particularly warm and cosy. That’s how it is at my house, but not at Alex’s, which always seems to be filled with loneliness and desolation; where, besides the subtle aroma of citrus and vanilla and heated up microwave pizzas, there are no smells at all. Today is his birthday and my gift to him is warmth and cosiness. Today, on his day, his home will have what Alex craves so badly – a family, albeit an illusory one.
Everything is ready, but the sponge is still baking in the oven.
Alex’s gentle eyes have forgotten their sadness and are now filled with warmth and joy, almost happiness, as they follow me around his kitchen while I mess about with spoons, bowls, and the cream in its water bath.
He approaches me slowly, takes my hands in his and leads me away to the place where he is loneliest of all – his bedroom, his bed – and we make love with an incredible tenderness. Drowning in each other, we become one, which is beyond anything I have ever experienced. Not even the boldest imaginary sex could compare to swimming in this river of sensuality and love. But, since Spain, such intimacy makes Alex sad. At the peak of his emotions, his eyes fill with anguish and pain mixed with pleasure and love. There is so much love in his eyes that I don’t need words to know he loves me. His love is deep, emotional, barely contained, and he wants to give me the feelings that have already overwhelmed him and seemingly pushed him to the brink.
Monogamy Book One. Lover: This is one love for life and beyond time Page 8
