by Desiree Span
“No, I just couldn’t. I didn’t know what to say to him and it’s the thing I most regret in my life,” I said with a deep sigh.
“But how long ago was this? Like three years or so? Is this why you have become a frigid?” he asked half-jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.
“Shut up,” I said with a smile.
“No seriously. It’s time, Erica. We have got to get you laid before you turn into a virgin again. So this is the plan. You get yourself waxed and shaved... you know, get rid of the cobwebs you must have accumulated down there, and I am going to make some calls to get you a date!” he said, determined.
I rolled my eyes at him and tossed back the remainder of the wine we had been drinking.
Back in the plane, I told Fred that it wasn’t until many years later that I happened to learn that back then he and Tess had actually lost the baby and that later on he left the US and was living somewhere in Spain for quite some time. At that moment I could have tried to find him, but so much time had already passed and I felt silly and very embarrassed for the way I had behaved. I cried when I realized I had given him up for nothing—that leaving him had been in vain.
Fred gave me a pitiful look.
“But anyway, back to how I met my husband,” I said continuing my story.
* * *
A couple of months later Chris met Ron, “The love of his life,” as he calls him. He quickly moved out, leaving the apartment to me, and moved in with Ron in Utrecht. Which meant that each time we wanted to see each other we had to make the dreadful fifty-something-minute trip or be prepared to pay sky-high phone bills.
And today, once again, I was stuck in traffic to attend my best friend’s Thanksgiving get-together. When I arrived, their house was already full of guests. I always loved going to Chris’ parties for he had the most diverse company of friends, from students to entrepreneurs, from hippies to yuppies. One moment I would be talking to someone who performed as a drag queen on Saturday nights at the Cocobola, and the next I was chatting to a socialist who wanted to start his own political party.
Before I could ring the doorbell, Chris opened the door with a huge smile. Behind him was Ron. Chris hugged me as if we hadn’t seen each other in a decade. I kissed both hosts three times on the cheeks, and handed over my coat. Then, according to their well-known self-service policy, I walked over to the kitchen and grabbed some wine.
Over the years I had become acquainted with many of Chris’ friends, so I scanned the room searching for familiar faces. I spotted quite a few and I waved or smiled at them as I made my way through the crowded room to join a random group of people who were discussing a topic that seemed interesting enough.
As I was making my way through chattering and laughing people, a very tall man bumped into me, spilling my red wine on my brand new white blouse.
“Dammit,” I said in English, as I jumped a belated step back. It seemed that after all those years in the States, English had somehow become my mother tongue after all.
“I’m so sorry!” the man said apologetically. He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and made an attempt to clean the stain, until he realized the stain was on my left breast and he rapidly pulled back his hand; two inches before it touched my boob. He looked at me, his eyes big with shock about what almost happened and quickly whispered, “I’m so sorry... again!”
The situation was such a comical cliché that I suddenly burst into laughter.
He looked at me more at ease now and smiled broadly, which made deep dimples appear on each side of his face. “Here,” he said, handing over the handkerchief instead.
“Thank you, but I don’t think it will be of any use. If I’m not mistaken my only hope here is salt or club soda,” I said, still speaking in English. I started to make my way back to the kitchen and he followed me. Once in there we both started opening drawers and cabinets until I found the salt.
“Are you from the United States?” he asked while I was pouring the salt, well, on my boob.
“Not really. I’m actually Dutch,” I answered in Dutch.
“Wow, you have an impressive American accent,” he continued, also switching to Dutch.
“What I find impressive is meeting a guy of my generation that still uses a handkerchief,” I said, teasing him. I gave him back the impeccably white fabric. “I grew up in the United States, so I guess when I least expect it, English just pops out of my mouth,” I then said, clarifying my use of the English language before.
“I’m Jan,” he stated with a smile, creating dimples again.
I put down the salt, accepting the fact that my blouse was simply ruined and paid closer attention to those dimples.
“Erica,” I said and we shook hands.
“Well, I guess you are, what? In your early twenties? Right?” he said.
“Twenty-six, actually” I answered.
“Well there you have it. I’m thirty-seven and if you must know all thirty-seven-year-old men still carry around handkerchiefs,” he said with that gorgeous smile again.
“I seriously doubt that,” I said.
He chuckled and grabbed the salt.
Where I had had to stretch and stand on my toes to reach for it, he effortlessly put it back on the top shelf of the cabinet, where I had found it.
“How can I repay you for the blouse?”
I guess he also realized it was not savable. “Let me see,” I said, pretending to be thinking. “You realize you’ve put yourself in a position where I can ask any amount I want for it and you’d have no clue if I was ripping you off,” I teased again.
“Well, that’s the price I’ll have to pay for my clumsiness,” he said, turning down the corners of his mouth as if in regret. Those damn charming dimples appeared again.
“Well, I’ll feel guilty robbing you. So how about we say you buy me a drink someday and we will call it even,” I said, feeling bold. I even surprised myself inviting him out.
“How about tomorrow night?” he said.
“Seems perfect,” I answered.
Chris would be proud of me, I thought and smiled.
* * *
It turned out Jan also lived in Amsterdam and we agreed to meet at this local dive bar that was well known for its relaxed atmosphere, as well as its excellent home-brewed beer.
We took a table in the corner and I felt nervous as he took my coat and hung it up for me on one of the hooks on the wall.
The bar was really cozy. The whole place was furnished with old wood and decorated with vintage curiosities that one tends to find in a flea market. Each piece separately would be considered junk, but combined they really brought the place together.
A wannabe waiter/part-time college student took our order and took his time walking back as he stopped several times to chat with friends he encountered on his way.
After my third beer and with help of good alternative music buzzing in the background, I started to relax and was actually enjoying myself. And Jan made me feel at ease and really comfortable. He was the perfect combination of a talkative good-listener, knowing exactly when to break an awkward silence with a good story or to shut up and give you the opportunity to contribute to the conversation with your own anecdotes.
I liked the way he formulated his sentences. He was very well spoken and articulate. And as any good storyteller, he had perfect comic timing; cleverly integrating a joke in his tale, without the forced feeling of trying to be funny.
Jan had traveled extensively after college and had interesting stories about his travels. It didn’t surprise me when he said he taught Dutch literature at a university; that he wrote for a column in a local magazine; and that he gave workshops for aspiring writers. He said that at the moment he himself had begun writing a novel and he enthusiastically told me about the plot.
We drank our beers and talked for hours, and I hung on every word he said. He casually flirted with me, complimenting me in a respectful and sincere way, and I teased him for being so courteous. And then, be
fore I gathered, it was two in the morning and the waiter asked if we wanted the bill; in other words, “Pay up and get the hell out, ’cause I want to go home.”
We had both gotten there with the main Dutch transportation — our bikes. And while I unlocked mine and he unchained his, our eyes kept searching for each other, not knowing what should follow next and who would take the initiative. He finished unchaining his bike first and walked over to me with his bike in his hands. I felt that nervousness come up again.
“Well, I suppose your blouse is now officially refunded,” he said.
I smiled at him. “Yes, thank you. I had a great time,” I replied.
He gave me his stunning smile and then he leaned in and kissed me once on the cheek, once again on the other, but the third kiss he purposely slowly planted on my mouth.
I looked at him and kissed him back. His lips tasted just as delicious as they looked.
* * *
Jan was handsome; in a rugged kind of way. He was very tall — I would say about six-foot-four—and well-built with broad shoulders. He was the outdoorsy type, which led to him having somewhat of a tan all year round; which contrasted beautifully with his sandy-colored hair that curled up slightly at the nape of his neck.
He was the laid-back type and had a great sense of humor. Something that fit well with the perpetual playful twinkle he had in his hazel-yellowish eyes. And those eyes always seemed to smile, as if he was about to let you in on the best gag you had ever heard.
His best feature was his smile, though. I practically fell for that incredibly sexy mouth; with full lips, perfect toothpaste-commercial white teeth and the most captivating dimples I had ever seen. The only small glitch was that Jan was eleven years older than I was and... oh... he was also... married.
He told me after our third date. He took me to a renowned restaurant in the center of Amsterdam and encouraged me to try escargots for the first time.
I had always found the idea of eating snails repugnant, but he told me to hold my glass of Chardonnay on stand-by in one hand, the escargot in the other and to close my eyes.
“Don’t think about it. Just pop it in your mouth and wash it down with wine if necessary,” he said, laughing. And just as I had decided to finally let go of the past and open myself up to him, I decided I might as well try to become my old self and open up to all new things. So I did as he told and was pleasantly surprised by the taste.
After dessert we took a long walk along the canals. And as we strolled and talked, with his arm wrapped around my shoulder, I smiled at the realization that I really, really liked this man. We then headed back to where we had left our bicycles and there he kissed me tenderly, holding my head in his hands.
“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered in my ear and I agreed by kissing him back.
When we got to his small apartment, we didn’t make it to a bedroom. With his tongue swirling around mine, he kicked off his shoes, I threw my coat on the floor and the rest of our clothes followed. It was dark, and in the process we tripped over the pile of clothes and fell to the floor laughing, where he kept on kissing me hungrily.
But then, while I lay naked underneath him, he suddenly stopped kissing me and looked at me seriously.
“What is it?” I asked, trying to catch my breath.
He cleared his throat and said, “Uhm, Erica, I really like you.”
I swallowed and then frowned. I mean he was clearly stating the obvious, so where was he going with this?
“I like you too,” I said.
“Yes, well, that’s why I might just as well tell you now, before this goes any further. You see, I am married,” he said and paused, cautiously observing my reaction.
“What do you mean?” I was confused. I had learned on the night we met at the Thanksgiving party that Jan was a cousin of Ron, and both Chris and Ron knew Jan and I had gone out and that we were actually on a third date. Neither had said a thing about this.
“Naomi... my wife and I are separated, but technically I’m still married.”
For the first time since we had met there fell an awkward, dead silence. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I moved away from underneath him and sat up. Here I thought I had met a wonderful guy, someone I was immensely attracted to and genuinely found interesting. Someone who made me feel something again. Only to find out he was married!
I suddenly felt naïve and stupid. What did I expect? A thirty-seven-year-old, handsome, single man with no baggage? He should at least have been a widower or divorced with a couple of kids and an ex-wife that demanded her monthly alimony. How could I have not asked or at least wondered about his past? But I had to admit to myself I had not done that, for inquiring about his past would have certainly resulted in me having to share my own, and this was something I had absolutely no desire to do. Besides, what should I have done? Given him a checklist with questions and YES or NO boxes to tick?
Widower? NO. (Good. No shoes to fill there.)
Divorced? NO. (Even better. What a drag dealing with jealous ex-wives).
Married? YES. (What the fuck?!) Only technically married, you say? Oh, well then everything is just dandy. Continue please.
Children...?
Anyway, it seemed that our relationship was over even before it had well started.
“Look,” he said, sitting up next to me. He took my hand and caressed the palm of it with his thumb. “I would completely understand if you walked away right now, but if you let me explain, then just maybe you would consider giving this a chance.”
I pulled my hand away to break that distraction and to be able to gather my thoughts. That line he just spoke—about me letting him explain and giving it a chance—sounded eerily familiar. I closed my eyes and pushed away a flash of Oliver.
“Explain,” I said, after shortly hesitating.
“Naomi and I had been trying to have children for many years without any luck. After many painful procedures and trying just about everything to get pregnant, about a year ago it became clear that it was not going to happen. She was devastated. I tried to talk her into adopting, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted to experience being pregnant, giving birth and raising a child that was ours. So, a couple of months later she moved out. She needed time, she said, to think. But, we both know she won’t come back to me. It’s over,” he said. “And, an important fact in this matter is that it’s me.”
“What is you?” I asked.
“It’s my fault. I am the problem. I am practically sterile, Erica. Naomi desperately wants a family, but she wants a man that can give her a child and I simply can’t give her one, so... she left me.”
He folded his hands and I saw his expression grow dark before he looked away, avoiding eye contact. I covered my face with my hands and couldn’t help snorting. I couldn’t believe the irony. In the past I had ended a perfect relationship because the man I deeply loved had gotten someone else pregnant, and this man claims his relationship ended because he can’t get anybody pregnant.
I had finally dropped the wall I had built around me and I was actually falling for him, and I had hoped it would be the beginning of... well, something. But now, I didn’t know what to do.
He softly pulled my hands from my face. “It’s that bad, huh?” he said regrettably.
“Yes. No. I don’t know, Jan,” I said, shaking my head.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know my timing is terrible and I wanted to tell you before, but I couldn’t find the right moment. I just didn’t want you to find out after we had actually slept with each other. And I know that we have just started seeing each other and I suppose another man wouldn’t have bothered explaining, but I guess I’m old-fashioned.”
I really didn’t know what to say.
After a few seconds of silence he said, “Come, get dressed,” and he lifted me to my feet. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s just call it a night. You go home, get some rest and if you feel like giving me a call tomorrow we can meet up and talk a little mo
re; no pressure, no promises. And if you decide not to call, well then...” He sighed. “I’ll completely understand.”
He helped me gather my clothes and while I put them on he put on his boxers. He then led me to the door and opened it for me. I turned around and quietly said, “Good night, Jan.” He put his arm around my waist, pulled me in, and kissed me on the mouth until I was breathless. He then let me go and smiled his beautiful smile.
As soon as I walked out of the building I took out my phone and called Chris. I didn’t care what time it was.
“Helluh,” his sleepy voice answered.
“What the hell, Chris!” I yelled into the phone.
“What? Why are you shouting?” he said, now wide awake.
“You could at least have given me a heads-up! You knew how much I liked him,” I said, agitated.
“Oh, that. So, I guess Jan told you, huh? Ron and I were wondering how that was going to go.”
“It did NOT go that well, Chris! Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked with a lump in my throat.
“Because, sweetie, if we had said something you wouldn’t even have given it a shot. Please, don’t overthink it too much. Just go with your feelings. Because honestly, we think you two are perfect for each other,” he said, and I could hear Ron agreeing in the background.
“Oh, you do? Well, I hope you two are enjoying this,” I scolded, and I hung up. I was furious.
* * *
The next morning was a Sunday and it was about eleven o’clock when I pushed the button on the intercom of Jan’s apartment. He opened the door for me, still wearing only his boxer shorts.
“Do you want to grab a cup of coffee with me?” I asked.
“I thought I would never see you again,” he said, smiling radiantly and I think I had never seen a man look so relieved. He then lifted me up while he showered me with warm, sweet kisses.
