The Apple Cake

The Apple Cake

Still, he does not like it when the morning finds them together. One morning, when he woke up, he suddenly turned away from her. It seemed that he was surprised when she saw his face. Did he forget where he was, who was he with? She kissed him gently on his shoulder. He turned and looked at her, surprised by her gesture. As if an unknown woman had approached him on the street and kissed him. She felt that he was tense, that her touch was unbearable at that moment. She saw in his eyes that je was far from her, that there was no way to reach him. And until a while ago he lied next to her and slept calmly like a child. She was completely awake, shivering from the look of the blue sky, the touch of sheets and the closeness of his body which made her different.

Last night, as he lied on his belly, she ran her fingers down his back. She felt the warmth, and his skin was warm, sweaty. He surrendered to her hands, he almost melted under her fingers. For her, massage was a way to approach him, her fingers can dismember his body to muscles, so that perfect, precise organism is under her power.

At the last night of the conference, he got up in the middle of the night and left to his room without a word. He left crumbled bed sheets behind him and a whiteness that horrified her. The white is the colour of solitude.

Her expectation that he joins her for breakfast turned into a feeling of surprising emptiness and defeat. The outer world reached her in fragments — the clatter of dishes, somebody’s laughter, parts of conversations. She was fully focused on him, even when he was absent. She realised that he had left earlier.

The city where the conference took place left her indifferent. She went around with the others in the group on a tourist bus and acted excited. The saw the people around her as two dimensional figures only. She had no strength to speak with them, she heard his voice in theirs, she saw his face in theirs. She was scared that they would notice her absence and her tense expectation. She lied that she had a headache.

Then it felt that each moment, it woke up with them. She was scared that it was the end. Her body would have to continue living without him, deprived of the possibility to be together. That is why it is better to kill the fantasy for him as early as possible, in advance. Because nobody would ever be able to cause such passion inside her.

That is the end. The end.

But it was not the end. She was shocked by how little she knew her body, herself, him. She would leave her hotel room unlocked at night during office trips. And she waited. Sometimes it happened that he would not come, but she had no right to ask why. She wanted to remain taken by the enjoyment, as long as it lasted. She was aware that that situation, even if it lasted, still had to end. Whenever they manage to be together again, it was a happy coincidence, but a short and a hopeless one. Regardless of her hunger, which could only be quenched by him.

While they are together, she tries not to fall asleep, to remain awake as long as possible, after he falls asleep next to her, believing that the awareness about that moment can postpone the separation. No, she would not fall asleep, she wants to be aware about the touch of his sleeping body, his scent, the rhythm of his breathing as soon as possible. And of the fact that she is with him because they have both forgotten their age, their doubts, their fears and resistance. The two of them gad a language of their own, a language of reading their looks and gestures, the speech of their bodies.

Once, in the airport, not in accordance with the deal, he sat on the empty seat next to her, and then he fell asleep. She was angry, although they had spent the night together. Then she thought that it was a sign of him being relaxed, that he did not have to be tense all the time, alert. She was asking herself what he got from their relationship except for pleasure. She never asked him.

She learnt how to restraint in company of others. Not to look at him, not to follow his movement, not to pay attention who he spoke with, to say to herself after each meeting: this is the last time.

AuthorSlavenka Drakulić
Translated byKristina Velevska
Translated byElizabeta Bakovska
2019-01-15T10:22:34+00:00 January 5th, 2019|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 123|0 Comments