In the south of Dorelion, in the city of Dirna where many Revnashi go for a holiday in the sun, former lovers meet unexpectedly.
- ONGOING. Rated MA.
No way. It can't be him.
I know I'm staring stupidly up at him, mouth hanging open, but every muscle in my body seems to have gone numb and I can do nothing about it. Not a thing.
He stands there, smiling a little, cautiously. Looking at me with those dark eyes, and I am falling. Sinking.
He's looking into my eyes, though, not at my clothes. That is deliberate; he chooses not to see. He chooses not to see the sheen of my tight satin trousers, or the shirt I'm wearing, or the nearly empty glass I'm dangling in my hand. He pretends not to understand what it is that I'm here for, sitting by the bar where I'm nicely visible to anyone coming into the restaurant. He looks at me and smiles. As if he really truly were happy to see me again, and maybe he is. I wouldn't know. All I know is that he takes my breath away, again.
So many memories. That concealed little crevice between the rocks, far beyond the eastern corner of the beach, and the sand still wet from receding tide, and his lips so hot on mine. How old were we, sixteen? The warmth of the kitchen at his home, our home, where I was practically adopted. His laughter, and the cloud of mist that it produced, when he tried to teach me how to skate. Oh, I remember him telling me not to lock my knees when he skated backwards and pulled me along. The sight of him studying, frowning over a book, distracted. Closing that door behind me for the last time, on my lips a promise to come back but knowing in my heart that I never would. I'd promised to come back... to his parents, to his brothers. He wasn't there at the time. I can still remember that by that day he'd been away for three months on that student exchange visit, and that I hadn't got a single letter for three weeks.
Now he's standing there, thousands of miles from where I last saw him, less than two miles from where we first met. I still don't quite know how I ended up drifting back here. And what the hell is he doing here? Although I shouldn't really be asking that. So many people come here for their vacation, never mind the mind-boggling distance and the cost? He'd be one to afford it.
"Good heavens, it's been years!"
Yes. Yes it has. Now he's standing there, looking down at me. What is he feeling? Surely he can see what I am doing for my living these days? Not that it would be his fault. It's nobody's fault really. I swear I have no proper idea how exactly this has happened. It just did, I didn't decide to become this way. It wasn't a conscious choice. I guess that at some point I once again took the easy way out and said yes to the wrong person, because I didn't really care too much. After it's done once, it's easier to do again, at least that's how it worked for me. And I got money for it, too.
There are moments when I wonder what has happened to me, and if this really is the way things will be, yet feel powerless to do anything about it. Now he's there, looking at me, seeing what I have become, and now I am ashamed of myself. Shame swells within me, I choke on it, I need to get away.
"It's good to see you, Nash."
Oh, he looks fantastic - but then, why wouldn't he? He's only approaching thirty, his birthday will be in about a month, of course I remember it... and he's one of those men who just get more gorgeous with every passing year. It's really astonishing how he resembles his adoptive father, who was well over fifty when I last saw him and who still then was the most handsome man I've ever seen. There's so much of the same in the two of them, the same dark good looks, the same spark. When he was eighteen, merely looking at him took my breath away. Seeing him now makes my knees weak. His eyes are warm, they search something from my face and seem to find it because he pulls a barstool closer and sits down, one elbow on the edge of the bar, facing me.
"Oh, it's so good to see you again!" he repeats, glances over his shoulder, raises a finger at the barman who nods and comes closer. "A whisky for me, please, and - Nash, what'll you have?"
I look mutely at my glass. What was it called? Can't remember, I just asked for something not too sweet.
"Another?" The barman raises an eyebrow and I nod. "Yes sir!"
It's not me he's calling 'sir'; what he sees is me in the company of a potential customer who's buying me a drink. His hands are quick and sure as they pick up a bottle, pour, scoop some ice from a box, stir. Fordan's whisky is already on the counter but he doesn't take it until my drink is standing next to it. Only then does he grab the glass, clink it against mine, smile.
Please don't smile like that. I remember it all well enough, all the years and nights and days and evenings and mornings. Waking up next to you. Being kissed and held by you. Going out, staying at home. Laughing, having sex, living. Waiting, when you somehow began to drift further away. Longing. Going.
You didn't want me any more, so why do you look at me that way?