They were standing next to each other, waiting for her bus to arrive. The terminal’s timetable displayed the name of her suburb and the time left. Only nine minutes.
“We are in luck,” she said, “not long to wait.”
“That’s good,” he said.
No, not really, she thought.
She wanted him to say something like how time is always too short when he is with her, or how he would not mind waiting much longer if it meant they would be together a few more minutes, or some such sugary nonsense she had picked up from romantic novels or fantasised of being told. Even whispered.
The wind picked up from the harbour, spreading spring scents across the night. She shuddered slightly.
He stepped towards her and pulled the collar of her red overcoat closer around her, tucking it tightly around her neck. They did not look at each other. She saw the blinking lights of her bus approaching over his shoulder.
“My bus is coming,” she said.
He shifted his feet and kissed her hastily on the lips. His kiss was warm and tender, and almost embarrassed. She hugged him and brushed her face next to his.
She smiled and waved to him from the bus. Her overcoat collar still tucked tightly around her neck.
The next day she received a letter from him. It was very polite and well-written. He explained how he is afraid she sees in him what is not there, kindness and generosity and love and care. When really, he is not that kind or generous. Or loving. None of it.
She read the letter a few times and cried a little like kids do when they discover for the first time that, all along, it was their parents who put the presents under the Christmas tree. That all the long letters they carefully wrote and kept hidden in specially chosen places never really went anywhere. Despite the stamps, they licked and pressed on envelopes.
Later she picked up a low-cut dress and applied make-up skilfully. Her reflection in the mirror pleased her. Her skin was still glowing with golden undertones, and her eyes sparkled when she smiled. She liked how her dress hugged her figure. She applied scarlet lipstick and practised smiling in front of the mirror a few times.
Out of habit, she reached for the red overcoat and noticed the collar still turned up. She stroked it gently and left it lying at the edge of the couch.
She called the taxi and gave the name of the downtown cocktail bar.
It was swinging with late-night blues and gipsy jazz. A few reluctant dancers swayed towards each other. Spectators nursed their drinks in the corners, scanning the crowd, prowling.
She took her shoes off and danced barefoot; it made her look wild and untamed. Daring. Musicians noticed her and sped the beat. Her feet moved faster, her body melting with the rhythm. They watched her, and she knew it. Their eyes burrowed small holes in the folds of her skin.
A man took both her hands and started dancing with her. He had a boyish look and a practised seductive stare. His hands were strong and dry. The music slowed to longing melodies of faraway lands with exotically named mountains. The man told her his name, and she thought it sounded similar.
They danced the rest of the night slowly, blending into each other’s bodies, tasting each other’s skin. She felt his erection against her thigh.
She let him take her home and undress her in that slow motion that makes the skin want to peel from the inside — the summer of Sicilian oranges. In the droplets of dawn glistening over his shoulder, she saw the sleeve of her red overcoat dangling from the edge of the couch. Empty.
Thank you for reading.
