I had never been the type to get cold easily; it wasn't some kind of
environmental factor, any Siberian upbringing or frozen Scottish winter -
it was just how I functioned, wearing my thin jumpers year-round,
regardless of hail or sleet. When I was fourteen I bought a sleek black
coat and wore it every day; I looked three years older, and dowdy, but I
liked it that way; I thought my lack of fashion showed a commitment to
my studies.
On the last day, I fumbled around on the floor and found my coat. There was a packet of these disgusting random continental cigarettes I'd bought on autopilot three days earlier. I pushed myself off of the bed as gently as possible, drifting to the open french doors that let in the North Sea wind. There was always something honest about winter to me - you got to see the trees' real shape, the contour of each building - and in ice, your own reflection. Actually, I preferred Autumn; it was like Winter's undramatic cousin, heralding the onset of death with a quiet, respectful sweep of leaves across a Hamburg pavement. I couldn't say what had brought us both here, of all places, except coincidence.
He lay across a waterbed that belonged to neither of us, asleep. The party had ended hours ago, and a pale blue-grey light was beginning to spread across the Binnenalster, calling the residents back to life. It was a very rich friend of a friend's apartment, and it was better than the view I had - of the back of a restaurant called (in a magnificent display of Dummdeutsch) "Empire of Doner und Kebab". We'd laughed about it, but their kebabs were fantastic, and when I flirted enough with Karl on Saturdays, he'd throw in as much Coke Zero as I wanted, as if my virtue could be bought for two litres of caffeine free. For some reason, I wasn't hungover - probably the cold, which would've been very disappointed with a malingerer.
I checked my watch and exhaled my smoke like a chimney, watching it drift, staggering, off of the balcony. I needed to wash my face - I could feel the make-up congealing on me - and so I only stuck around for a few minutes before finding the nearest bathroom (occupied by a sleeping Dutchman I knew from lectures who, thankfully, only filled a bath). The water helped. I liked the sensation of being awake in a building full of sleeping bodies. It felt like being awake before the creation of the world, in my own private universe. I lingered on my way back to our room, taking in the view from every window, as if I'd never be here again. When I came back, he was still asleep on the bed, his torso bare to the cold.
I wasn't impractical enough to bother preparing that much, since I'd hardly be expected to dress like a Queen, but I still brushed my hair and changed my clothes perfunctorily, hoping the new ones would smell less of vodka and cheap (and very dodgy) Bulgarian wine. I checked my watch again, and then found the cupboard, hoisting a holdall out of it with the few clothes I had left. Hanna had gotten most of the swag, Carlotta my kettle, since she'd made more coffee in it than I had. It was vaguely depressing to see my whole life reduced to a holdall. That and six hundred euros.
"Karel?"
His dark fringe twitched slightly, a frown escaping across his skinny brow. "Nnh?"
"Half an hour."
His eyes opened a fraction more, letting the same pale blue-grey light hit his equally pale blue-grey eyes. Slavic eyes, I'd called them. He had said I had read too much sentimental Russian literature, and he was probably right. It wasn't as if he needed to be here. By any accounts, two weeks wasn't enough time to...to make airport-taking commitments. To be up when I was on the morning I left.
But then, I think both of us realised there had been a shift. Something about the way we didn't talk, about the way we could spend hours in silence - two weeks was both enough and cruelly not enough. Ours was something that required physical presence. It was as if both of us were standing mute on each side of an hourglass, trying not to look at the sand. Two weeks wasn't enough to pin our lives on, not logically - but we could feel ourselves doing it, in the glancing eye contact he gave me as I stirred my milky tea, in the cerebral British game shows we watched via skype on my sister's TV - Only Connect and University Challenge every tuesday night for the last (very unromantic) year, utterly silent except to give short, curt answers, as if giving them too enthusiastically would be bragging.
We needed longer to make sure. But we didn't have it. We weren't the types to say I love you before it was unnecessary, but there needed to be something to hold onto in our minds, intellectually - as if conceptualising each others' limbs would make them solid.
"Karel."
"Mm?"
"We should skype."
He nodded. I took the 10:37 flight, Ryanair.
On the last day, I fumbled around on the floor and found my coat. There was a packet of these disgusting random continental cigarettes I'd bought on autopilot three days earlier. I pushed myself off of the bed as gently as possible, drifting to the open french doors that let in the North Sea wind. There was always something honest about winter to me - you got to see the trees' real shape, the contour of each building - and in ice, your own reflection. Actually, I preferred Autumn; it was like Winter's undramatic cousin, heralding the onset of death with a quiet, respectful sweep of leaves across a Hamburg pavement. I couldn't say what had brought us both here, of all places, except coincidence.
He lay across a waterbed that belonged to neither of us, asleep. The party had ended hours ago, and a pale blue-grey light was beginning to spread across the Binnenalster, calling the residents back to life. It was a very rich friend of a friend's apartment, and it was better than the view I had - of the back of a restaurant called (in a magnificent display of Dummdeutsch) "Empire of Doner und Kebab". We'd laughed about it, but their kebabs were fantastic, and when I flirted enough with Karl on Saturdays, he'd throw in as much Coke Zero as I wanted, as if my virtue could be bought for two litres of caffeine free. For some reason, I wasn't hungover - probably the cold, which would've been very disappointed with a malingerer.
I checked my watch and exhaled my smoke like a chimney, watching it drift, staggering, off of the balcony. I needed to wash my face - I could feel the make-up congealing on me - and so I only stuck around for a few minutes before finding the nearest bathroom (occupied by a sleeping Dutchman I knew from lectures who, thankfully, only filled a bath). The water helped. I liked the sensation of being awake in a building full of sleeping bodies. It felt like being awake before the creation of the world, in my own private universe. I lingered on my way back to our room, taking in the view from every window, as if I'd never be here again. When I came back, he was still asleep on the bed, his torso bare to the cold.
I wasn't impractical enough to bother preparing that much, since I'd hardly be expected to dress like a Queen, but I still brushed my hair and changed my clothes perfunctorily, hoping the new ones would smell less of vodka and cheap (and very dodgy) Bulgarian wine. I checked my watch again, and then found the cupboard, hoisting a holdall out of it with the few clothes I had left. Hanna had gotten most of the swag, Carlotta my kettle, since she'd made more coffee in it than I had. It was vaguely depressing to see my whole life reduced to a holdall. That and six hundred euros.
"Karel?"
His dark fringe twitched slightly, a frown escaping across his skinny brow. "Nnh?"
"Half an hour."
His eyes opened a fraction more, letting the same pale blue-grey light hit his equally pale blue-grey eyes. Slavic eyes, I'd called them. He had said I had read too much sentimental Russian literature, and he was probably right. It wasn't as if he needed to be here. By any accounts, two weeks wasn't enough time to...to make airport-taking commitments. To be up when I was on the morning I left.
But then, I think both of us realised there had been a shift. Something about the way we didn't talk, about the way we could spend hours in silence - two weeks was both enough and cruelly not enough. Ours was something that required physical presence. It was as if both of us were standing mute on each side of an hourglass, trying not to look at the sand. Two weeks wasn't enough to pin our lives on, not logically - but we could feel ourselves doing it, in the glancing eye contact he gave me as I stirred my milky tea, in the cerebral British game shows we watched via skype on my sister's TV - Only Connect and University Challenge every tuesday night for the last (very unromantic) year, utterly silent except to give short, curt answers, as if giving them too enthusiastically would be bragging.
We needed longer to make sure. But we didn't have it. We weren't the types to say I love you before it was unnecessary, but there needed to be something to hold onto in our minds, intellectually - as if conceptualising each others' limbs would make them solid.
"Karel."
"Mm?"
"We should skype."
He nodded. I took the 10:37 flight, Ryanair.
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