The car he’d rented was true to the logical guarantee of things; easy on the pocket and deadly to the rear. Any minute now he was sure the bumpers would slide off, or the exhaust pipe would explode. The youth decided never to use the horn again, since it became so easily stuck, and only a good round of pounding on the wheel itself would bring him some peace. Rolling down the windows was such a pain. The whole car itself rattled above the street potholes like the foreshadowing die in a soothsayer’s palm.
He had crossed tollbooths and train-tracks and country borders to get to her. The journey had taken no more than twelve hours, from start to finish, but it felt like a lifetime. But here it was, the last few minutes in the congested city roads that led him back to her.
Despite the years that had passed, she remembered him. “Hey,” she whispered when she opened the door at his knock. Just “hey,” but her eyes shone so brightly that they’d put the sun to shame. He took her in his arms and closed the door behind him with his foot.
Her apartment was one passed down through families, overlooking the Parthenon. His passport lay on the coffee table. Last time that image had formed a tiny barrier between them. Now, it was a bridge. A flat square navy-blue bridge that mocked distances. But the unmentionable event hung between them, growing thicker despite their closeness.
“Hungry?” she asked, bringing a honey-glazed platter of baklava. He took a piece with a gratified smile, making room for her on the couch. The aroma of her spicy amber resin settled around him like a discarded woman’s veil. He probed the phyllo-swathed nuts with his fork, wondering if all women cooked so spectacularly when grieving.
“Where did you learn to make meals like this?” he asked, as he twined his arm around her waist and pulled her closer.
“I’m a true Greek,” she smiled. “It’s in the blood. You once mentioned that your mother was Greek. Doesn’t she cook like this?”
He leaned back, his eyes unfocused on the view of the temples outside the window. “My mother’s dead. They say she died in childbirth. My dad raised me by himself in Turkey.”
She squeezed his hand in sympathy and realized that she knew, in fact, very little about this man. The man who had come one summer for a class and loved her, who then had to leave but had never forgotten her. Who came immediately, knowing, even though no one told him of her tragedy. A Turk, to comfort a Greek.
He looked at her. She was younger, but she had hinted at a past life, a life full of joy and tragedy before his coming. He had always respected that. He’d never probed. But he wanted to hunt and hurt the man who’d left her months ago, and all the people who had caused her pain.
“Why did you come to me?” she asked gently. “And why do I love you so much?” And why was she ready to weep at his touch? She lowered her eyes, drawing her knees up to her chest. She thought herself too cold to cry. But his arm around her shoulders assured her it was okay.
“I felt it.” He leaned over and nuzzled her cheek in a soft kiss. She savored it, welcoming him. “We are kindred spirits, you and I.”
“I’ll never know him,” she murmured, and surrendered to his embrace. “It could have been a girl, I suppose. But I’d always wanted a boy. I’d have sent you pictures.”
He held her close and at last she cried.
"Angreek87"
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