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12/21/2023
Midnights
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Midnights
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27
The scarlet stain
"No?!" he pearled sluggishly from her mouth. A cautious question mark in his intonation left some space and a pitifully hopeful gap open.
December 24th. What year? It had briefly slipped her mind. Did it even matter? When had she stopped counting the years? Instead of years, she collected desires, carefully lined up in unadorned boxes.
She pulled a strap of the dress over her shoulder, Dior from the year 2000, white silk chiffon printed with imaginary newspaper pages. It always seemed just right to her, but never fitting. "Isn't that a bit short?" he asked. She gave him a mild smile, refraining from commenting on other short things, and stepped into the as good as new satin stilettos with dizzying heels. An absurd decision with the snow flurries outside. The higher the heels, the better she could climb over obstacles, she thought to herself. Christmas Eve at his parents' house with a large family gathering, her mother and father also present, would bring many a hurdle with it.
She looked at him. He looked good. Always had been. His broad shoulders and athletic build bore witness to his rationality and discipline - two qualities that could be transferred from his physique to his character. They both had both feet on the ground, successfully balancing work and life as befitted their status (subject to the definition of success), the model couple with the harmonizing zodiac signs, the dream couple from their school days. Only the dream wedding had never happened. She told herself that their bond didn't need to be notarized. Sometimes, secretly, she wondered whether she didn't actually need this illusion of freedom, of being able to leave her life at any time without having to testify. At these moments, she flinched briefly and shook herself as one shakes oneself to get rid of an obsessive thought. Knocking on wood three times and briefly moving her head back and forth.
She didn't care about ticking clocks. The only timekeeping she was interested in was the Rolex on her wrist. Those around her, on the other hand, seemed much more preoccupied with expiration dates and procreation rates.
She put on her perfume. The scent of jasmine, tuberose and orange blossom flooded the room and mingled with that of her honey-blonde hair. But there was something else, something tropical, sultry, a damp film on her skin that elicited a longing like a soft sigh. It drew her somewhere, without precise coordinates or destination. It made the barely visible hairs on her arm flicker, as if something buried deep inside her, half human, half animal, was sending her little signals. A sweaty veil of jasmine also drifted towards her from the next room. He rarely wore that scent, something from Dior, some man's name she couldn't think of at the moment. She didn't think his scent was appropriate for the upcoming occasion. Too much testosterone.
The entrance to his parents' house smelled of tangerines. If it hadn't been the depths of winter, she could have sworn currants were tickling her nose. What was wrong with her? There it was again, that dark thing, impossible to grasp, impossible to put into words, the uninvited guest who only drops in for a moment but leaves behind a lasting veil of unease. His mother's voice tore her from her thoughts: "My dear, you're naked, not even a pair of tights?" She tasted the bitter note despite the sugar coating disguised as worry. Another comment she only wanted to smile mildly at today. His father said he liked it, gave her a complicit wink and took the snow-white cashmere coat from her.
This was followed by kisses, hugs, uncles and great-aunts and the scent of those fur coats that you could only wear at a certain age without risking a color attack. Champagne made resinous conversations flow more smoothly. She, on the other hand, drank red wine, ignoring her mother's disapproving looks. One awkward movement from his sister, who was about to open a bottle of champagne, and a river of red made its way down the newspaper pages of her dress. She had to laugh and thought to herself, finally, finally the dress has been deflowered. Always just right, never fitting. Someone had handed her a cloth to wipe up what she needed before the river could reach her stilettos. Suddenly, she noticed how it became quiet around her. Confused, she looked around and saw him behind her, solemn face tense with expectation, on his left knee as he should be. The question echoed in the room without fully reaching her ears. Moved faces and hands clasped together in front of their mouths.
"No?!" he pearled lazily from her mouth. A cautious question mark in his intonation left some space and a pitifully hopeful gap open. At that moment, the cork of the champagne bottle, which his sister had been fiddling with for some time, popped, probably not expecting this answer. The sound of air being drawn in and all emotion fading from her eyes filled in all the empty spaces. She laughed harshly: "No, I don't want to!" She wanted to add a quick "I'm sorry", but the moment seemed inappropriate for a lie. Instead, she said resolutely and with a serious face: "No, I don't want to, I have to go, thank you for the party!" And she meant it sincerely.
It was snowing softly outside. The silence contrasted with the deluge behind her, the roar of which only became more muffled with every step and at some point could no longer be felt. She, the white snow queen with the scarlet stain on her dress, stomped precisely in her stilettos over the cotton-soft carpet. A car pulled up next to her. "To the station," the driver nodded and she got in. "You must live in a different climate zone," said the aging gentleman. "Not yet," she whispered more to herself than to him.
At the station, she picked up a small suitcase that had been waiting for her in the locker for who knows how long. Sidling lightly between the partly lustful, partly contemptuous glances of the few passengers, she boarded the train and sat down in an empty four-person compartment. The announcement announced that the next stop was the airport. An attractive, if somewhat young, man with sparkling eyes, black as labdanum, asked if the seat next to her was free. "Not this year, my dear, not this year!" She laughed uproariously, sounding hysterical to his ears. He moved away, shaking his head. She smiled and said to herself, "Maybe Casablanca". The barely visible hairs on her arm began to flicker.
December 24th. What year? It had briefly slipped her mind. Did it even matter? When had she stopped counting the years? Instead of years, she collected desires, carefully lined up in unadorned boxes.
She pulled a strap of the dress over her shoulder, Dior from the year 2000, white silk chiffon printed with imaginary newspaper pages. It always seemed just right to her, but never fitting. "Isn't that a bit short?" he asked. She gave him a mild smile, refraining from commenting on other short things, and stepped into the as good as new satin stilettos with dizzying heels. An absurd decision with the snow flurries outside. The higher the heels, the better she could climb over obstacles, she thought to herself. Christmas Eve at his parents' house with a large family gathering, her mother and father also present, would bring many a hurdle with it.
She looked at him. He looked good. Always had been. His broad shoulders and athletic build bore witness to his rationality and discipline - two qualities that could be transferred from his physique to his character. They both had both feet on the ground, successfully balancing work and life as befitted their status (subject to the definition of success), the model couple with the harmonizing zodiac signs, the dream couple from their school days. Only the dream wedding had never happened. She told herself that their bond didn't need to be notarized. Sometimes, secretly, she wondered whether she didn't actually need this illusion of freedom, of being able to leave her life at any time without having to testify. At these moments, she flinched briefly and shook herself as one shakes oneself to get rid of an obsessive thought. Knocking on wood three times and briefly moving her head back and forth.
She didn't care about ticking clocks. The only timekeeping she was interested in was the Rolex on her wrist. Those around her, on the other hand, seemed much more preoccupied with expiration dates and procreation rates.
She put on her perfume. The scent of jasmine, tuberose and orange blossom flooded the room and mingled with that of her honey-blonde hair. But there was something else, something tropical, sultry, a damp film on her skin that elicited a longing like a soft sigh. It drew her somewhere, without precise coordinates or destination. It made the barely visible hairs on her arm flicker, as if something buried deep inside her, half human, half animal, was sending her little signals. A sweaty veil of jasmine also drifted towards her from the next room. He rarely wore that scent, something from Dior, some man's name she couldn't think of at the moment. She didn't think his scent was appropriate for the upcoming occasion. Too much testosterone.
The entrance to his parents' house smelled of tangerines. If it hadn't been the depths of winter, she could have sworn currants were tickling her nose. What was wrong with her? There it was again, that dark thing, impossible to grasp, impossible to put into words, the uninvited guest who only drops in for a moment but leaves behind a lasting veil of unease. His mother's voice tore her from her thoughts: "My dear, you're naked, not even a pair of tights?" She tasted the bitter note despite the sugar coating disguised as worry. Another comment she only wanted to smile mildly at today. His father said he liked it, gave her a complicit wink and took the snow-white cashmere coat from her.
This was followed by kisses, hugs, uncles and great-aunts and the scent of those fur coats that you could only wear at a certain age without risking a color attack. Champagne made resinous conversations flow more smoothly. She, on the other hand, drank red wine, ignoring her mother's disapproving looks. One awkward movement from his sister, who was about to open a bottle of champagne, and a river of red made its way down the newspaper pages of her dress. She had to laugh and thought to herself, finally, finally the dress has been deflowered. Always just right, never fitting. Someone had handed her a cloth to wipe up what she needed before the river could reach her stilettos. Suddenly, she noticed how it became quiet around her. Confused, she looked around and saw him behind her, solemn face tense with expectation, on his left knee as he should be. The question echoed in the room without fully reaching her ears. Moved faces and hands clasped together in front of their mouths.
"No?!" he pearled lazily from her mouth. A cautious question mark in his intonation left some space and a pitifully hopeful gap open. At that moment, the cork of the champagne bottle, which his sister had been fiddling with for some time, popped, probably not expecting this answer. The sound of air being drawn in and all emotion fading from her eyes filled in all the empty spaces. She laughed harshly: "No, I don't want to!" She wanted to add a quick "I'm sorry", but the moment seemed inappropriate for a lie. Instead, she said resolutely and with a serious face: "No, I don't want to, I have to go, thank you for the party!" And she meant it sincerely.
It was snowing softly outside. The silence contrasted with the deluge behind her, the roar of which only became more muffled with every step and at some point could no longer be felt. She, the white snow queen with the scarlet stain on her dress, stomped precisely in her stilettos over the cotton-soft carpet. A car pulled up next to her. "To the station," the driver nodded and she got in. "You must live in a different climate zone," said the aging gentleman. "Not yet," she whispered more to herself than to him.
At the station, she picked up a small suitcase that had been waiting for her in the locker for who knows how long. Sidling lightly between the partly lustful, partly contemptuous glances of the few passengers, she boarded the train and sat down in an empty four-person compartment. The announcement announced that the next stop was the airport. An attractive, if somewhat young, man with sparkling eyes, black as labdanum, asked if the seat next to her was free. "Not this year, my dear, not this year!" She laughed uproariously, sounding hysterical to his ears. He moved away, shaking his head. She smiled and said to herself, "Maybe Casablanca". The barely visible hairs on her arm began to flicker.
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