by Catalina Florina Florescu<\/p>\n
\u00a0Mirabela was holding a baby blue cloth. Her hands were trembling.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you need a cup of tea?\u201d<\/p>\n
Mirabela did not pay attention. She was examining the cloth with fascination but also terror.<\/p>\n
\u201cHoles \u2026 holes in the design.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter, Mira?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHoles \u2026 dear\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, I see them. But you love that cloth.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, yes, I do \u2026 you have no idea.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n
The thought of having no idea is how we lure people in. We do not want them inside our heads, no, no, we want them at the threshold, so we feel their breath without the weight of their bodies. We think we practice being cautious that way; like, you never know when they may hurt us by getting too close to who we are. We do not want others to fully get to know us.<\/p>\n
\n
\n
*<\/p>\n
\n
It was so hot. Abnormally so for late May. They have had a fight over their wedding cake for the last hour. Sixty minutes wasted! He wanted lemon meringue, and she wanted chocolate. Godiva, to be exact. His argument: \u201cIt\u2019s a summer wedding. It fits with the season.\u201d Her argument: \u201cI have always wanted to have a Godiva cake at my wedding. Ever since I tasted that kind of chocolate for the first time. I was travelling…\u201d He interrupted her: \u201cI know the story. You told it many times.\u201d \u201cI did?\u201d \u201cCome on, don\u2019t play with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n
In her family, people died young, around mid-30\u2019s, and no one knew why. Some thought it was curse related, some bad blood left unchecked for too long, now impossible to cure. Others were fine with that and enjoyed every single day without worrying about death.<\/p>\n
\n
At first, Mirabela did not want to marry because it felt too traditional. She did not like the notion of a bride-to-be, a replica of the same, ill-fitted role. So, she pushed the idea aside, and began to travel through Europe, Asia, and some parts in Africa. She met him by accident in Budapest when she was buying a post card to send to her best friend. His eyes were black and intense. His lips wanted to be savored. Right then and there. In fact, she said to him:<\/p>\n
\u201cBuzele tale au fost f<\/em>\u0103<\/em>cute s<\/em>\u0103<\/em> fie savurate<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n She said it again, switching to English:<\/p>\n \u201cYour lips were made to be savored.\u201d<\/p>\n He laughed. Invited her to have a drink.<\/p>\n \u201cDidn\u2019t you hear what I just said?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre you a prostitute?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPoate c<\/em>\u0103<\/em> sunt<\/em>.\u201d She left that like that \u2013 without a translation.<\/p>\n She wrote her number on a piece of paper and said \u201cGoodbye.\u201d She was late for a cocktail party and did not have time to savor those lips. \u201cMaybe another time,\u201d she said smilingly but vaguely.<\/p>\n \n Mirabela wanted to have her own bakery ever since she was a little girl and played with her toys. She wanted to feed them three meals a day and saved her own food until her mom was suspecting her of an eating disorder. You know how moms are, jumping too many steps ahead into a narrative that makes no sense. She told her mom: \u201cDar <\/em>\u015f<\/em>i lor le e foame<\/em>\u201d and her mom could not say another word. Mirabela came from a long lineage of terrible accidents committed in the kitchen. All women tried their best and failed majestically there. She wanted to break the spell and started to read cookbooks, watched tutorials, enrolled in culinary community college classes, did everything in her power to reroute the narrative, but for no reason, she was still terrible at remembering the details of a recipe, clumsy measuring the ingredients, sometimes even buying the wrong ones. In part, her attempts were unsuccessful because the menu was designed for toys. \u201cNo one cared for them,\u201d she argued. She always wanted to create something new, just for them. She always failed. After each experiment, the whole kitchen looked like an exploded intestine of a large bovine. She had no idea why that analogy soothed her. There was a divine pleasure in twisting words, in pushing them to try new meanings, have another life, of sorts. Whatever she fucked up in the kitchen, she completed marvelously on canvases. She was a self-taught painter.<\/p>\n \n \u201cHello\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, hi\u2026 do you still want\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWant to \u2026? Who\u2019s this?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe man whose lips you wanted to savor once.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNah\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, I am so sorry, miss, I think I misdialed. Have a \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey, fool, do you want to meet?\u201d<\/p>\n She could steer a conversation in a completely new direction, if she wanted. She was a maestro at that. The words were her instruments, and she could create a symphony on the spot. Words were not ever passive to her.<\/p>\n \n They met at an old caf\u00e9 that served hot cocoa.<\/p>\n They introduced themselves.<\/p>\n They spoke about their dreams.<\/p>\n Now they were arguing what kind of wedding cake to have.<\/p>\n \n \n *<\/p>\n \n He thought his body was overflowing. His first sexual encounter! I mean, he did not plan it. Now, he was thirsty. He had sex less than an hour ago, and his body was adjusting to manhood. He did not just leave. He was a gentleman. His dad taught him to respect women. He left her a note on the table. Inside the store, he was a bit concerned because let\u2019s be frank, who leaves handwritten notes anymore?! The convenience store was just a few blocks away from his home. He wanted to drink something familiar, like a lemonade. That was his mother\u2019s favorite drink. \u201cIt\u2019s not exactly lemonade, dear, but life does not hand you lemons\u2026 not always anyway \u2026 and when you don\u2019t have lemons, don\u2019t cry. Just drink a fake lemonade.\u201d \u201cHow so, ma\u201d? \u201cWell, adulthood is like that: it has holes. There are holes in the design.\u201d His mother would become a widow too young and would marry a man with a temper, a man with too many fetishes, a man with Boa snakes as pets\u2026 She was not sure why she had to commit to so many men who would die, leave, or ignore her. \u201cAre you afraid to be alone, ma?\u201d \u201cI wish I knew \u2026 I wish I knew \u2026\u201d That day when he became a man it was extremely hot, and he bought two bottles of lemonade and drank them immediately, galloping them down his scorched throat. \u201cI wonder if she got my note\u2026 I hope she does not think I am a freak who writes notes\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \n \u201cExcuse me \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSorry\u2026 I mean, you<\/em> bumped into me\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI did.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen why would I<\/em> excuse you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHuh???\u201d<\/p>\n \n Sometimes we forget that we say words without thinking. The mouth opens and starts emitting sounds. They may not always have a meaning. There should be a sponge above our heads cleaning any words that were said by mistake and turn them into confetti. She was there in the store because she could not fight with him anymore. He said, \u201cYou win,\u201d but all she heard was, \u201cI let you win. I am tired of fighting with you. Have your Godiva cake.\u201d They were not even a married couple.<\/p>\n \n \u201cWas that good?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot really. I mean \u2026 it has sentimental value\u2026 my mother\u2019s favorite drink.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, that\u2019s cute.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCute???\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, cute. What\u2019s wrong with cute?\u201d<\/p>\n She wanted to say, \u201cBoy, you are stupid.\u201d She went to the freezer to check out the beverages.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, you, come here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho, me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCome help me find a drink.\u201d<\/p>\n He went. He could not explain why he did that, why his feet were moving without any resistance towards this stranger, why he was doing what she was saying, after all, she bumped into him, and he<\/em> said \u201cSorry.\u201d She opened the freezer door and from the other side she looked ethereal. Maybe it was his newly found manhood, maybe it was something else, but he kissed her passionately. She reciprocated.<\/p>\n \n She paid for an iced mocha and left the store.<\/p>\n He was not overflowing anymore.<\/p>\n She got back in the car.<\/p>\n \u201cWe could have lemon meringue. You<\/em> win.\u201d<\/p>\n \n *<\/p>\n \n The wedding was ordinary. The doves his mother-in-law ordered were delivered by mistake to a hospice in a remote village, the bride was fine with that, but the groom\u2019s mother went berserk. When the priest asked if anyone was against their union, his mother stood up and spoke about doves, it sounded surreally hilarious, so everyone assumed that was a stand-up routine. She was aspiring to become a comic in her \u201cgolden days.\u201d<\/p>\n \n A few days after the wedding, after they were done opening all the gifts, she needed an excuse to return to that store. Mirabela went there day after day after day. For about two weeks. He did not show up. She asked about him. No one knew about his whereabouts. The teen at the register was too absorbed with her phone to pay attention to the customers. Two years after the wedding, her husband was deployed to a country in Africa and left with a dry hug and kiss. Things were not good for them as a married couple. They hadn\u2019t been good for some time. But many married couples ignore that. It\u2019s hard to diagnose this type of marital apathy. She blamed everything on his<\/em> lemon meringue. She was joking, yet a smile was reluctant to match what she was claiming.<\/p>\n \n Even more bizarrely, she was surpassing all her relatives, refusing<\/em> to die. Mirabela had no idea why she was still alive; why her story deviated from what had happened before with all her family members. His years in the military took him more and more away from their home. There was a wedding photo hanging loosely on a wall in the living room. Truth be told, his going to different, undisclosed locations was not so bad for her after all. \u201cMaybe he dies, and I will die of a broken heart.\u201d She used to say this to herself to justify why she was still alive. On her 40th<\/sup> birthday, she convinced herself she became immortal. It was overwhelming. She did not want that. Every single time when she was going into her dark places, there was something that pleased her. She could not explain why. He was writing to her less and less, was barely calling her, and she was fine with his silence, too. She did not feel the need to try harder either.<\/p>\n \n *<\/p>\n \n \u201cActually, could you make me a tea, dear?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure. What kind?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSurprise me. Ah \u2026, and could you pass me that box?\u201d<\/p>\n \n She opened it. Unfolded a piece of paper gently. \u201cDear you, I cannot stop thinking about our kiss. I went to the store several times. You never showed up\u2026.\u201d She folded that back. Chose another one: \u201cDear beautiful you, how have you been? You know, that day, I felt a connection with you right away\u2026I can\u2019t explain why or how, I just know\u2026 I just felt whole next to you \u2026\u201d Another one: \u201cI am angry at you. I miss you. How could I miss someone whom I met only once, for a few minutes? I am angry at myself.\u201d Another one: \u201cI was on my gap year when we met. Actually, my second gap year. My first one was about finding myself. The second, finding ways to lose myself. Weird, right?\u201d Another one: \u201cYou know \u2026 I had a girlfriend who made me a man, but I broke up with her. The thought of you \u2026 that kiss was haunting me. I had<\/em> a girlfriend! Fuck!\u201d Another one: \u201cIf I met you again, I would fuck you then and there. I would not care if they arrested me for indecent exposure.\u201d Another one: \u201cMaybe you died. You were older than me. I saw a wrinkle budding on your face, right above your upper lip. I wish I could touch your face. Forget about fucking; that would be wonderous, don\u2019t get me wrong, but I\u2019d rather feel your face.\u201d Another one: \u201cI met a girl. I mean, we were partnered up to finish a project. I am a senior in college now. I kissed her. I felt something. But not like our kiss.\u201d Another one: \u201cYou know, I am an idiot. Why the hell do I write to you? What\u2019s wrong with me, writing to the void? I hate myself. I have so many wounds. Heal them. Please!\u201d Another one: \u201cI got married. It was a small ceremony. We had it in a bathroom hotel. For real. Why would I lie? If it helps, it was a big bathroom, imported marble, fixtures, and shit.\u201d Another one: \u201cWe had our first kid. We bought a big house. In the suburbs. I drive an electric car.\u201d Another one: \u201cI had an affair. With a man. I thought I wanted to try that, too. I guess I am a late bloomer. You know \u2026 how kids experiment a lot in college, I did that, too, but afterwards.\u201d Another one: \u201cMy wife had a miscarriage. It was a boy. I held him. Unformed as he was. He was mine.\u201d Another one: \u201cI was so scared. I had this pain in my stomach and, I never told you this, but my mom died of cancer. When the pain increased, I could not think of anyone else but my mom, lost son, daughter, and you. Funny thing this body of ours \u2026 it turned out, I had a severe case of indigestion. I drank a lemonade.\u201d Another one: \u201cMy father died. He was old, but when your last parent dies, you suddenly feel you are too<\/em> grown up, like there is an excess of adulthood stuck on your skin and inside your bones \u2026 like, you feel confused, what the hell just happened? When did all this time go? You know? Say something!\u201d Another one: \u201cMy daughter had her period. She was yelling with excitement: I am a woman! I am a woman! I hugged her. I thought of you.\u201d Another one: \u201cI got a divorce. It was a long time coming. I should have let my wife be free sooner. I am a bastard. Yep, that\u2019s right. You should say: Mucho gusto<\/em>. Say that. Again. And again.\u201d Another one: \u201cAfter my divorce, I travelled a lot. I went to this country and lived with shepherds. They were talking about transhuman<\/em>\u0163\u0103<\/em>. Check it out. You will love it.\u201d Another one: \u201cMy daughter came to me and asked, Daddy, when do you know you are in love? I smiled. I thought of you.\u201d Another one: \u201cMy mom used to say there are holes in the design\u2026 every single time when she wanted a story to be told more fully, more beautifully, more differently, she would say this \u2026 there are holes\u2026 We do not ever have time to go back to fill them out \u2026 to actually meet<\/em> our second chances\u2026 do we?\u201d Another one: \u201cThis is my last letter. I finally got cancer. I will leave all these letters at our<\/em> store. They wanted to tear it down. I bought it. I left it for you. Stop by. Pick up the letters. Have a lemonade. Sincerely, forever yours, Raul.\u201d<\/p>\n \n *<\/p>\n \n It’s a funny thing, life, that is \u2026 how we love\u2026 or, how we develop feelings.<\/p>\n \n \u201cIs the tea ready, dear? If it\u2019s too cold, you will have to make me another one.\u201d<\/p>\n #<\/p>\n