Waiting for a day that won't come

Only night brought me respite. When I woke in the morning, dazed by the morning glow, I longed for the darkness of night, for its gentleness, for its silence, for the world I had seen in dreams.

Thus passed the days, weeks, months. Simple, routine activities from dawn, then nine or ten hours at my desk at work. I pored over numbers, programs, the internet, writing messages both important and less important. The longed-for lunch hour and the time to leave work. During lunch, I strolled alone through nearby parks and squares. I avoided the bustling streets of the city center, where my company was headquartered. Sometimes I ventured further, lost in thought, bumping into random passersby. Like an explorer of the North Pole, I pressed eastward, toward the river. Sometimes images of a passing reality reached me. I paid little attention to modernity and the technocratic reality. I was fascinated by old tenement houses, forgotten trees, elderly people laboriously carrying groceries. In these images, I always searched for the past, its vanishing signs. Shops and kiosks smelling of soap, printer's ink, and fruit. The ones I encountered bore no resemblance to my childhood. Everything was plastic, cold, artificial. Shouting advertisements, a multitude of colorful goods, necessary and often unnecessary in everyday life. Under the pitch-black asphalt, the old, pre-war pavements vanished.

In fact, I lived to fall asleep. And every night before bed, I prayed to God to let me dream of my city. There were no cars in my city. Trams ran only rarely. There was no modernity. There were endless adventures, walks, streets drowning in the shade of acacias, and old tenement houses. Bazaars, markets, horse-drawn carriages, and people dressed in pastel shades of brown, black, and gray. But there was no sadness there. In my dreams, I wandered through these cities, meeting all sorts of people along the way. The good ones, and the ones who were always there to trip me up. Sometimes I escaped through courtyards, fences, basements, or the roofs of outbuildings. But it was a world! Without technology, without modernity, with adventure at every corner.

Sometimes she appeared in my dreams. She was a petite blonde with whimsical freckles on her nose. She usually dressed differently from the women I met every day. She was dressed lightly, airily, and in fact, you could say her clothes were a part of her. Always smiling or lost in thought. She sat on a park bench feeding pigeons. I would sit down and ask questions. She always looked at me with those blue, surprised eyes of hers and smiled, the corners of her lips slightly upturned. She had a fantastic smile, accentuated by her beautiful, sensual lips. And that sound, the tone of her voice. I sat as if spellbound until the dream reality changed into one from which I tried in vain to escape.

Life wasn't working out for me. It was my own doing. First, my wife and son left me. It took me two years to slowly get back on my feet, learning to live independently. Over time, I learned to find joy in the little things: walks, small purchases, the cinema, sunny days, and Saturday trips out of town. I lived the life of a person without a family, with a huge sense of guilt. In truth, I still dreamed of my city. I dreamed of never waking up, of falling asleep forever in that silence, next to her—the sleepy, slightly blurry girl from the park.

The world here, the one I lived in, was far from my ideas of adult life. Oh, how wonderful it was to be a child! Going on vacation with my parents, having no responsibilities, feeling safe. And still getting into those antics at school and beyond. That time was over, and I knew it wouldn't come back. I avoided excessive alcohol, sometimes taking sleeping pills to help me fall into a delirium more quickly, so I could reach a small park bench, almost lost in the thicket of May-blooming lilac bushes.

I met Anna by chance. During one of my lunchtime walks. Actually, I accosted her. She was walking, almost running, clearly in a hurry. She didn't notice that a note or ticket had fallen out of her open purse. Suffice it to say, I noticed the loss, picked it up, and, catching up with the woman in the light trench coat, handed her the crumpled note.

She was clearly delighted.

"Thank you very much, I'm rushing to my exam. This is my cheat sheet..." She gave me a sweet smile, and she was gone.

"You're welcome..." I stammered to the old, rusty street lamp opposite me.

There was no sign of the woman.

Days passed, and I still had her in my mind's eye. That auburn hair, elegant shoes, and a scent that was almost intoxicating. A classy woman. Just like the one from my dreams. Why do so many girls associate attention to appearance with cheapness and luxury? Do they truly despise well-groomed hands, an elegant appearance, a good scent, and makeup that enhances beauty? Often, looking at busy women or young girls on the tram, I wondered if they truly didn't want to please their husbands, boyfriends?

She, a stranger from Powiśle... Where to find her, where to meet her? How to find her? Maybe she could... deep within, somewhere deep within, a small flame of hope for something more than just chance ignited. Two years without a loved one were exhausting. Random conversations with women, encounters with boring people from work didn't compensate for the emptiness. After all, sleep lasts only a moment, and everything else lasts forever...

Happiness decided to seek me out. I found it on tram line 33 on a Saturday morning. I was planning to drive to Śródmieście and wander around, maybe even grab a beer at a garden. She was standing with her back to me. I recognized her by her scent and her thick, chestnut-colored hair.

"Good morning... How did the exam go? Did the cheat sheet come in handy?" I whispered in her ear.

She turned abruptly. She looked flustered.

"Do we know each other?" she stammered anxiously

. "Remember in Powiśle... That piece of paper with notes..." Now I felt uneasy.

"Ah," she smiled friendly. "I remember you. Sure, the exam went great..." she stopped mid-sentence. "I passed." She smiled again.

"Where are you going?" I asked

. "To Savior Square, I have an appointment there...

" "Great, I'll take a stop over. Maybe..." I hesitated. "We could meet sometime?

" "Why not. Maybe we could," she weighed her words carefully, looking me straight in the eye.

I pulled a business card with my name and phone number from my jacket pocket, the one I always carry with me.

"Here it is." This is my phone number. If you'd like...

" "My name is Anna."

"Peter," I said, taking her delicate, manicured hand.

The tram doors opened in Savior Square. Anna gave me one last smile and disappeared into the crowd of passersby. "

Maybe she'll call," I thought.

Two weeks had passed since then. Summer had begun. School was ending, and many young people were wandering the city streets. In the evenings, the beer gardens were a regular celebration. Beer poured by the barrels straight down the throats of the enthusiastic youth. As long as the beer-weary boys weren't pouring through the gate, it didn't bother me.

Actually, all I could think about was Anna. What was she doing, where was she living, was she with someone? I couldn't help it; I'd always been attracted to women like that. A little provocative, well-groomed, with that certain something. In the third week, she called. She spoke quickly, as if someone was following her, or she was afraid of something. We arranged to meet the next day after work—in the park.

I couldn't sleep a wink all night. Why did she call? Was it a coincidence, or did something "spark" actually click?

Nonsense. Nothing happened. The girl just wants to escape her everyday life. She's looking for new acquaintances, friendships, I told myself.

Besides, what difference does it make?

When I arrived at the park at the appointed time, she was already waiting. She was sitting at my favorite bench, opposite a copy of Xawery Dunikowski's sculpture imitating a couple locked in a passionate embrace, experiencing the bliss of intimacy.

I was greeted by a broad smile, her gentle, slightly parted lips. Everything around her was laughing: the birds, the trees; even the cumulus clouds passing across the sky seemed to be forming their shapes, as if their lips were curled into a smile. I don't remember how long we talked. The sun had long set, and after a while, a bored park ranger informed us that "we were closing." I walked her to a nearby taxi and walked home. How happy I was!

After a lifetime of bitter experiences, fortune finally smiled on me. Anna turned out to be an intern at a large pharmaceutical company. She was also studying law part-time. We exchanged comments about working in large corporations. They were surprisingly similar. The same character types, behaviors, the same hypocrisy, deceit, unhealthy ambitions, deceitful slogans, boring meetings. She longed for life outside the city, in the countryside. She was fascinated by nature, the opportunity to be close to nature, the relative peace, solitude, vast spaces, clean air. It didn't matter to me. I liked the countryside, but I missed the city, its coolness, the evening lull in traffic, the late pedestrians, the clatter of tram wheels hurrying to the depot. However, I was happy to escape the city for short escapades. Returning home in the evenings, since I met Anna, I thought less often about losing myself in dreams. I began to read books voraciously. Every book I could get my hands on. I stopped watching TV and listening to the news. I began to believe that there was still hope, that not all was lost in life. Life became saturated, full of colors, scents, hope, and joy. Sadness faded away.

We met daily after work, sometimes for a few hours on weekends. She rarely stayed overnight. Every attempt to get any further information from her was futile. At first, I resisted, but after a while, I gave up. If she wanted, she would tell me.

Winter came and covered the earth with a white shroud. In the evenings, we met at my place or at one of the pubs in the city center. We were constantly discovering new topics, discussing new life issues, problems, and eternal disputes. Never, with anyone, with any woman, had I felt the way I did with Anna.

We were quite different. Besides our ages (she was much younger), we had different attitudes toward religion, principles, morality, sex, alcohol, science, even art. But at the same time—and perhaps even more—we had in common than we had in common. We shared common interests, dreams, ways of spending time, a constant desire to change our surroundings through travel, exploring, and absorbing every place, person, and situation. A constant wanderlust. A relaxed way of life, a place to live. Admittedly, I'd never been to her apartment, but she'd tell me about it. It was pastel-colored: shades of yellow, orange, and red. She passionately collected photos and paintings of butterflies. Apparently, one wall in her bedroom was completely covered with engravings, paintings, and photographs depicting butterflies from around the world. For her birthday, which fell just before Christmas, I ordered her a small gold butterfly with a 12-carat diamond of exceptional clarity from a friend, a family jeweler. I included a small hammered chain and a basket of 27 burgundy roses, the same age as she was turning. She was so touched and delighted. I knew she really liked the gift. But that wasn't the end of the surprises. Later, there was a movie and a late dinner at an old Prague restaurant. That day, she allowed me to invite her to spend the night with her. We made love almost until dawn. Our scents mingled; I savored her gorgeous breasts, buried my lips in her arms, kissed her, caressed every inch of her body. We fell asleep in the wee hours. Of course, we overslept in the morning, which was to be expected. But we both knew – it was worth it.

Time passed slowly, winter slowly eased. The thaw began, the sun grew warmer. Nothing serious happened in our relationship. The stagnation and absence of Ania slowly began to bother me. I told myself that she had the right to this. She had the right to her individuality, to her secrets, to manage her time as she pleased, to express her own thoughts and opinions. And I… I knew that being with her meant accepting her as she was. Without being overbearing, without imposing her own habits or lifestyle, a miserable one, by the way.

She once told me:

"Soon, Piotruś, you'll see, I'll explain everything to you, tell you. It will be different. The day will come when you'll understand everything, forgive me...

" "But what should I forgive you for?" I asked rhetorically. "I don't blame you for anything. I just... I really like you."

That wasn't true. You can like your neighbor down the hall or the neighbor across the street for being understanding about the decibels she absorbs while having boozy parties. But like Anna? I didn't want to tell her about my feelings. It wasn't necessary. At least that's what I thought at the time.

We had these discussions until spring. We slowly got used to each other, meeting up with my friends and hers. Unfortunately, these were brief encounters, because Anna "had to hurry." The rush was somehow built into our relationship. She'd come to me smiling and then immediately have to "run away." I thought I'd get used to it. I tried. I told myself I could handle it. That there was something more important than brief moments—something that lay within us. It couldn't be destroyed. It couldn't be let go for any price. It wouldn't happen again. I knew it was now or never. It had gone too far. She was too much inside me. I knew that if something terrible happened, something that separated us, it would be pointless to continue living. Working, feeding pigeons in the park, or polishing the nearby cobblestones in the evenings. Pointless. The only thing that would make sense would be the Perpetual Dream...

But I didn't want to allow myself that. I had a son whom I visited occasionally – depending on how my ex-wife allowed it. Sometimes I saw him three times a week, and sometimes I didn't see him for two weeks. Anna seemed to have accepted the little one. She even tried to become friends with him.

I slowly felt the right moment was approaching. I felt it was either now or never. May arrived. We'd known each other for about a year. Almost daily meetings. Many nights. And too little time each day. You can't live like that long-term – I convinced myself. You have to be mature, honest, and make a decision.

I bought a simple ring. A simple diamond, worth a thousand euros I'd saved up, set in white gold. A classic. A black, velvet-lined box. Plus an original Dom Perignon. The most beautiful 101 roses the entire city had ever seen. Candles, music, a new shirt with a turn-down collar, and a specially ordered suit made of Italian fabric. I didn't count the cost. My apartment was furnished, a certain amount of money in my account, and beneath a loose floorboard, they were quietly awaiting difficult times or important decisions. I booked a table at our favorite restaurant. I didn't allow myself to think that Anna might refuse me. You feel it, without words. You feel it when a woman looks, when she touches, when her eyes sparkle, when she smiles, when she starts to freak out, when she wants to, when she's feeling down. You feel whether it's safe or not. You know whether what connects two people who have been together for a long time is just sex, partnership, or the very thing you dream about, the very thing you yearn for.

I chose Thursday. It's a good day. Considering it was close to Friday and the weekend. Yes, Thursday was the best day possible. The fourth day of the week. Four. Yes – that was her bra or bust size. A large, one might say amazing four. I loved that pot-shaped shape of hers, those erect nipples… Ah… What would love be without bodies intertwined, without the mist in her eyes, without desire, without the passion that bursts the mind… Without the desire for union, without the madness of the night. Everything was planned down to the last detail. Ania wasn't supposed to expect what awaited her. It was supposed to be a surprise. Madness. With the last of my spare money, I hired two violinists to play our classics. Mostly Irish tunes.

She arrived promptly at 5:00 PM. Straight from work. She hadn't even had time to hang her purse, or rather, her leather backpack, on the coat rack. I hid behind a basket of 101 roses… Actually, I was speechless. I'd planned this for so long, the details, the little poems, the whole setting. Or maybe it should have been done differently – on a plane, or a toilet, or a train, or in a meadow, or picking mushrooms? Maybe at the pool, or during the trip to the French Riviera we were planning for next summer?

She was shocked. When I looked into her eyes, I realized she'd finally arrived.

"Forgive me for being so cliché, but THIS DAY has simply arrived. I've been waiting for you my entire messed-up life. I've dreamed of you, dreamed of you. I want to wake up with you, spend every moment, holidays, eat hot dogs, swim in the river, argue, drive in the car, and read English crime novels aloud." Besides, I'm begging you, marry me, such a simpleton, and I'll do everything to make it the wisest decision of your life." I finished my monologue.

"Why..." she interrupted me, tears welling up.

"Because I simply love you more than life itself, Anna..."

I took out the ring and, holding it between my index finger and thumb, held it out in front of me. Anna stood paralyzed with a basket of 101 roses, which, to be honest, was almost a meter in diameter. She set it on the floor, looked at me, and burst into tears.

"Why are you crying, darling? Did I say something wrong? I promise, I'll do better. Today, in a moment, you'll see that this isn't the end of the fun, today...

" "It's not like that," she interrupted. "It's not about you. I have a husband," she said calmly, and I felt something strange happening to me. The floor began to spin, the walls blurred, and a sweet sensation filled my throat. I leaned against the door.

Anna held my shoulders.

"Peter... I didn't have the courage. I didn't... I wanted to from the beginning, but this was stronger... I didn't want to lose you. Please understand... Please...

" "Go already," I whispered.

She looked at me. I still remember that look. Pain, terror, regret, rage, madness. She left. In the middle of the hallway stood a stack of 101 burgundy roses, and I, sitting on the floor in my beautiful, hand-made suit and turndown-collared shirt, clutching the ring, must have looked like a puppy.

I sat there for an hour or two. Finally, I got up. I threw the ring in the ashtray and grabbed the phone. My first thought was to send her a message. Let her come back, explain, beg my forgiveness. Forgiveness for the lack of trust, for the lies…

I dialed the restaurant's number.

"Good evening… Węgrowski here…. I wanted to, unfortunately…. That is, I have to cancel the table and the musicians. Please tell me I'll pay. I'm sorry…"

I hung up. It practically fell on the floor. I didn't pick it up. I went to the kitchen. I grabbed a Dom Perignon from the fridge. I opened it and drank it in one gulp, the way children drink warm milk when their mother gives it to them when they're sick.

When I finished, I threw the bottle in the sink. It didn't break. I've learned to always interpret every sign in life. This one was auspicious. However, I wasn't in the mood for philosophizing. I took the ring from the ashtray in the hallway and put it in the box. I staggered out of the house, disheveled, and headed for the park. It was only after 8:00 PM, but a raucous party was underway in the park palace. Some wealthy corporation was probably organizing another team-building event… I continued on, down the path, along the fence. I knew every hole there. I saw that a little further on, there was a sawn-off fence, and the fence could be easily bent. I entered the park. Once I got home, I knew what I was going to do.

I didn't hesitate. I should have thrown the ring out the window, taken a week off, and drank myself to forget... But I knew there were no holidays, no holidays this long, that would allow me to forget. So I should hide this symbol. Simply bury it. Along with the box I'd brought with me. I chose a tall, old maple tree. It would be fine in the fork of its roots, I thought. It grew on the side of the main path in the park. Here and there, couples passed by, men in suits, women in costumes, but hidden by the bushes, I was invisible. With my hands, I dug a small hole, just big enough to fit the box and its contents. I covered it with earth.

"Lie here quietly. One day THAT DAY will come, and she will return."

Six months have passed since then. It's mid-November. Outside, the rain is raging, the sleet is pouring down. I'm sitting, pouring over an unfinished letter, not sure who it's for... It's Friday evening. An open bottle of Scotch. An ashtray filled to the brim with cigarette butts. I just wanted to say, or rather write, that she tried. She had the strength to explain, to make excuses, but I… I was gone. I felt that I was gone. Actually, it's true. Unfortunately, I don't exist.

Everything I believed in, trusted, expressed in my dreams, everything that came to me in dreams and in my waking life – it all fell apart. No, I don't escape excessively into alcohol, drugs, or suicidal thoughts. I visit my son… I write strange letters, I don't know to whom… I guess to kill time. To kill loneliness. I'm learning all over again. I'm learning how to not have feelings. Or to show them so that no one notices I don't have them. I really left them. There, under that tree. Sometimes I thrash, scream at night, or at two in the morning I need a drink. Vodka. I fall asleep immediately.

It's good that I go to work. I can buy the kid a surprise from time to time. I hardly ever go to the park, but I've discovered that you can feed pigeons elsewhere. I have a certain place, but I won't write about it because I might lose it too. Because maybe someone will start coming there, someone who's no longer there. Besides, I'm afraid that if I write about this, I'll meet that couple... So similar to people I knew. I used to know.

From time to time, I'll go to the park. To my bench, because there's still something that, despite everything, compels me to go there and wait. But I know. I'm sure. Believe me. I know I'm waiting for a day that will never come.