"It was summer. Hot, blooming, and so senselessly empty." Maybe I'd start the conversation that way, or maybe completely differently. I'd tell her colorful fairy tales, and she'd believe everything. I'd talk about everything, omitting only the truth. But I won't. I'll remain silent.
"So, honey, what did that summer mean to you, what happened?" she'd ask naively. "
So butterflies were flying, honey, and it was warm, so I went to the beach, sometimes to the movies in the evenings, only with my friends, of course." She'd probably laugh at that and say she trusted me. Funny, she trusts me so much that I don't believe myself. An empty slogan—remember what you've been through. But is it worth it, and is it worth sharing it with her?
"You know, there was a certain party
—like thousands of others?
" "This one was different," she'd ask, intrigued.
"Didn't you say every party is the same?" "Alcohol, silly dancing, and a hangover in the morning?"
"I didn't have a hangover this time. "
"But you've been drinking?" She'd make sure unnecessarily
. "Yes, maybe, don't remember. It doesn't matter. It was a beautiful night then, warm, starry, just the way you like it. It smelled of summer... Everywhere.
" "You've turned into a romantic," she'd probably scoff, not understanding, and I'd decide not to tell her anyway, because, why? "She won't understand. She had the right not to understand, to shut herself off in her naivety, to have only trust in those cat-like eyes of hers, she had the right to love and believe that pure, boundless love exists. Besides, I believed in it too, once in my life, very strongly. Though perhaps not so naively. But isn't all love naive? It sweeps, penetrates deeply, and then burns out. Or someone simply writes it off. Throws it in the trash like ordinary, used garbage. No, I can't tell her this with such cynicism. It would hurt her, destroy her castles in the air and her belief in a rosy reality. She likes to analyze everything. She'd laugh as usual and ask flirtatiously, "Give me your thoughts." So maybe I'll give her the most precious ones, saturated with those experiences and lemon... or maybe I'd start with that. You know, I liked the smell of lemons back then. She'd probably look at me blankly, uncomprehending. And what could I possibly tell her then? That her hair smelled just like that, so intensely... What a trivial detail that adds nothing to the motto "remember what you've experienced."
"Well, what next?" she'd ask inquisitively, not letting me back out so quickly, leaving it without explanation, without any closure.
"And that night had a certain significance, you know?" I'd tell her, "At that party that summer, I met someone..." She'd probably look at me intently at that moment, curious, with a spark of fear and questions in her green eyes. But I wouldn't look at her then; I'd find a spot on the wall and devote all my attention to it. But I would probably continue talking... I would force her not to forgive me for my silence...
"You know, it's not that important." Maybe I could try to evade it
. "Speak," she would order impatiently
. "It was so ordinary..." She stood to the side, smoking weed. "Ridiculous." There was something terribly provocative about her whole demeanor, so promiscuous... I don't know why, but I approached her; she actually beckoned me with her eyes.
"You don't like girls like that, do you?" She would have interrupted me pointlessly, wanting to make her presence known with this stupid question and perhaps find some security for herself.
"No, I don't." I would have lied glibly, or maybe it wouldn't even be a lie. "But there was something strange in her eyes... some immense pain and loneliness. Maybe that's why, later, whenever she tried to act in front of me, she would have lowered her gaze. She tried to act tough, liberated... You know, that night we went to the beach." We'd walk around and just chat, chase waves, and smoke pot.
"Well, very romantic," she'd sneer again, and maybe she'd grab my hand and dig into it with her nails. She always does that when she's feeling insecure. But I'd keep talking, hoping it would free me.
"Later, we'd meet up, spend every free moment together, we were practically inseparable, except she wouldn't let me get too close to her, and I wanted to know her deeply. At night, we'd go swimming, and then we'd lie down on the cold sand, and she'd cuddle me so tightly. Sometimes she'd cry, and I couldn't comfort her."
She never told me why she was suffering, and I never really asked.
"What was her name?" She'd probably ask some unnecessary detail again, and I probably would have ignored it. She'd be afraid to ask important questions, but maybe when I told her, I'd need those questions... Sometimes we'd talk about love—I'd revisit memories—we'd drink champagne and play grown-ups... And sometimes, when we made love, she'd stop playing and become that little defenseless girl terrified by the overly ruthless world... All its dark colors, its pain, and constant treachery; he was too perfidious for her... One day... God! It was so beautiful back then... "
What happened?" she'd ask with emotion, knowing it was something important. It's ridiculous to think we'd have gotten this far in this conversation. I probably would have ended it long ago, replaced the story with some shallow lie. Or maybe that's exactly what she'd expect from me. It was summer, hot, blooming, and so pointlessly empty... No, that would be too easy. So let's assume I'd made it this far... so one day... she didn't come...
"Just like that?
" "No, it wasn't just like that... The next day, neither." I searched all our places, all the parties... "
And you didn't find her?" she would ask with relief, thinking it was over.
"No, on the contrary," I would reply with strange satisfaction, "I found her, and quite quickly. She was lying at the party, pathetic, completely stoned... She didn't recognize me. She looked and didn't recognize me... It hurt, you know? Despite her hopeless state, it hurt that she didn't see me. I was a stranger to her... And her lemon-colored hair... Her lips and stoned eyes... It was all so familiar to me... I carried her to the beach, tried to bring her back to normal. Later we made love, wildly, harshly, vulgarly, without any tenderness, and then she cried... I said I loved her, I screamed, I begged... She was mine again, and I learned from her this strange loneliness of hers. And so we persisted... Stupidly, naively, I wanted to protect her, from everything, I wanted to understand..." She would probably be sitting next to me, curled up, terrified, completely unaware of me. Or maybe she'd tell me to stop talking? But I don't think I could do that, even for her. "Remember what you've been through," I'd say soothingly, and continue with my hopeless story. Or maybe she'd ask what happened next. After a few wonderful weeks, she disappeared again without a word.
"Was she a drug addict?" She'd forcefully ask, trying to find some explanation.
"No, she wasn't. She was my obsession. She was playing, she couldn't act in front of me anymore, so she ran away, playing perfidiously, pretending to be someone else...
" "But that pain in her eyes?... Did she still have it?
" "Yes." But I guess only I noticed it. I'd look for her again, then caress her, love her, and spend my summer with her. Sometimes it was so wonderful, God, how weak she was! I'd take care of her, and she'd snuggle into me and just be... I thought it was finally okay, that I'd create a wonderful life for her, that no one would ever hurt her again. And it was like that... for a while. And then... she didn't disappear like always, she didn't just leave. She crossed everything out. She chose this other world. A liberated world... A drug-fueled, dirty one. Maybe she really was like that?! And I was just stupid...
"You're not stupid," she would have denied automatically, and hugged me, perhaps wanting to protect me. But from what, from memories? She left me, said she didn't want me, didn't love me, that I stole her freedom. Complete destruction... Yes, that's how she put it and left. Idiotic memories, experiences... No, I wasn't naive then. I'm even less so now... But if I ever find her, then... I won't tell her that story. It's not worth remembering... it's not worth believing in love. I'll keep silent... I'll give her some lie, and we won't go back to it... And only that empty slogan... She reminds me of everything... and if someday she too... maybe it's worth talking about it. Maybe it's worth showing her myself?...
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