Mind Game

The train was approaching the station. Just two more hours on the bus and she'd be there. She didn't feel any resentment towards her husband for having to reach her destination alone again. She'd long since stopped feeling resentment. She'd stopped feeling anything. The old emotions were gone. Sometimes she wondered if there had ever been such a thing as emotions in their marriage. Everything was so... normal, gray, pre-planned and predictable. It had always been like this. Perhaps a miracle would happen and he would be waiting for her? In the guesthouse where they'd decided to spend the weekend, just the two of them? It was her decision, her choice. Away from busy people, their affairs, and their problems. She realized she wasn't enjoying it as much as she should have. Especially after he'd told her he couldn't break away from his busy schedule and they'd have to postpone the trip. Instead, she decided to go alone and wait for him. On the crowded bus, she tried to find joy in this trip, but in vain. Late in the evening, she finally arrived. The small guesthouse stared at her through its dark windows. "I guess I'll be alone here," she thought bitterly. A cold wind brushed her face. She grabbed a small bag and headed toward the guesthouse. As she opened the door, a bell hung from the ceiling to announce the arrival of guests rang out. Its ringing was resonant in the silence of the bar. A woman of indeterminate age bustled about the dimly lit buffet. She was handing a recently filled glass to a man seated at the bar. "Someone else found this place," she thought, smiling to herself. She walked up to the counter.

"I had a reservation here," she said. "Is my husband here yet?" she asked, giving the woman behind the bar her name. Why had she asked about her husband? She knew he wasn't there. She hadn't noticed a car in front of the guesthouse.

"Unfortunately, not yet," the woman replied

. "Then I'd like my room key," she said with a smile. The man

at the bar glanced at her briefly, betraying no sign of interest in the newcomer. She just managed to catch a glimpse of immense sadness in his eyes. Blue, sad eyes. "Only someone with eyes like that could have ended up here," she thought, wondering what her gaze conveyed. A woman's voice snapped her out of her reverie.

"Please, number 14. First floor, second door on the left."

She grabbed the key and went upstairs. She entered a small room, in the center of which stood a large bed. The bed she would spend the night in. She took off her coat and threw it on a chair. Sadness overwhelmed her. She lay down on the bed and, staring at the gray ceiling, wondered if this was what her life was supposed to be like. She had once had so many dreams, plans, and crazy ideas. She was looking for someone who would love her and her horned soul. She wanted to conquer the world, infect everyone with her laughter and joy of life. She met her future husband at a friend's house. What captivated her about him? He was the antithesis of everything she had dreamed of? Businesslike, ambitious, introverted, stubborn. She was afraid to share his crazy ideas and plans, afraid of his criticism. She began to focus on being the perfect wife, giving up everything she believed in and everything that brought her joy. In return, he gave her stability, peace, and quiet—things she had been running away from her entire life. And now, it had become her life, her second nature. The second, because the first, the real one, was fast asleep, and there was no one to wake her. And she didn't have the desire? the strength? the motivation? to do it herself... The sound of the phone tore her from her increasingly saddening thoughts. It was a message. She had a feeling it was from her husband. She wasn't wrong. He had a surprise for her, but he would reveal it in the morning when he came to pick her up at the guesthouse. "What do you mean, 'pick her up'? Why should he come pick me up? We were supposed to be here for a few days?" Suddenly, the silence was broken by music. It was coming from the bar. The saddest country song she knew. Without thinking, she ran downstairs. She saw a man sitting with his head resting on the counter. Her first instinct was to go to him and hug him. Surprised by her reaction, she asked

, "Will you have a drink with me?"

He lifted his head, and she saw that sadness in his eyes again.

"I'd love to," he replied, ordered two beers, and leaned his head back against the bar.

"I thought you wanted a drink with me," she replied

. "I'm sorry," he said, raising his glass in a toast.

For a moment, she felt a pang of guilt for disturbing his sadness. She felt like an intruder. But only for a moment. They began to talk. About everything and nothing. About the weather, the mountains, music. Then about life, feelings, the past. About her dreams and fascinations. She slowly surrendered to the charm of the moment. There was something incredible about this man. When he spoke, he spoke with his whole being. Every fiber of his being betrayed his mood, his commitment to the conversation. He didn't even have to use many words; she knew immediately what emotions his story evoked. She listened captivated. The first time he laughed, she felt immense emotion. As if a miracle had occurred. But the sadness in his eyes remained. She was afraid to ask about it, even though it intrigued her immensely. They drank beer, smoked cigarettes, and she felt the magic of this place. She felt as if she had known him for years. That he was a long-lost friend, a memory of wild, carefree years. She felt something stirring in her soul... was it the charm of the moment? Or the excess beer she'd consumed? She didn't want to dwell on it. She felt good. And that was the most important thing. They sat like that until dawn. When it seemed they'd let it all out, that even though they'd only known each other for a few hours, they knew enough about each other, they decided to call it a night. They grabbed their keys and went upstairs. Only when he stood up did she notice he'd overindulged with the beer. It touched her, even though she wasn't a fan of tipsy men. She opened the door to his room and heard him struggling to find the lock. She walked up to him and said with a smile,

"Wait, I'll help you." She opened the door to his room, but she couldn't leave. Something prevented her from ending the evening like that. She surrendered completely to the mood.

"Perhaps... we could have some coffee?" she asked. "We were having such a nice conversation...

" "I'd love to," he replied.

She already knew what would happen. She didn't resist. She didn't want to. She craved it. He pulled her toward him with a strong, decisive movement. Before they could even get the key out of the door, they began kissing furiously, passionately. They undressed in a hurry, scattering their clothes around the room. They made love hungrily, as if aware that their night was drawing to a close. They fell asleep, sated with each other.

She woke up an hour later. She felt no remorse. She felt something she hadn't experienced in a long time—she was happy. This man, whom she'd met a few hours ago, had given her a few moments from his life. Moments that would be her most precious treasure. Moments that allowed her to believe that somewhere deep inside, this crazy woman lived, one who could be happy without blaming herself. She stood up, trying not to make any noise. She dressed quickly. She knew she would soon meet her husband, but she couldn't leave the room. She sat down gently on the edge of the bed, gazing at the sleeping man. She raised her index finger to her lips, kissed him, and gently touched his lips.

"Thank you," she whispered, and left the room.

* * *

The sound of a key in the lock woke her. "He's back quickly," she thought, turning her back to the door where she knew her husband would soon be standing. She heard the front door slam and energetic footsteps heading toward the bedroom.

"What was that text message supposed to mean?" he asked in a raised voice, standing by the bed. "What are you talking about again?" She pulled the covers over her head with a violent movement, as if to hide from the question. The question she hated with all her heart. The question that, after all these years, left her feeling helpless and desperate. And the feeling of how little her words meant to him. The question that hurt more and more with each passing year.

"Will you finally answer me?

" "It means exactly what I wrote. Isn't its meaning clear enough?" she replied, surprised by her own determination.

"I understand," he said, and left the bedroom. She heard him packing his things and carrying them to the car. But she stayed in bed, not wanting to watch his fury.

* * *

Two days later, he called.

"I transferred half of our savings to your account. If you want, I'll send you a detailed breakdown.

" "No need," she replied.

"Well, that's it, bye.

" "Bye."

One sentence summing up their seven-year relationship. It meant so much to him.

* * *

She was returning from another conversation with her husband. She had already decided on a divorce, but he pressed her, saying they could start over, that he'd thought it over, that he'd changed, that he loved her more than anything else. Her mind was spinning. She didn't want this marriage anymore. She was afraid of the future, she felt sorry for her husband, but she didn't want to be with him anymore. She didn't feel what was essential to building a relationship—love, excitement, desire. Nothing. She remembered the guesthouse in the mountains and the blue, sad eyes of the man who had helped her wake up from that numbing sleep of several years. "He probably didn't realize it himself," she smiled to herself. "He doesn't know he'd impacted someone's life so profoundly." Today, she saw the same Niwa standing in front of the guesthouse. Perhaps that was why memories of that incredible night had returned? It was Saturday, another lonely Saturday, her head full of wild thoughts. She'd come home, take a shower, light candles, turn on some music, get drunk on wine... cry a little alone... It had been like this for two months... But she didn't regret what had happened to her marriage.

"That Niva again," she thought with surprise, noticing a car parked in front of the gate where she lived. A man was walking slowly toward the car. At the sight of him, her heart began to pound. "It's impossible. It can't be him." – she thought frantically, quickening her pace – "No, it's not him. It's dark. It's someone who looks like him. Besides, where would he be? What would he be doing here? Could he have found her business card? But it's been two months. No. What am I thinking? My heart is about to burst," she giggled softly – "It's definitely not him. You don't just show up to see someone you've only known for a few hours. True. It was a very intimate few hours. But a few hours. Why am I so nervous? What am I nervous about? That it might be him, or that it might turn out not to be him?" He stopped by the car. He didn't see her. She walked quietly and stood behind him. Her blood was pounding madly in her veins.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, instinctively placing her hand on his shoulder. She felt him tense, surprised by her touch. He turned to face her. She saw his eyes. Eyes she remembered, eyes she would remember for a long time. But there was no sadness in them anymore. She was Resignation, surprise. And in a second, something appeared... a wave of warmth enveloped her body.

"Is that you?" she asked in disbelief. "Really you?

" "Yes," he replied, hugging her tightly. And a moment later, he kissed her hungrily, passionately, just like back then, in that small guesthouse somewhere in the mountains.