Anonymous Morning

A pre-Christmas mood. Snow had fallen, and everything felt somehow cozier. Monday morning arrived an hour before noon. I couldn't see the sun, but from the total lack of clouds, I could assume its presence.

The view from the window was, as always, impressive. I didn't fully understand it, but the sight of the tenement roofs, snow-covered windowsills, scuffed walls, and dirty courtyard seemed utterly captivating. The gloomy and menacing members of the Wilda community lived on the ground floor and first floor, in the nooks and crannies of the dog-stained courtyard. I watched from the safe, student perspective of the fourth floor of the apartment building where I lived. A few figures in down jackets with the word "Pit Bull" on them stood by a weary Polonez, discussing something animatedly. Above, old, dirty curtains or laundry lines hung gloomily behind the windowpanes. The white of the window frames had turned gray, and the darkened wood looked haunting beneath the chipped paint. Above, only rooftops, covered in white snow. Pristine and innocent, deceptive. The beginning of winter always brings the illusion of a new beginning; each season, with its constancy and repetition, awakens in me the hope that humanity can always start anew. If we are as much a part of nature as the sad trees jutting above the rooftops, perhaps we too can be reborn each time our lives freeze in emotionless lethargy. In winter, there are no smells, only cold, a snowy emptiness. Just like during the months after one brief phone call that ended love. No emotion, no feelings, still performing the same daily chores, indulging in random pleasures, yet still waiting for spring.

Yes, I associated all of this with the snow on the roofs of the tenement houses, on the chimneys, located just above my window. Somewhere in the distance, a red skyscraper, somewhat aging but still proud, towered. Against its backdrop, pigeons struggled to survive the winter. Like everyone else.

Viewing this stark, bleak landscape from the warmth, coziness, and unique comfort of my room was a wonderful compensation for the dawn of another week, one that likely wouldn't lead me anywhere. Perhaps I needed to get used to it, shake off the illusion of purposefulness, and acknowledge that the process of self-improvement and development was merely existential masturbation. That wasn't my idea. Yet in a closed reality, sealed off from the outside world by a weather-tight window, the glass long unwashed, it seemed to have a reason for existence and a chance for success. My little republic, a neurotic dictatorship – planet Dominik. Because only on a micro-scale can rebellion fully materialize. That much was obvious, at least from beneath the polka-dot duvet under which I found myself this morning.

I was jolted out of my dreamy, reflective, and seemingly meaningless mood by the sound of an incoming text message, right next to my oversensitive ear, accustomed to the silence of the night.

Magda.

"I have classes across from your building. My break is coming up soon. I can come over if you want."

Want it? For a moment, I had no idea. First and foremost, I had to conjure up an image of her. The morning's freshness and mental alertness helped me do this. Behind my lowered eyelids, I saw her face. The pleasant, shapely face of a pretty troll. A large, protruding nose and receding, delicate lips. Her chin also tucked in somewhere behind her. High, prominent cheekbones, and above them, pretty, girlish, kind eyes, slightly asymmetrical eyeballs—a so-called squint. A squint, actually, so sweet. Nice, thick, burgundy hair, I think. A solidly built body; Magda swims a lot, so she melts her slight excess weight into muscle. When I remembered her firm, firm, sizeable butt, I noticed a movement under the covers.

This might have been our third meeting, including the one we met at the house party two months ago. Both previous ones ended exactly where I was lying. This time, however, she only had an hour. Maybe this time would be different. We'd talk, drink tea, I'd hug her, and wish her a peaceful holiday. That wouldn't be a bad solution.

If it ended with sex, I wouldn't be offended either.

I replied asking her to give me fifteen minutes. It wasn't about sex, it wasn't about wanting to see her. I wanted to meet her out of pure curiosity. There was nothing more dangerous in my life than curiosity. And although I wanted to lie in bed some more, I wanted to know what would happen, what this unusually started Monday would be like.

I made the bed, bathed, and was finishing shaving when she arrived. I'd asked for fifteen minutes, but it was after ten. She looked pretty, moved with determination and grace, and her face and voice conveyed an aura of charming, delicate girlishness.

I made the tea, and we chatted. I felt comfortable and safe observing her from a few meters away, with the gaze of an outside observer—which I certainly wasn't—taking in the delicate, graceful, and friendly gestures of her body, mixed with her girlish voice, shy gaze, and all the rest of what made a woman. Here, in the person of Magda, whom I actually liked.

I suggested we go to my room. We sat on the bed, artificially facing each other. She placed her mug by the window. I stood up to do the same. There was no room left on the windowsill, crowded with trash, so I set the tea on the table. Returning, I stood over her and kissed her forehead. Then her lips. We pressed ourselves together, and that's how it stayed.

She was truly horny and eager. She was one of those delicate, perhaps inexperienced women who would never admit it; she left all the initiative to me. I liked it. Her pussy was really wet, unfortunately not very shaved. I decided I wouldn't give her cunnilingus today, no matter what. I felt a hard-on, so I removed her pants while simultaneously sliding mine down. Her face, contorted with desire, looked as if something was wrong. I wanted to ask about it, slightly concerned. But I was more preoccupied with removing my pants.

It felt strange in this situation, lying on a bare bed, without the soft, cozy sheets, naked only to the part of our bodies needed for copulation. I wondered if she was subconsciously offended by the fact that I'd only removed her pants and panties. It looked as if the only interesting part of her body was her vagina. As if I didn't want, or need, to see the rest. I even left her socks on. I felt like I might as well have put a paper bag over her head. Was that what she was thinking? A man who treats a woman like that either does it unconsciously, which reflects badly on him, or consciously, which clearly means he doesn't care and is a bastard.

My sensitivity, irritated by the morning light, robbed the situation of the gentleness that should have been part of it. Which, I guess, Magda deserved.

Too much thought, too detailed analysis in a situation that absolutely didn't require it. I felt anger at myself. I didn't care about her, I just wanted to feel her tight slit around me, but I knew this wasn't how it should be.

As I approached her, I felt her soften in my hand. She was withering, dying, dying. Memento mori. I rubbed my half-body against her wet, warm entrance, but to no avail. The hardest part in a situation like this is finding the courage to say something.

Finally, I looked her in the eye.

"I'm afraid my roommate might show up at any moment, the door's open..." I said with feigned confidence.

She wasn't fooled, but she turned out to have all the qualities every guy longs for.

"Everything's fine. It doesn't matter. You don't have to explain anything." She patted my head and hugged me.

Sensitivity, understanding, caring, femininity.

With the force of a revelation, I realized in that moment why I liked her so much.

We lay there, cuddling. I suggested we don't get dressed, though. So we lay there in our T-shirts and socks, touching each other's bodies and squeezing each other. We kissed constantly, and I gently touched her face with my lips. A friend once told me that women remember sex primarily for its tenderness. I don't know how true that is, but I tried to remember it just in case. Especially since nothing works for me as well as tenderness and closeness.

Then our kisses gained momentum. She climbed onto me, already partially hard. She was incredibly wet. I slid inside her and allowed myself to harden completely inside her. I loved her expression and the lack of control I could observe inside her. She looked into my eyes, smiled with all her remaining strength, and moaned loudly, almost like crying.

It felt really good for both of us.

When she finally rolled off me, I held her tight, and she lay curled up beside me.

"When you hug me like that, I feel like a little, defenseless girl," she confessed, contentedly, to my satisfaction. I somehow compensated for the fact that she was still in her blouse and socks.

Then we did it again, then got dressed and started searching around the bed for her hairpins. I found a hair tie.

"It's not mine," she said, and continued searching. After a second, she looked at me again. "It's not mine…"

I felt like a whore. Maybe she felt the same way.

I twisted awkwardly, and somehow we forgot about the incident.

I hugged her and kissed her; we were both already standing at the door.

"I'm glad you came," I confessed honestly.

"I'm glad too. Merry Christmas."

I waved to her as she disappeared around the bend in the hall and closed the door. I went to my room, massaging my face with my hand, which was twisted into a silly smile. I finished my cold tea and turned on some music, slipping back into the reflective, contented mood of a Monday afternoon.

Clouds began to drift over the rooftops.