Visitor
It was well past midday when she reached the airport. Taxi drivers gathered in batches smoking and chatting in a mixture of exotic languages, Swahili, Hindi, Mandarin.
She walked into the bathroom and stood in front of a large mirror. A tiny Vietnamese woman was mopping the floor. She smoothed her dress over and smiled at the Vietnamese woman. The woman did not smile back.
In the arrival lounge, people were gathering around the luggage belts. A toddler was trying to climb on it. She was trying not to look nervous.
She saw his forehead first. He was walking towards her with the long strides of tall people. Then the eyes. As deep blue as she had imagined. Wide and smiling. He greeted her with a hug that felt friendly rather than longing. She reminded herself not to read too much into it. The words of the poem she wrote months ago whispered to her; hearts blossoms are the quiet ones. Dust silvered into stars.
Outside, the Indian summer was cradling the day into an early afternoon. A breeze lifted the skirt of her dress. She quickly apologised and held it down with both hands. She knew she was blushing under the make-up, so she kept on chatting.
They sat next to each other in the shuttle, and their hands brushed for the first time. Her hand trembled slightly. She was hoping he would not notice. She kept on chatting and smiling. Talking about the city unfolding outside the shuttle window. Tall houses with ornate verandas dotted along narrow streets. A speck of harbour in the distance.
His brother lived in that city many years ago, he said. Before he went back to Ireland, the original homeland. Éire. She remembered the name in Irish from a book she was reading. She thought how the country she came from also has the original name used only by its people. But she did not say anything.
They disembarked in the city's centre, and she showed him the tall building where she worked. With its large entrance and marbled corridors, it looked important. She wanted him to know that she could keep a job in such a building. In a city, she barely knew.
The sun was high above the streets lulled into a temporary stillness between the lunch-hour walkers and after-work commuters.
They walked towards the waterfront. A couple of students and a young woman pushing a stroller with a sleeping baby passed by. A lone seagull cried over the glistening water and swooped down to snatch scraps of food off the rocks.
Her hands were starting to sweat. She was worried about walking too close to him, about talking too much, about not finding the popular café with expansive harbour views she had chosen weeks ago. Foxglove. He said there is a flower with the same name.
The place was almost empty. She regretted choosing it at once. It seemed wrong for the time of the day. They ordered drinks and chatted about how lovely the city is on a nice day. She noticed how his face lights up when he smiles. He told her she is beautiful, and she felt as shy as a young girl on her first date.
Along the outside deck, a few lounge chairs and coffee tables were arranged in small semi-circles. A young couple sitting in one was laughing and feeding each other French fries.
She wanted to ask him whether he remembered the letters she wrote to him the last summer and the summer before. But she reminded herself that it is getting late, and he is probably tired and hungry.
They walked a few blocks to an Italian restaurant where they serve pasta and red wine on the plain wooden tables with a single candle and water decanter placed in the middle. The waitress wore black leggings and Doc Martens. She struggled to pronounce the names of Italian dishes.
Their table was tucked in the corner beneath a framed map of Italy. The Adriatic Sea painted aquamarine blue. The image of a tiny, white-stone church hanging off the cliff high above the same sea entered her vision. She felt tears gathering at the back of her throat and excused herself to go to the ladies.
The night was rich and warm when they walked to a late-night cocktail bar with soft leather couches and green card tables. Before they reached the place, he took her hand in his. It was a strong, safe hand.
Midnight was sneaking in by the time they reached her place. The full moon floated over a tall acacia tree at the edge of the garden. The last train to his destination long gone. She felt embarrassed for not keeping a better watch on the time. And because her place was so small. She was glad to have a bottle of wine to open.
When he kissed her, tiny particles of her soul grew wings. She read somewhere that dreams are unfinished wings of our souls. She dreamt of that kiss for so long that she worried whether he felt obliged to kiss her. In such a small space where limbs practically touch. In a city far away from the open skies of his home. 'Back home,' he called it. She worried whether she somehow tricked him into her dream. Unwittingly.
He touched her hair and thanked her for letting him touch it. She placed her head on his chest, and when large, salty tears arrived, she said she was very sorry. For not being able to stop the tears. He said he does not mind and is too tired to take much notice anyway.
The whole night she listened to his heartbeat and slow, steady breath of a man in a deep sleep. Long ago, she wrote that it is all she wanted. To hear his heartbeat. Before dawn, she slipped away silently to make sure he has enough space.
In the morning, she worried about his schedule and whether he would be late because of her. She made him a breakfast of what was there, which, she knew, was not much and noticed his shirt needed ironing. She was glad of it. He let her do it. She pressed each part of it for as long as possible. It had been years since she ironed a man's shirt.
She thought he looks very handsome in his suit and tie.
His taxi was waiting.
She returned inside and saw it all, breakfast dishes, still warm iron, unmade bed. Her legs felt like they were made of iron ore. Slowly she slipped into the bed and pulled the covers over her head. The scent of him filled her lungs.
In the days that followed, dreams arrived in waves.
Sometimes she dreamed of a horse as dark as summer nights galloping over the sun-drenched meadows at the bottom of an island. The horse had a white star on its forehead and was staring at her. Its gaze steady, unmoving. Like a warning.
The other times she dreamed of a bride walking into an old wooden church dressed in the palest yellow silk carrying a large bouquet of mimosas and spring snowflakes. Before stepping in, she felt the space before her. Flowers poured from her hands like a floral waterfall. She was blind.
In the mornings, she found her face glistening with tears.
The morning she found crimson-coloured tears on her sheets; she knew he is not coming back.
Originally written in April 2015.
