She sees: A park. A pond in the middle of the park. Children running around the pond, playing with small boats on the water. It’s late autumn, cold; on the yellowy-brown gravel, adults are sitting in their coats and scarves, with red noses, keeping an eye on what the children are doing. She’s drawn by it. She wants to sit on one of the chairs and follow what the children are doing. Then she’ll tell me that if she had been the same age as them, or that’s to say, as small as them, she would be a child sitting on a chair watching the children. She’s afraid. She’s afraid of all kinds of things. She would be scared of losing control of the boat. Of bumping into one of the other children’s boats. She would be scared of running into one of the other children. And scared of the adults sitting watching. She would be scared that her mom and dad, who were sitting in the chairs in their coats and scarves, would be ashamed of their hopeless child who couldn’t control her little boat and kept colliding with the other children. I can see that she’s thought about all this, because her eyes are big and sad, and then she turns and looks at the children again. She’s hankering. She’s longing to sit in the chair and ache. She says something. Let’s listen to what she says: “Can’t we sit down for a while?” she says. I nod. We find two green chairs and sit down. I look at her and think, almost in wonder, that this is the girl, this is the girl who straddled me and rode me hard on the jangling hotel bed less than an hour ago. That her fair hair had swayed back and forth above me. That she had had no one to bump into then, no boats to lose control of, no parents who thought that their child was hopeless at this, that she should let go of her inhibitions and not be so uptight. I am gripped by love, want to shake her, tell her that she’s the most fantastic and uptight and uninhibited person alive. But I know that if I lean over and whisper that in her ear, and that I want to be with her for the rest of my life, that it’s very likely that we’ll do just that, stay together for the rest of our lives, I know that she won’t say anything, her eyes will slip away, but she’ll take my hand and squeeze it. That’s all. Because she’s not in love with me. I know that. I know she’s in love with someone else in this town. Obsessed. Someone she tries not to talk about. Someone she tries not to look for on every street corner, in every gallery we go to. Someone we were supposed to meet here by the pond two days ago, but who didn’t show up, someone she thinks she sees everywhere—I can feel it in the hand that’s holding hers, a faint start, she thinks she sees: a tall guy, with broad shoulders, a thin dark line. An ex. She looks at me: “Shall we go and get something warm to drink? I’m cold,” she says. She’s done with longing. Or rather: she wants to long a little more, as we leave the pond and she thinks that it’s perhaps the last time that we’ll pass this place. We stand up, and she takes my hand. Always takes my hand. I can see that she’s caught up in something I should not ask about. If I ask about it now, she’ll purse her lips and look down at the ground. But I know what it is, know what she’s thinking. I know her. She’s thinking that this is the last day, and we’ll go home without having met him. She’s thinking he’s somewhere in this town. That it’s a long way home. That this was the last chance. That we’re not going to pass this way anymore, that it’s over now, there’s no hope now. I look down at my hand, my hand that’s holding hers, think that if I were to squeeze it, the veins would bulge and burst out of her skin—
* * *
A café appears between the trees. I don’t ask her if she wants to go there, I just steer her over and she lets herself be steered. She pretends that everything’s fine, that we’re heading for a café, that she’s going to have to face the counter, an unknown waitress, an unknown place, where she’s going to sit down and drink a cup of tea and do it in a way that doesn’t give away just how frightened she is. I know what she’s going to ask, so I might as well tell her beforehand, before she even opens her mouth, she’ll say: “Can you order?” And she’ll look at me in the same way that she looked at me as we approached the pond. Those I’m-a-stranger-here-and-frightened eyes. Save-me eyes. She’s going to say it now, she slows down so I will be the one who has to put my hand to the door handle and open the door. She stops before I open it and looks at me in the same way that she did when we were at the pond, she says: “Can you order?” She’s a stranger here, and frightened. Can I save her? I nod, open the door, she looks around. There are grown-ups sitting at the tables, they’ve taken off their coats and scarves, but they still have red noses. We find an empty table, sit down. It’s perfectly clear. He’s not here. I see it in her eyes: they dart nervously around the room. It’s empty. He’s not here.
* * *
A girl with long dark hair comes over to us with a small notepad, I order. She’s got beautiful eyes, and a nice, round backside, I discover as she turns to go and get the tea that I’ve ordered. She smiled when I tried to order in this language that I don’t really speak. The general response is an exasperated shrug. But she smiled. Came back and put the teapot on the table, the two cups, the small metal jug of milk. She smiles at me again. I smile back. I see that the girl sitting beside me sees it too. That I look at her nice, round behind as she walks away. It doesn’t stop me. I stare without shame at her mouth when she talks to the old man behind the counter, they kiss each other on the cheek; I stare at her without shame as she puts on her coat, which must have been lying on a chair behind the counter, as she picks up her bag and swings it over her shoulder, without shame as she lifts her hair that has got caught under the collar, she lifts it up at the neck and drops it down her back. Then she walks past us, head held high, smiles at me again, and walks out. Because I don’t do it, I don’t get up, I don’t follow her, I don’t catch up with her, don’t take her by the hand, I don’t pull her into the trees, where there’s no one else, I don’t stand her up against a tree, I don’t kiss her, I don’t take my revenge.
* * *
The tea is strong, I pour in some milk; the thick white jet plunges in and reappears as a wavy pattern. She holds her hands around the cup to warm them. She’s thinking about the boats, she’s thinking about him. Her whole face is horribly sad. Just under an hour ago, she was riding me, her fair hair swaying back and forth. Perhaps to make the time pass, saying his name inside.
* * *
“Shall we go?” I ask. We’ve finished our tea, he’s not here, he’s not going to come. I can see that she’s impatient. He’s out there somewhere. We don’t need to drag out the time. We don’t need to drag out anything. She gives me a wily smile, as though she’s realized what I’m thinking. “Yes, why don’t we?” she says, leans over and kisses me. We taste exactly the same, soft, a little bitter. We drag everything out with that kiss. Drag everything out with a couple of soft, sour tongues. We could just as easily call it a day. Draw a line, release ourselves from each other. She takes my face between her hands and looks me earnestly in the eye: “I love you,” she says. “And I,” I say, brushing her hair back from her temples with both hands, “love you.” She takes my hand, and we leave. Our hands are warmer from holding the cups of tea, we drag everything out by leading each other on like this. I just want to laugh. Laugh and laugh and laugh. A small child comes running toward us pulling a green kite, running and running to make the kite fly, the kite bobs up and down in the air behind him. I laugh, without feeling. I feel a dull urge to shake her, shake her out of this, shake me out of this, I take hold of her upper arms listlessly and am about to shake her when we hear a voice behind us; I let go, we turn around at the same time and see the old man from the café coming toward us. “I’m sorry,” he says, out of breath, “but you forgot to pay.” “Oh,” she says, “it wasn’t on purpose at all.” She finds her wallet in her bag, takes out a note and gives it to him. “Keep the change, please.” He thanks her, says it’s far too much. She gives him a tight-lipped smile, wants to be friendly. Nods. Puts her wallet back in her bag and takes my hand again. Turns, looks toward the pond. One last time. A slight tremor in her hand. I turn and see that it’s him, that it’s him she sees. Or someone standing there who looks more like him than anyone else. He stands there, a long, thin line, with broad shoulders, two days too late, his face turned the other way, I can tell that he’s smoking, he looks impatient, he doesn’t intend to stand here for long. “Hello,” I want to shout, my stomach twisting, “hello! Over here.” Want to cast her off like a stone. See her spinning round and round in the air. She turns around again, says nothing, holds my hand tight, leads me away. There’s a rhythmic crunching on the gravel when the little boy runs past. Some yellowy-brown gravel showers one of my shoes, and I shout a swear word at him that he doesn’t understand.