20.

There were certain rules I had to make in life: no more hard liquor. I wake up, it is day outside, I go to work, day outside, I go out for a drink, day outside, I come back to the apartment, day outside, and then that moment when, beneath the light, I could see the exact color of your eyes which I’d never been able to pinpoint. A blue circle around the pupil, melting into green, a green that was pierced with golden dots and violet fissures, gold that thinned toward the rim of the iris and transitioned to tree bark, all of it outlined with a metal circle. Why haven’t you called? All you had to say was, love, you are so stupid. There are times when that’s how I feel. A leftover. I can hear you saying I am nothing. You think I want everything to be about me. I know. I’m stupid. I get it. But sometimes I can’t help myself, you have this long, see-through dress on, because of it your step is even lighter as you walk. Did you know I showed Filip a photograph I took of you at the beginning that caught you while you were walking? Of course he immediately saw what it was about. I said, see, that’s her stride, it tells you all you need to know, look at her stride, between the bench and the wall, look how I caught the air between those long legs, her neck and the locks of her hair and the solemnity behind her smile, and all that in her stride.

And then we’re strolling through town, he’s strumming a guitar on the sidewalk, he plays well, not badly at all, “Unchained Melody.” You told me once that you had a crush on Patrick Swayze in primary school, I am thinking of those big hands of his, I would definitely come back to you as a ghost, lift you up onto me and protect you, then you stop for a minute and listen to him play. You smile at him, your smile is a gift I would like too, you’re holding my hand but that’s not enough, I want every single crumb of you for myself so I start in on you. You know how I can be. Stupid, first of all, then sullen. I know you’re simply enjoying the moment and the music, and there should be nothing nicer for me than to watch you while you’re enjoying something. I have to admit that I’m less and less often like this but sure, sometimes I’m stupid. You take this way too seriously when it happens, we argue about it, “Look, there’s no point in blowing up over everything,” I say, “I just do it sometimes.” “But what is the point if I don’t take you seriously?” you say, “Come on, love, come on, we had such a brilliant time together, I only have eyes for you and I can’t believe, you know, I can’t, it insults me.” You protest with such sadness. I make you so sad. Goddamn it to hell, I didn’t want that, forgive me, all I wanted was the gift of your attention. Look, you have everything, why can’t you see that, if you see everything else. We can’t hear the music any more, now we’re walking along to an empty rhythm, we’re still holding hands, but not being ourselves, until at one point you stop and start peering around like an animal, like you’re about to turn and backtrack. You pull me in some direction, I don’t catch on right away. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” I ask. You just whisper, “Tomislav.” Then I get it that you’re thinking of your brother. When you showed me his picture I couldn’t believe that you are even related. The big belly swathed in red-and-white checkerboard like the Croatian flag, the screaming of fans you can hear right through the pixels, a flawless specimen of manhood living in such a cramped cage that he can’t even see it. I don’t like it when you talk about him. Not just because he is, to my mind, an ordinary sadist who is only strong with his words, and mean to his sister and mother; I don’t like him because you are so afraid of him. I know he’s older, but the power he has over you is too much. I keep trying, we sit on the couch, I massage your feet, what small, sweet feet you have, and you’re always walking around practically barefoot, even mid-winter, you wear no socks from April to October, so I reach for them whenever I can and plunk them in my lap. “Come on, tell me now, try to imagine this,” I tenderly press the balls of your feet under your toes, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?” “What do you mean?” you ask. “Well just that, simply put, what’s the worst thing that could happen between you and Tomislav?” You puzzle over this for a time, you are wearing the same expression as in a picture you showed me from first grade: the other children are giggling and making faces, while you gaze off into the distance. A conscientious little girl, you don’t want to disappoint, especially not the teacher. I can just picture you, so small, and I feel sure I’d know how to be with you, my little solemn one. You are still silent. “Come on, tell me, what’s the worst? So maybe he stops speaking to you? How long has it been since he called? Not even once since I’ve known you.” “True,” you mutter. “Then what? Are you afraid he’ll do something to you? I’m here, you’re not alone. And he wouldn’t. Men like him are cowards, I know them.” “He wouldn’t,” you agree, “but I’m scared of what he’ll say to her, I’m scared he’ll let her have it, she always allows him to rail at her, like, poor boy, he’s been through so much.” “Love,” I try to keep it simple, “if that is her relationship with him, it has nothing to do with you.” “Why are you being so mean?” again you’re on the verge of tears, this is why I don’t like talking about him, because I end up sounding mean, because you can’t see, despite your visionary gaze, despite being my smartest girl, you’re crying and telling me I’m mean, there, I can’t do it. I relent. “Why don’t we watch another episode. We can fit in two if you don’t fall asleep.” The stories of other people soothe us, detached heads float around the screen, a flight into fiction. I prever to evade your tempest, I want to calm you, to pop popcorn for you, to brush the popcorn bits off your shirt, the last time I made it I ruined the pot. You don’t say a word, except: “I guess so, will you download the subtitles for us, too?” I will, I’ll download whatever you like, but I can’t avoid the fear. Again I’d halfway quelched the fire, it didn’t singe us, but we’ll go to bed with the smoke in our lungs. Every conversation about him ends that way, muffled, choked, smoldering. And now you’re trembling in the middle of the street and burying your head in my shoulder: “Hey, quit it, we can’t be doing this, come on, stop, cool it.” I turn your stiff chin toward my face and hug you with my other arm. A man walks by us, he’s not Tomislav, and only then do you burst into tears. “I want to go home,” you sob, you’re six years old and you’re going to crawl under the bed. “Fine,” I sigh, “let’s go.” “No, I want to go alone, I’ve had it with everything!” you shout in the middle of the street. “Sorry, I’m sorry for that thing, I’m stupid, I won’t do it ever again.” It’s as if you can’t hear me, as if it’s not getting through, you push me off and leave. You don’t turn to look back, you walk with such deep strides that you sink knee-deep into the ground, move at a clip, you’re running away from me. You switch yourself off. Disappear. Hours pass, hours. Your cell phone is off. Try a little later. Hours. Your door is locked. All day. Two. Three. This is why I had to make the rules, no more hard liquor. It’s forever daytime, I don’t know which part, I pile into it all that fits, all the alcohol, no drugs, drugs no. Someone licks the screen of the television set in an unknown apartment, a man hugs me, another is bare to the waist, he kneels and whimpers, where am I, where are you, call me, please, I’ve lost my way.