The man tensed at the sound of his name. It seemed so intentional when she said it, so necessary, polite. He pushed down his own thoughts of her name. The thoughts of her in several years' passing, shyness and smiles and laughter and tears. A glimpse of her in her old garden, at her parents' house, near the ground, watering and weeding and planting. Her pride in the glorious blossoms within the greenhouse at her school, the single time he'd visited.
"How... have you been?" she finally pressed on. He could tell she was hesitant, and he could see what kind of answer she expected.
"Fine, I guess," he replied. "Dad finally got another job. Just a few hours a week, filing at this one office, and he's doing pretty well there, I think. Most of the time I can drive him, but sometimes we use this one service in town."
He paused. She stared at her glass, as usual, looking somewhat guilty. He looked at the black bottle with its German label, and drank more of his own, as if eager to finish the bottle. It was a luxury that he didn't often indulge in.
"That's good," the woman replied.
Her eyes gave away her discontent with his answer. But she was too polite to ask any further. The young man noted the photographs on the wall of the staircase near the kitchen. John with twenty dark children wearing an aid organization's t-shirts. Amira in a garden, looking much like she did when the young man had known her. Then several shots of the couple, some casually taken with a group of faces unfamiliar to Damir, others seemingly professional with the couple standing perfectly by railroad tracks and beautiful old streets, flower shops. Sitting at an outdoor table of a café, twin ivory mugs at their sides, as each stared at the other with bright expressions, animated, as if engaged in lively conversation.
"John should be home soon," she said, after their long pause, rinsing out her glass with the low-pressure faucet.
"I should go," he replied.
Amira turned from the sink, to glance at her guest, as he turned toward the door strategically.
"Are you sure?"
He nodded, making a motion of fixing his jacket, feeling for the pills again, with his back to the young woman. He listened as she hesitated, taking a few steps toward him.
"Well... if you must go... I suppose..."
He waited.
"Look, you don't have to leave yet," she said, the glass in her hand now, as she dried it with a towel, standing beside him.
"I mean, unless you_"
"I mean, unless you_"
"I might have a little time."
"Yeah. You should stay. We... we really haven't seen each other in a while."
"No, we haven't."
He sat back down on their odd couch and looked at the window with its intricately designed curtains, all purples and oranges and deep blues, but with some loose threads hanging out their ends.
"I know, they don't match everything else. John and I put them together a few months ago... we were going to add something to the edges, but we haven't gotten around to it yet."
"I like them," Damir replied.
"Really? We didn't even dye them the way we were taught_"
"They remind me of my mom's paintings," he said. He stood to return to the kitchen, where his glass and the bottle remained on the counter. Amira followed.
"Under the kitchen sink, Amira?"
"We usually use that for cooking, actually. If you want anything else, we have a cellar downstairs and_"
"That's fine_"
She stepped away from him, and though he was about to protest, he said nothing. It was simply social. And as long as he did not get an explanation of how and where and when and where they purchased their wine or liquor or home-brewed beer, this would only be a brief, continuation of a casual, social drink with a friend whom he hadn't seen in several months.
Amira returned with a bottle of wine. He could hardly hear her climb the stairs, with her care in the choice she had made.
He appreciated her easy and secret rebellion in whatever "dietary" repression she had likely been subject to as of late.
She refrained from telling the story of this particular action, as she poured new glasses, almost remorseful.
The young man could see their small stone sitting area just outside the sliding door into the backyard, the blossoming garden it was enclosed by, with the brightest flowers and neatest vegetable rows, amongst delicate green vines climbing a wooden fence.
"So you like it here," he said.
The woman nodded, smiling vaguely.
"I do," she replied.
And he could tell, by the way she looked at their painted walls and framed photographs, at their cupboard and sink and silver refrigerator, that she was satisfied. And she wasn't unsteady as she had been when they'd known each other for a while; she was slender as she was when they had first met, and she looked straight ahead. Then at a photograph on the staircase.
"So... your father's doing well?" she asked.
"Yes, very well. Better than he has been in years. I don't know what that means, but... you know. As long as he's... ha_... content... with his life."
"Yeah."
"That's all that really matters now."
The young woman nodded. Damir stared at the picture of Amira and John, the one in front of a café. Though they were almost laughing, their eyes were still open, each gaze fixed on the other, in full attention, full engagement.
"I... I stopped taking meds a few months ago... I just... they weren't helping anymore. I tried all these different prescriptions, and I started feeling awful all the time, sick. I couldn't take it anymore."
She was still looking at the wall as she spoke to him.
"It was hard at first, but... I think I'm okay now. I've been able to handle... him. And it's not like before," she said, taking in a sharp breath, and biting her lip. The young woman hurried up her short staircase. He had never seen her so restless before, at least not for a while.
She returned with an old, familiar photograph.
"I... I don't blame myself anymore, you know that... It is hard... seeing him, though. But... it isn't like before."
Her voice was quiet, like he had heard when he had first met her.
Damir took a step toward her, then another, and when he was beside her, he saw him. That image that had haunted the woman for so many years. He'd seen the picture before, but it was different this time. Somehow stronger with its age. And he didn't want to question the woman's decision. He there were layers to her decisions that were hard to perceive for anyone without her experience. So he did not press.
"If it makes things better for you, then you did... the right thing," he replied, intentionally vague with his use of "better" and "right". He wanted to connect with her, as he had long before. But it was not like before.
"I hope so," she replied, barely audible.
And then he heard the buzzing of a cell phone's vibration, and Amira dashed to the kitchen table, answering with a slight smile.
"Hello, hon... Oh, I see... Ah, no, that's alright. Alright. Love you, babe... I know, I know... I'll be waiting. Alright, love you, see you later."
Though her flash of joy had faded, it still remained, only minutely darkened by the obvious disappointment of her call.
"John's going to be gone a while," she said. "I guess his connecting flight was cancelled, so it'll be another day..."
Damir nodded, with the greatest sympathy. He tried now to keep his words from running, but they were too ready to sprint.
"Have you spoken to John about this?" he said, gesturing to the photograph now sitting on the counter.
She bit her lip, shaking her head.
"No... I think he knows, though. I think he understands."
The young man nodded again, pausing before determining his next response.
"May I use the bathroom?" he started.
"Sure, it's down the hall from the guest room," she said, gesturing around the corner of the oddly placed staircase. Once in the bathroom, just as expertly decorated as any other space in or around the house, he pulled out the white canister of pastel, round caplets, and swallowed them with sink water. He used his sleeve to wipe his face, and, per usual, did not look at himself in the mirror, or attempted to avoid his reflection. He did what he was supposed to have gone there for, and washed his hands, attempting to grow accustomed to the low-pressure water of virtually everything in the house.
But of course, he caught himself in the mirror before walking out of the dimly, but overall, sufficiently lighted restroom.
The skin beneath his eyes was dark, his face, somewhat gaunt, in need of shaving, his hair in need of cutting. His clothes did not match the house, nor Amira's fashionably eclectic dress. He recalled the day he'd seen himself as both old and young, as far too old and ready to fall apart. Just about eight years ago. He remembered all the uncertainty of those years, of his father's failing health, and his own condition reflected in the man's, all his months of insomnia by work, and the many graduation celebrations he'd attended out of obligation.
He looked almost the same as back then, but with the addition of eight long years. As quickly as he could, he left the room with its clear, reflective glass, and turned out the light with dark triumph.
Amira stood at the counter, her wineglass empty since his absence.
"Damir, what are you doing here?" she said, seriously.
"What do you mean, 'what am I doing here?' I dropped off a little wedding present for you, and you invited me in."
"But... why didn't you just se_"
"Why? Mail's impersonal, you see. Would you have preferred a congratulatory e-card?"
"No! Why do you have to be so... sarcastic? You weren't like this when_"
"When what? It has 'been a while' since then, hasn't it?"
She quieted.
"Why did you ask me in here, violate your diet or cleanse or whatever the hell else you do with your phony fiance, and tell me all this private information and then announce all whatever about his flight and_"
"Damir, what are you even thinking? I just wanted to catch up with you, that's it, that's all! And I thought you said you were happy for me!"
"Happy! Did you seriously beli_"
"Yes, yes, I did!"
"No, you didn't. You wa_"
"Don't say it."
"You wanted to believe it."
"You're being so, immensely immature."
"What do you expect, Amira? I'm not like you and Vegan World Savior here."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"
"Maybe something to do with the lack of extra letters at the end of my name."
"So you're not educated, is that what this is about? God, Damir, would you stop being such a G-dd-mn fatalist_"
"Or that I don't buy damn freaking ten-thousand dollar toilets. Or have a G-dd-mn wine cellar in my basement. Or a damn basement anymore."
"It's about money, then? Do you want something like this? Is th_"
"No, damnit, it's not about money. It's not about school. I would never want to live in place like this! How do you freaking live here? How do you put up with this... this... pretentious, artificial place? How can you even_"
"Then what is it, Damir, what is your problem? What_"
"What do you think? I came five damn hours here to see you, and_"
"Damir, you need to stop thinking like this. You have to stop being so... so angry at the world for everything that's happened to you and_"
"Amira, I'm not angry at the world, okay, it's not the world I'm angry with, okay? I know I couldn't help the accident or my parents or your brother, I realize that, alright? You're not the only person who can reach 'self-awareness'."
"Get out, Damir. If you're just going to_"
"No, Amira. This place is so... it would be so good if it were actually good. If it wasn't just loaded with conspicuous consumption."
"Leave."
"Just tell me why you put up with it. You're not a fake, Amira, I never knew you to be fake."
"If you're just going to talk to me like that, why should I even answer?"
"Now who's being immature."
"This is my house, Damir, I don't have to let you stay."
"Just answer my question, and I'll be out of here for the rest of your life."
She swallowed, and looked at the floor, and finally replied, resolute in her answer.
"I like this, Damir. I like this life. I love helping out my world. I love spending my days and weeks and months with someone who is so passionate about the planet and its inhabitants. I don't even miss milk or meat anymore. I like this place, and I love my garden, and I love studying and going to farmer's markets and I love the fact that I'm going to get married soon, and that we're going to share a name and travel more and more. I like this life. I love it. I love John. That's why I 'put up' with this place. I love it. It's the way I've wanted to live for years."
The young man and the woman with the glittering ring stood silent for a long while after her words. They seemed to resonate around the openly planned house.
He plodded on toward the door, his halted step worse than when he had entered, and physical pain was just as evident as it had been before. Yet there was new weight to the passing through the doorway, as he did so now.
"Wait, Damir," the young woman said, swiftly coming up behind him, her steps taking milliseconds while his were much longer.
"Yes?" he said, planted temporarily on her doorstep, back facing the house. He needed a higher dosage. That usually did something.
"Just... don't do anything stupid, okay? You can call... or... whatever. If you want."
He shrugged.
"I hope you always love your life, Amira," he replied. "Bye."
"Damir..."
He went on.
"See you later, Damir!" she shouted after him.
And the young man lumbered on, gripping a white canister of painkillers.
"Under the kitchen sink, Amira?"
"We usually use that for cooking, actually. If you want anything else, we have a cellar downstairs and_"
"That's fine_"
She stepped away from him, and though he was about to protest, he said nothing. It was simply social. And as long as he did not get an explanation of how and where and when and where they purchased their wine or liquor or home-brewed beer, this would only be a brief, continuation of a casual, social drink with a friend whom he hadn't seen in several months.
Amira returned with a bottle of wine. He could hardly hear her climb the stairs, with her care in the choice she had made.
He appreciated her easy and secret rebellion in whatever "dietary" repression she had likely been subject to as of late.
She refrained from telling the story of this particular action, as she poured new glasses, almost remorseful.
The young man could see their small stone sitting area just outside the sliding door into the backyard, the blossoming garden it was enclosed by, with the brightest flowers and neatest vegetable rows, amongst delicate green vines climbing a wooden fence.
"So you like it here," he said.
The woman nodded, smiling vaguely.
"I do," she replied.
And he could tell, by the way she looked at their painted walls and framed photographs, at their cupboard and sink and silver refrigerator, that she was satisfied. And she wasn't unsteady as she had been when they'd known each other for a while; she was slender as she was when they had first met, and she looked straight ahead. Then at a photograph on the staircase.
"So... your father's doing well?" she asked.
"Yes, very well. Better than he has been in years. I don't know what that means, but... you know. As long as he's... ha_... content... with his life."
"Yeah."
"That's all that really matters now."
The young woman nodded. Damir stared at the picture of Amira and John, the one in front of a café. Though they were almost laughing, their eyes were still open, each gaze fixed on the other, in full attention, full engagement.
"I... I stopped taking meds a few months ago... I just... they weren't helping anymore. I tried all these different prescriptions, and I started feeling awful all the time, sick. I couldn't take it anymore."
She was still looking at the wall as she spoke to him.
"It was hard at first, but... I think I'm okay now. I've been able to handle... him. And it's not like before," she said, taking in a sharp breath, and biting her lip. The young woman hurried up her short staircase. He had never seen her so restless before, at least not for a while.
She returned with an old, familiar photograph.
"I... I don't blame myself anymore, you know that... It is hard... seeing him, though. But... it isn't like before."
Her voice was quiet, like he had heard when he had first met her.
Damir took a step toward her, then another, and when he was beside her, he saw him. That image that had haunted the woman for so many years. He'd seen the picture before, but it was different this time. Somehow stronger with its age. And he didn't want to question the woman's decision. He there were layers to her decisions that were hard to perceive for anyone without her experience. So he did not press.
"If it makes things better for you, then you did... the right thing," he replied, intentionally vague with his use of "better" and "right". He wanted to connect with her, as he had long before. But it was not like before.
"I hope so," she replied, barely audible.
And then he heard the buzzing of a cell phone's vibration, and Amira dashed to the kitchen table, answering with a slight smile.
"Hello, hon... Oh, I see... Ah, no, that's alright. Alright. Love you, babe... I know, I know... I'll be waiting. Alright, love you, see you later."
Though her flash of joy had faded, it still remained, only minutely darkened by the obvious disappointment of her call.
"John's going to be gone a while," she said. "I guess his connecting flight was cancelled, so it'll be another day..."
Damir nodded, with the greatest sympathy. He tried now to keep his words from running, but they were too ready to sprint.
"Have you spoken to John about this?" he said, gesturing to the photograph now sitting on the counter.
She bit her lip, shaking her head.
"No... I think he knows, though. I think he understands."
The young man nodded again, pausing before determining his next response.
"May I use the bathroom?" he started.
"Sure, it's down the hall from the guest room," she said, gesturing around the corner of the oddly placed staircase. Once in the bathroom, just as expertly decorated as any other space in or around the house, he pulled out the white canister of pastel, round caplets, and swallowed them with sink water. He used his sleeve to wipe his face, and, per usual, did not look at himself in the mirror, or attempted to avoid his reflection. He did what he was supposed to have gone there for, and washed his hands, attempting to grow accustomed to the low-pressure water of virtually everything in the house.
But of course, he caught himself in the mirror before walking out of the dimly, but overall, sufficiently lighted restroom.
The skin beneath his eyes was dark, his face, somewhat gaunt, in need of shaving, his hair in need of cutting. His clothes did not match the house, nor Amira's fashionably eclectic dress. He recalled the day he'd seen himself as both old and young, as far too old and ready to fall apart. Just about eight years ago. He remembered all the uncertainty of those years, of his father's failing health, and his own condition reflected in the man's, all his months of insomnia by work, and the many graduation celebrations he'd attended out of obligation.
He looked almost the same as back then, but with the addition of eight long years. As quickly as he could, he left the room with its clear, reflective glass, and turned out the light with dark triumph.
Amira stood at the counter, her wineglass empty since his absence.
"Damir, what are you doing here?" she said, seriously.
"What do you mean, 'what am I doing here?' I dropped off a little wedding present for you, and you invited me in."
"But... why didn't you just se_"
"Why? Mail's impersonal, you see. Would you have preferred a congratulatory e-card?"
"No! Why do you have to be so... sarcastic? You weren't like this when_"
"When what? It has 'been a while' since then, hasn't it?"
She quieted.
"Why did you ask me in here, violate your diet or cleanse or whatever the hell else you do with your phony fiance, and tell me all this private information and then announce all whatever about his flight and_"
"Damir, what are you even thinking? I just wanted to catch up with you, that's it, that's all! And I thought you said you were happy for me!"
"Happy! Did you seriously beli_"
"Yes, yes, I did!"
"No, you didn't. You wa_"
"Don't say it."
"You wanted to believe it."
"You're being so, immensely immature."
"What do you expect, Amira? I'm not like you and Vegan World Savior here."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"
"Maybe something to do with the lack of extra letters at the end of my name."
"So you're not educated, is that what this is about? God, Damir, would you stop being such a G-dd-mn fatalist_"
"Or that I don't buy damn freaking ten-thousand dollar toilets. Or have a G-dd-mn wine cellar in my basement. Or a damn basement anymore."
"It's about money, then? Do you want something like this? Is th_"
"No, damnit, it's not about money. It's not about school. I would never want to live in place like this! How do you freaking live here? How do you put up with this... this... pretentious, artificial place? How can you even_"
"Then what is it, Damir, what is your problem? What_"
"What do you think? I came five damn hours here to see you, and_"
"Damir, you need to stop thinking like this. You have to stop being so... so angry at the world for everything that's happened to you and_"
"Amira, I'm not angry at the world, okay, it's not the world I'm angry with, okay? I know I couldn't help the accident or my parents or your brother, I realize that, alright? You're not the only person who can reach 'self-awareness'."
"Get out, Damir. If you're just going to_"
"No, Amira. This place is so... it would be so good if it were actually good. If it wasn't just loaded with conspicuous consumption."
"Leave."
"Just tell me why you put up with it. You're not a fake, Amira, I never knew you to be fake."
"If you're just going to talk to me like that, why should I even answer?"
"Now who's being immature."
"This is my house, Damir, I don't have to let you stay."
"Just answer my question, and I'll be out of here for the rest of your life."
She swallowed, and looked at the floor, and finally replied, resolute in her answer.
"I like this, Damir. I like this life. I love helping out my world. I love spending my days and weeks and months with someone who is so passionate about the planet and its inhabitants. I don't even miss milk or meat anymore. I like this place, and I love my garden, and I love studying and going to farmer's markets and I love the fact that I'm going to get married soon, and that we're going to share a name and travel more and more. I like this life. I love it. I love John. That's why I 'put up' with this place. I love it. It's the way I've wanted to live for years."
The young man and the woman with the glittering ring stood silent for a long while after her words. They seemed to resonate around the openly planned house.
He plodded on toward the door, his halted step worse than when he had entered, and physical pain was just as evident as it had been before. Yet there was new weight to the passing through the doorway, as he did so now.
"Wait, Damir," the young woman said, swiftly coming up behind him, her steps taking milliseconds while his were much longer.
"Yes?" he said, planted temporarily on her doorstep, back facing the house. He needed a higher dosage. That usually did something.
"Just... don't do anything stupid, okay? You can call... or... whatever. If you want."
He shrugged.
"I hope you always love your life, Amira," he replied. "Bye."
"Damir..."
He went on.
"See you later, Damir!" she shouted after him.
And the young man lumbered on, gripping a white canister of painkillers.
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