'Different' Part 1. October 5th 2010.

October 5th 2010. Torsten

The day is grey and cold, the sky spiritless and blank, heavy clouds dragging their weary mass across the horizon in search of a less disheartening backdrop. They bleed dull scatters of rain as they pass, shedding their membranous skins and discarding them like so many layers of armour until only the raw unprotected core remains, a solid wall of wetness.

Forget nineteen; I feel well into my nineties today, cold to the very bones and aching, aching; fearing death, yet seeing no light in life. The freezing iron of the railing numbs my arms as I press against it, staring through the mist which breathes cold droplets onto my skin. The buildings look like sketched charcoal squares, unimaginative and dispiritingly regular. The apartment block must look the same to people looking out of the office windows. I wonder fleetingly if anyone can see us, two tiny specks of black in a world of eternal whiteness.

Eva is unsure, hesitant, approaching me and chancing a glance at my expression every so often, before drifting away again and pacing the rooftop in small, nervous lines. The occasional biting wind flings her hair into an ash-blonde halo around her pale face. Though it contradicts her nature, I can read the wish for confrontation in every line of her body, the way her hands curl into fists and uncurl again, the way her stance stiffens every so often and her steps become more certain. I would almost welcome it. Anything to break this terrifying monotony. But she does not dare to begin.

Because we both know that I will win.

Eventually she turns on her heel and comes and stands beside me at the railing. We listen to the muted underworld sounds of the city below, the vehicles tiny as tin toys. Neither of us says a word for a good five or six minutes. Eva’s hand comes up to rest softly on my shoulder. The fingers are slightly stiff, light and brittle like the bones of a bird. To my surprise I feel a rush of guilt; the air stirs around me. As if the sudden tension in my body has stirred her into motion, she grips me tighter and says “Torsten, what can I say to you?”

Her voice is small and sad beneath the harsh façade she has tried to assume and I try to reply, but my own words die in my throat. I can only shake my head in response. Perhaps it is better. Words only cause more problems, create labels, reawaken and detonate arguments latent and half-buried.

“Torsten.” She waits for me to turn to her; I feel her anger fading in that instant. “Please. Look at me.”

Slowly, unwillingly, I prise my fingers from the bar and swivel to face her. Her sorrow and her suffering have given her a different kind of beauty, the marble translucency of a statue, of a goddess doomed to immortality. As I study her wordlessly she takes my frozen hands in her own and looks at me as though she will drown in me, drinks me in with those childlike eyes. Deliberately I pull her close to me and kiss her forehead. Soft swathes of her hair brush my cheeks and I remember warmth, I remember the scent of perfume, I remember light-

Eva pulls away. A tear glints like a shard of ice just below her eye but her face is serene.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” I ask; I’m not sure why I do this. My words sound hollow and cold and drop like stones into the mist.
“Yes. Of course.” She swallows, and then a miracle occurs; the faintest light comes into her eyes and makes it seem as though she really could have been that sweet silk-and-honey girl in the theatre, once upon a time…