A short story - His words

We met years ago. We were both at university, studying the same course, living 10 minutes walk one from the other. Over the years (more than five), we took different paths, started opposite careers. She left the country, I found a job close to my parents' place. We always kept in touch. Not many emails, but we always managed to meet every time she came back to visit her family. I know few things about her: she talks a lot and she can make me laugh.

During one of her visits back home, she decided to come and meet me in my town. "Why not?" - she said, "I have never been there!". She is a curious woman and - at times, quite stubborn. She took the train and I went to pick her up at the station. She was colourful: jeans, turquoise coat, light pink trainers and a bright purple bag under her arm. She smiled at me and gave me a hug. She had a new haircut, it suited her.

That night we went out with my friends, and had a few drinks. Back home, she wanted to drink the rest of the bottle of red wine we opened at dinner. I could only agree. She kept on talking, she was a bit drunk. I hugged her and she hugged me. And we cuddled each other on the sofa, her whispered voice was a pleasant, soothing sound.

It was time to sleep, I wanted to go in my room. "C'mon, stay with me tonight!". She said it twice, she wanted me to spend the night with her.

The morning after, although Saturday, I woke up at quater to eight, like a normal working day. She was lying next to me, her bare shoulders coming out from the big duvet. She was asleep. I looked at her, at her face, her lips, her eyes, her hair. I kissed her smooth skin. She woke up and with a sleepy voice she said: "Are you already awake...?" " I cannot sleep anymore." "You just have a to close your eyes and rest your head on the pillow.. it is easy, look at me.." The ingenuity of her words made me smile. She turned her body towards mine and huddled up on my chest. The morning light, coming through the window and filtered by the Venetian blinds and the curtains, was lighting up the room shyly.

In that half-light, I followed the lines of her peaceful face and quiet body.

I kissed her front, her cheek, her lips. I hugged her and felt her skin, her warmth, her breathing.

Easter Break - Part Three

Sunday.
When we woke up the sun was up and bright in the sky. We took our time in that lat morning (or early afternoon?).
Once we were all ready, we headed south, to explore the coast. After an hour drive or so, we stopped at one of the beaches we could see from the road. We spent there a few hours enojoying the sun and the beautiful weather. I just realxed. That's all I ask and I need from my time at the beach. The sound of waves, the wind, the smell of iodine.. let me lay down, close my eyes and relax... I could do with a walk or a swim, but in my own time (the water was unbereably cold that day!). We left the beach at some point after 5pm. We drove again along the coast, passing by charming villages, surprised by the very narrow street we had to drive through.
Next destination: Hope and its cliffs. The sun over the sea was a spectacular show. The cliffs, falling straight into the sea, were an exciting danger. We walked along the cliffs, stared at the view, took some pictures and rested on a bench overlooking the Channel. We could not stay for the sunset, we had more to do for that day.
Brixham was our last stop: a fishermen' village and its quaint streets.
Images: an ancient vessel hauled into the dock, sorrounded by smaller boats. Green and pink lights lighting up the sides of the dock. A seagull, sitting on the head of the statue of William D'Orange. Boats resting in the bay at sunset. The stars above the bay: thousands of gleaming dots.
The feeling that it would not be so bad living there, and leave this crazy world outside, far away from the ordinary life.

Monday.

Another day of walks through the park , in search of waterfalls. Disappointment was what I felt once we got there: the waterfalls were simply a creek running downhill and jumping over some big rocks. During the final hours of our trip, we had a look at Wells Cathedral (magnificient and beautiful) and then back to the road and back to Oxford.

I did not want to go back.

I wanted to keep my travel mates for a bit longer and find another destination to live together. And then another one. And another one again. If I could, I would have stopped the time. Life though, is in constant motion and and memories are the only way we can freeze time.

Now, I find myself smiling every time something that happened during this trip comes to my mind.

Easter Break - Part Two

We dropped our bags at the hostel and started driving through the park. We were surrounded by smooth hills, the horizon being a perpetual, wavy line. Enormous clouds were above our heads. I had the feeling that if I raised my arm to the sky and stretched my fingers, I could have touched them.
Not long after, we stopped on the side of the road: wild ponies were just few meters away from us! They came very close, one of them pushing his big muzzle into the car (one of the front windows was wide open). They did not show fear, not at all. Maybe they just wanted to check how come that six weird animals (they walk using only two of their legs!) decided to squeeze themselves in a black box when there was plenty of space around.
Anyways, after this close encounter and after having lunch by a torrent, we drove to a place called “Two bridges” – literally two bridges crossing the same creek but from different angles, and a pub.. nothing else – and we went for our first walk. We kept a slow pace. From hill to hill, we kept on walking through the English moor. A herd of wild ponies was resting further down one of the hills.
Dark clouds brought by a cold and persistent wind were approaching quickly. On our way back to the car, a rainbow appeared in the distance, joining sky and earth together.
Back to the car and back to the road! We stopped in Buckfast, had a look at the abbey and went for a pint (well.. two). One of us volunteered and went to buy some wine for the evening. He came back with six bottles of Buckfast wine. “One each!” he said. We were hungry but the Abbey Inn did not serve food anymore (a very nice pub, on the side of a river, with a huge fireplace, soft lights, dark wood all over and serving a very good ale). Back to the car, our mission was to find a place were to eat. We found it in another village but soon after we sat down we realised that one after the other, the clients were leaving the place. Could it be because we were too loud?? There is a thing about continental people: they cannot whisper. Not me for sure!! We were having such a good time and good laughs!
Once back to the village where we booked the hostel, we joined a karaoke night in the only pub still open (locals can be quite funny characters with a microphone in their hands). When that was over and lights went on in the pub, we started our own night in the parking lot. We had all that was necessary: music, Buckfast wine and the boot of the car! One of the best nights of my life.

Easter Break - Part One

Saturday, Sunday and Monday: 3 days out of our habitual life. One of us chose the place: Dartmoor National Park, Devonshire. Nature, long walks and relax: that was meant to be the broad theme of our Easter break.
It was fine by me, I just needed to get out of Oxford and recharge my batteries.
A week before leaving everything was settled: the hostel was booked (a 14-beds, eco friendly hostel, somewhere in the eastern part of the park), the rented car was waiting for us, and I bought and cooked all the necessary to survive for at least the first two days.
Saturday morning the six of us hit the road and almost four hours later (traffic jam!) we arrived at our destination. The hostel was right on the main road of the village. It was an old farmer’s house, where the barn had been refurbished and transformed into a 14-beds dormitory. It was cozy and clean. Downstairs there was a colourful kitchen with heavy wooden beams crossing the low, white ceiling. The furniture was essential: two tables, a cooker, a sink, few chairs (all of them with different patterns and colours), a light blue kitchen cabinet and a brown chester drawer. The finishing touch was a clear glass with fresh daffodils right at the centre of one of the tables.
We were welcomed by the owner’s young son and his healthy, happy face. We met the owner few minutes later, her hands brown with soil and a bit out of breath (at the time of our arrival she was busy with her allotment).
It was all very informal.
I spotted bits of a beehive on the ground. She said she had to take them off, they were infected and they could have damaged the rest of the hive. She then entertained us with some pills on the life of male bees. “They spend their life flying around, getting fed by female bees and waiting to mate with the Queen bee”. And I said “They remind me of another species, where the male behaves more or less the same way..” She laughed and added: “The thing is that once the male bee is done with the Queen bee, the Queen bee rips off the male bee’s genitals!” And she enjoyed a satisfied laugh. And I thought “There is always something new to learn every day!”.

The sexuality of a fried French toast

I have always been told about the relationship between food and sex.
Things like feeding your partner or play with him/her with the food, licking fingers, spreading jam/cream/chocolate (yours is the choice) on your partner’s body.. quite a “physical” relationship between the two subjects in question.
But these are far too common examples. The human mind has plenty of potential and can find all sorts of ways to make sure that sex and food get along together.

I could read and wonder about this intense link but I never really felt it. Food for me means survival and I find it relaxing rather than exciting.
Yesterday afternoon I completely changed my mind.

I went to meet a friend at her place. She had and old friend from University over for the weekend and he decided to delight us with a proper French toast.
He took milk, sugar, eggs, butter, cinnamon and bread and started preparing the batter. I just stood there looking at him, I never cooked French toast and I wanted to “watch and learn”.
I found myself following him in every move he was making, from whisking eggs and milk, cleaning the tips of his fingers on a kitchen towel, adding the cinnamon with a light and refined touch, warming up the frying pan, taking a slice of bread and dip it into the batter.
He had an elegance in his movements, he knew what he was doing and he was doing it well. He teased me and made me laugh a lot while preparing this French classic.

I was relaxed, curious and what he cooked was tasty.
And I realised that he was tasty too. French accent – although he was much more sexy when he was speaking in his mother tongue- good looking, funny.“I would not mind having a bite of you and leave the French toast for later..” I thought.

Weakness of a human being

There is something about life and about myself that I still did not get used to. That is called “expectations”.
Although I have learnt long ago that expectations are a synonymous for disappointment, I still get sidetracked at times.
On one side I know I am a woman with a positive attitude, able to judge conscientiously. On the other though, I am a dreamer. And here is the starting point of my expectations.
The good thing is that I do not have much time for this “dreaming - positive thinking”.. It happens only when I can find some time to relax and detach from my fully booked days.
Few days ago, on a Sunday night, while walking back home, I found some time for myself. “I am a lucky woman,” I thought, “I have few complains to make but nothing to worry too much”. I was happy with that conclusion. Few seconds later another “BUT” came up bringing questions, doubts, uncertainties, unfulfilled expectations, wished and thoughts that vanish immediately when compared with reality.
A feeling of void crept into myself.
That feeling kept on lingering for days, like a smell that you are not able to get rid of. It is not you, but it is around you, persistent and somehow underhand.

Disposable as a toothpick

Those words are not mine. I have a good friend who put them into a song long time ago. I have listened to it so many times that I know the lyrics by heart. It is a song on temporary workers and it always made me smile. Until one morning.

I have been looking for jobs for quite a while now. I spend my days searching websites, typing “admin” and realising that out of 60 job opportunities, I can apply only for 5 of them.
One morning I receive a call from my recruitment agency: “We have work for you, are you available to start at 12?”. She called at 10 am. The job is pretty boring (technical translations), the rate of pay quite low (and includes your holiday pay), plus it is only for one week. Proper temporary work. I said yes though, I have bills and rent to pay!

The consultant asked me to pop around her office before starting the assignment; she had some papers to give to me. And so I did.
While waiting, a Spanish man and his pregnant wife entered the reception and sat there with me. Soon after a young man stood there in the room with us (there were only three chairs). Not long after the whole picture became clear: the same consultant had contacted all of us that same morning, in order to go and work for the same company. And we all rushed down to feed with some crumbles our bank accounts.

Right at that moment I understood that I jus became ”disposable as a toothpick”: use me whenever you want, for whatever job my suit my skills, I will be there. And the consultant came out saying, “At least is something”. I was not quite sure if I had to cry or laugh. If she wanted to encourage us, well that was a really bad attempt.