Lost In Translation

It is cold inside the apartment as well. The wind is worst, of course, but inside with 2 pink socks and her grandmother’s old cashmere coat, it’s just bearable. Her phone hangs from her hand, long ago left open on his conversation, unable to find the right thing to say or what to say at all. They weren’t exactly on speaking terms, but it was more than that, and she knows. They’re never on speaking terms, except when they cross paths, and then they’re the best of friends (and, after a few bottles of wine, the best of lovers as well). It always startled her, his easyness towards her but also his inconsistency into keeping her into his life.

She looks at the clock. It’s almost 9 p.m. He’s probably showering or drinking beer or having dinner amongst his new cosmopolitan friends. She’s enraged about not being part of it but of course the worst part is the wondering. It’s not supposed to be like this, the wondering. It’s not supposed to matter if he’s showering or drinking beer or having dinner amongst his new cosmopolitan friends. All that’s supposed to matter, of course, was that he wasn’t busy texting her. And she could text him. It would be so easy, he could fall for it another time, and she would gladly catch an uber to his place and bring the nearly full bottle of wine she opened just to gather enough courage to text his number.

She bites her nails now. The seconds drag at the same moment they speed. Time is nothing, not until she makes her decision. It’s the coldest night of the year. It would be nice, she wonders, to sleep with him tonight. Skin to skin, the bunk bed in his small apartment. He probably moved, she thought. He mentioned last time, he was supposed to move on the 9th. It’s not a bunk bed anymore.

That makes her lock her phone for a moment. There’s so much she’s not aware anymore about him. She never knew, for instance, if he cultivated lovers in between their encounters. They meet thoroughly into february, a few weeks in march, once in april. That was the last time, april 26th. It’s may 18th. She misses him in a weird lonely way, like he’s a therapy session in which she could dive in and pay with a sloth of her soul and then leave for the next month until it’s needed again. It’s a weird, abnormal situation she can’t let go.

Someone else texts her and her phone glows into the dim light of the apartment. She gets distracted. Maybe another week, she thought. It’s not over, she concluded. Maybe.