By Katerina Dementeva
The sun is thirsting for her as much as I do. I can see that through the window of my sports pub, through the tiny square with the fountain where we just had lunch together, through the window of her gym where she’s laughing with her client and showing her how to set up a treadmill properly.
The sun is thirsting for her almost as much as I do. I frown. If it won’t stop its liquid sliding on her skin, she will close shutters and what will I look at then?
She looks up through her window, through our square, through my window—at me. She smiles, not like she smiles at her client. I wave. I blush.
When she looks away, I touch the corner of my lips, the place her lips touched minutes ago. It’s silly, I know. Like always, after lunch there was a kiss, and after the kiss, she whispered: have a great day, my sweet colleague. Calling us colleagues is also silly but I loved it, and I laughed—like I always do.
My only client, drinking vodka shots at 2 p.m., girl, breaks a glass. I jump. No big deal, no worries, I say. The girl looks like she’s about to cry.
I take a misty picture of a dark storage room
so it will be easier for me
to picture her pushing me against one wall
or me pushing her to another
and—this time properly—kiss.
the worst thing here is
not me fantasising about the kiss
the worst—
that I don’t
I don’t want to picture
I want to know
and I want to hear all her long, long stories,
laugh at her bad jokes,
eat her stupid beans and tofu,
watch and critically discuss boring sports documentaries with her,
let her drive even though I really hate the way she does it
and I don’t mind being friendly with her friends
or her dogs
or her kids
or her husband
oh fuck
I didn’t remember being in love to feel so shitty. But it is. Also, I didn’t remember
to get the broom, as the drinking girl politely points out.
I return and take it
then put it down
to take another picture
of a dark storage room
in a hope
that one day
I will see it in my archive
and think
what is that?
that’s a lie
in a hope
that one day
I will see it in my archive
and tell her:
oh my god!! back then it was ridiculous
I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you
and this goddamn broom
can you believe it?
I forgot it the second time, too
and the worst thing is
I don’t want to imagine
her answer
or her smile
or the firmness and softness of her body
or how welcoming it is
or an absolute bliss
or the kiss
or any of this
I want to know
Katerina Dementeva is a queer and feminist writer, poetess, performance artist, and facilitator of creative writing events based in Riga, Latvia. Her practice moves between fiction and nonfiction, inviting other art forms into her writing as she explores themes of anonymity and authorship in art, domestic and political feminism, and queer identity. She has been a resident at the International Writers’ and Translators’ House in Ventspils, the Women in the Mountains program in Bulgaria, and has participated in projects supported by Europeana, the European digital cultural heritage library.