Boathouse

She lived with him on a boathouse for one glorious fall. She would rush out of the prestige European university halls into romantic medieval streets to meet her lover. He left his work at the souvenir stand and they walked away, holding hands. They could barely understand each other, but they hung out at cafes and galleries, and met wonderful, colorful people who were full of music and art and ideas.

They postponed returning to the boat long into the night. They walked, silently or laughing, on the river banks, leaving the noisy night life behind. They fell into each others arms and made sweet love, transforming back and forth between sexual beasts and spiritual creatures immersed in each other.

They always fell asleep at the break of dawn.

One morning, she woke up. Looked at her watch, she was late for class. She untangled herself from his strong arms and the thick blanket and got up into the cold. It was getting too cold. She looked for her clothes, her teeth chattering all the time. He woke up and said good morning in his funny ancient language.

”It’s cold,” she complained.

”Oh, it’s winter coming,” he said with a strong accent. Then he got up and put one of his thick rough sweatshirts around her to demonstrate how to protect yourself. Then he put on pants, a sweater, and a wool hat. “See?” he said with a smile.

She looked at the cluttered boat-bedroom, took in the stink that would only get worse when you could not air the place. And why would you air it anyway? To get the smell of fish inside?

Then she looked at him. Still young, athletic, a scruffy-looking beard, hair a little too long, working at someone’s souvenir stand, no education, nothing to give to the world but his good looks, good nature, and the work of his hands. She would have to support them both, if they were to get a house and live in this beautiful city forever.

But I love him, she lied to herself honestly and began to feel like crying.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk