She sits at the bus station, still as the moment between two breaths.
What do you do with yourself the morning after that single night, she thinks. What do you feel — hope, hate, regret? A crumb of leftover love?
Her hands are fragile and spent. He said they were beautiful, her hands. He kissed her fingers, one by one, the inside of her palm and the white of her wrist. She turns her left hand to remember, no, to see if the kiss is still there. Her hand falls back tired, unyielding.
There was music, a slow dance before they left Indra’s party. Just names, no numbers, a single common friend offering an illusory connection. His place — one floor up. Golden ice cubes clinking within crystal; log-fire flames crisscrossing shadows and light.
She can still feel him on her. His scent, the scratch of his stubble on her chin, like a promise. Lips that were silent when there was no need for words. Fingers that read the Braille of her skin. His long arms dissolving her longing to belong. To him. To anyone.
Dawn.
His contented breath.
Her reflection in the mirror before she left
***
It’s too bright and the bench is too cold. She lowers her head, grateful for her dark hair shielding her from the man with the coffee, the nuns checking the bus timetable, the backpackers laughing in some foreign language — from this busy world always searching, always choosing its next destination.
The ring of her phone rips through her thoughts. An unknown number; probably another mistake on this endless Sunday morning. She stands up as the bus arrives.
‘Hello?’
‘Melanie? It’s me, Andy. Oh, yes, you’re still here, I can see you!’
Pale sunshine dances on her lips.
‘Andy?’
‘Indra gave me your number. Look up, Melanie. Just look up!
She lifts her head, her breath catching. Long arm stretched, Andy is waving as though he’s meant to be there. As though he’s sure she’ll see him smiling on the other side of the street, through the windows of the bus she will not board.
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Rostislava Pankova-Karadjova 