Page 32 of A Wistful Symphony

Morning Minuet

M y eyelids open lazily, disturbed by a stubborn ray of light.

Grimacing, I cover my face with the back of my hand.

There’s a distant squeak of kids playing on the street, and the blinds are half-open, letting in an alarming amount of sunshine.

How is it late morning already? Can’t believe I slept in.

It’s been quite some time since I’ve had such a good night’s sleep.

I glance to the side of the bed and find it, as usual, empty. The sheets are dishevelled—and, to my horror, stained—revealing that last night was not a product of my imagination.

Except there’s no sign of you.

I drag my sore body to the bathroom. You’re not here, either. I put on a jumper and joggers and adjust my hearing aids before going to the sitting room.

Unsettlingly empty.

A chilly breeze howls through a crack in the window, making the curtains flail. I rub my arms and shut the window. Remains of our night are everywhere. A couple of plates are filled with pie crumbles, empty mugs rest on the coffee table, the mess fills the sofa, and my clothes rest on the piano.

There’s only one thing missing.

I had no doubts about how last night would end.

I bet you woke up in sheer panic after realising we’d fucked, picked up your clothes and ran out the door as fast as your legs could carry you.

Perhaps it’s for the best. Now that it’s out of our system, we can move on.

It would never work, anyway. There’s too much history, too many feelings involved.

Still, some silly part of me hoped that you’d stay. That I’d wake up to your sweet and sleepy face by my side. That we’d spend the day together, as couples do. But of course, life isn’t a fairytale.

I plummet onto the sofa, jaw clenched, fighting the burning sensation in my eyes. You left. Like you always do. I should deem myself insane for doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome.

“Idiot.” My shriek is muffled deep against a pillow. “Fucking moron. Of course he didn’t stay. He always flees, and you let him fuck you up and mess with your head. That’s what you are, Eric, a fucking—”

“Am I interrupting something?” A voice makes me jolt upright.

You stand by the half-open front door with a brown bag in your arms and mirth all over your twitching lips. Any trace of heat rapidly leaves my face. “Uh, don’t mind me. Just letting out some steam.”

“Thought you’d be relaxed after last night.” You smirk. “You were sleeping so heavily I didn’t want to wake you up. I thought of making breakfast, but your fridge was kind of empty, so I went out shopping.”

“You shouldn’t have.” My shoulders lose their tension. “I barely cook, anyway, so ….”

“No worries. My treat. Have a seat and leave everything to me. I mean, almost everything. I believe you’ll want coffee, and I can’t brew to save my life.”

A silent laugh vibrates out of my nose. You peck my lips on your way to the kitchen, and a subtle smile settles on my mouth. Your gesture both dazes and delights me. What does this mean? You’re cooking me breakfast. Is it a polite kindness? Or something more?

Does this mean we’re together?

Shaking my head, I fill the kettle at the sink and put ground beans in the coffeemaker while you take several items from the brown bag: fruits, oats, eggs, spices, yogurt and some bread.

“Do you still like French toast in the morning?” you ask, back turned to me.

“Definitely.” Something in my chest stirs, knowing you still remember such a minor detail.

I lean on the counter, amazed at your resourcefulness in the kitchen.

You chop strawberries and mix eggs with spices without batting an eye, stopping only to ask where I keep the utensils.

Cooking shouldn’t be this arousing, but to be fair, you’re in last night’s clothes, with stubble covering your angled jaw, and golden waves falling in a casually fashionable bed head. It makes you look so freaking hot.

The coffee maker beeps, and I tend to it as an excuse to not stare longer and provoke reactions in my body not suited for the present moment.

I fill a mug and sit by the counter, waiting for you to fry the slices of bread.

When I’m halfway through the coffee, you say, “How can something that smells so good taste so bad?”

“Some might disagree.” My grin flashes atop the rim of the mug as I take another sip.

“Figures.” You titter. “You know I’m not going to kiss you until you brush it off your teeth, right?”

“Better get used to it. Or you’re not going to kiss me at all.”

You put out the stove, lean over the counter and place your lips on mine, tenderly taking your time and savouring the remains of black coffee on my tongue.

As you pull away, you fake a grimace. “A bit better like this, but it still tastes awful.”

“Twit.” I push you away, making you laugh. “I should throw you out of my flat.”

“You’ll regret it, though.” You simper, pointing at the frying pan where the toast rests.

“Not fair. You go for all my weak spots, and I still don’t know yours.”

“I thought it was obvious.”

My gaze falls to the mug as my cheeks grow warmer. You chuckle, turning back to the stove, and I take a large gulp of coffee, trying to drown the question that’s been nagging in my head. At last, I speak. “Andrew, what are we doing?”

“Hm?” You turn to me. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“What’s happening here?” I gesture between us. “Is this a one-night stand? A situationship or … something more?”

“What the heck is a situationship?” you say between chuckles, but I do not laugh.

“Come on, quit joking. I need to know.”

“Okay.” You put out the stove for a second time and stand before me. “Look, Eric, I wouldn’t have had sex with you if I didn’t want something more. I’m not that shitty.”

My heart thumps inside my ribcage, and I can barely contain my smile. “For real?”

“Of course.” Your hand goes around the back of my neck, and you continue close to my lips. “I’d very much like to be your boyfriend. If you’ll have me back.”

“Damn right I will.” I close the distance to your mouth and kiss you once again. The slow rhythm settles my heartbeat, while the taste of a new beginning smears all over our tongues.

That’s all we need. Another chance. Everything else can be settled later.

Breakfast is ready in no time. French toast covered in sugar and cinnamon with lines of strawberries cut in the shape of a fan. Scrambled eggs and a bowl of yogurt, oats and fruit for you. I set the table as you serve our small banquet and bring the coffee, along with some orange juice.

After our lavish meal, you help me do the dishes—I wash, you dry—and tell me about how living alone made you develop a special interest in cooking.

We spend Sunday morning together, talking, listening to music and kissing, until our flesh craves deeper touch.

You strip me bare and we crawl to the bedroom, where we curl up in bed for the rest of the day.

I never want to leave this room again.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Ollie announces at our afternoon meeting for coffee, after I tell him all about our night. And the day after.

“How?” My brows knit. “I was surprised as heck.”

“Oh, come on, Eric. You two had that major ‘I-want-to-fuck-you-so-bad’ tension on your birthday. And you clearly never got over the guy.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his regular ‘no sugar, no cream’ Irish coffee.

Which is pretty much espresso and whiskey.

“It isn’t hard to believe he still has feelings for you. ”

“Well, his signals sure were confusing.” I shake my head, taking a bite of my shortcake.

“You’re talking about the guy who did the disappearing act on you ten years ago. His communication skills are far from ideal.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No, seriously, though.” Ollie smirks, leaning forward. “How good was he in the sack?”

“I reserve the right not to answer.” I take a sip from my medium-roast brew, failing to hide the mischievous grin on my lips.

“That good, eh?”

“What can I say?” I offer a tiny shrug, and we both laugh.

“I’m happy for you, my friend. A bit concerned, but mostly happy.”

“Oh, come on, Ollie, don’t start.”

“Yes, I’ll start.” He raises both his eyebrows. “Andrew seems to be doing better and shit, but he’s not the most stable of guys. You had a taste of it when he freaked out after your birthday, and I don’t want to see 2013 repeat itself.”

“We’re adults now.” I sigh and shake my head. “I’m sure we can deal with things far better than when we were eighteen.”

“Sure,” he says in a sceptical tone. “But remember you need stability, Eric. If he’s still the same, what will you do then?”

I avert my gaze to the right, where people are passing by the window shop.

One couple is cuddling in the chilly London evening, both smiling as the woman rests her head over the man’s shoulder.

Such ease, such certainty. And deep in my heart, I know that can never be us.

I would always be afraid you’d leave me again.

What would I do then?

“Come on, Andrew, we’ll be late.” I glance at my smartwatch every minute as you get ready at an excruciatingly slow pace, head a million miles away.

“Hm?” You lift your gaze, standing in front of the mirror, and I repeat myself. “Easy, it’s two hours until opening time.”

“Yes, but it’s a long way from here to the West End, and—”

“And the trains are on time.” You do up the last button on your shirt, and I hold out a navy blazer for you to put on. After adjusting your cuffs, you turn and peck my lips. “It’s okay, Eric. Everything is going to be fine.”

I breathe deeply, telling myself it’s just nerves getting in the way.

I’m not sure why I feel this anxious. Your presence in my flat has been constant since we got back together—yours is not an option, with Danny being an annoyingly excited third wheel—and after all the time we’re spending together, going on a date should only feel natural.