Forelsket

Household nerd

"I could spend two weeks on Phangan."

"You could. But you spend your vacation there almost every year. Isn't it time to change the palette of autumn?"

Eight and a half years of loneliness. But it seems that the last two months have become particularly unbearable. The unsinkable cruiser named Type began to storm even in calm.

"Couldn't you have chosen a place closer? And at least out of a sense of decency to discuss it with me?"

"So," Techno hugs the main grumbler of their company, "it really wouldn't hurt you to change the situation and stay away from everything you're used to. Only the lazy one did not tell about this. I promise you'll like it there."

"I don't know… I was looking at the weather forecast. I... I don't even have such warm clothes."

"That's great. There is a reason for you and me to go to the mall and buy new clothes. Type—," No hugs his best friend more tightly by the shoulders, "just imagine: our trees are green all year round, and now everything is painted yellow, purple, orange, there is a slight frost and freshness in the air, and the leaves rustle so comfortably under your feet. We rented a house on the fjords for you. There's something like an island in the middle of a huge lake. You know, everything is like in the pictures — a red cabin on high stilts, inside there is a fireplace, white furniture and lots and lots of ceramics and copper dishes. I'm already salivating — I can see you conjuring over a cinnamon and apple pie. You will cook mulled wine and sit down to watch the fire under a plaid blanket. Just imagine, Type!"

"Hmm... why don't you go there yourself? Pushing me out to the edge of the world..."

"What do you mean, "push out"? We're just taking care of a friend who somehow quite unexpectedly had an existential crisis at the age of twenty-seven."

"Mhm. How long did you learn to pronounce this collocation?"

"You're unbearable, Type," No laughs.

He's restless. He's been restless for a long time. Friends often look at Type with sadness, of course, while he does not see. Deep down, they understand that their Type is losing his taste for life. Or maybe their expectations from this inexhaustible source of energy turned out to be somewhat overstated.

"Listen… Maybe it's not too late? Return my ticket and cancel the reservation of the cabin?"

"No, no, no," Techno defiantly covers his ears, " don't want to listen to anything! That's it! You're flying to Norway, period!"

Perhaps, Type finally accepts the inevitability of this venture of his friends only when, wrapped up to the temples in a collar, warming his hands with his breath, he feels cold lake spray in his face. He is dropped off on a rather steep bank, and here he is, with one suitcase and a backpack over his shoulder, going up to his lonely cabin for the next two weeks.

That's right. As in the pictures. Red walls. High piles. And around - no soul...

Mhm... what?

"Don't be afraid, please," they address Type in a familiar language. Type is so tired from the long flight that he forgets to be surprised by this circumstance, "I brought you groceries,  everything should be enough for the first time, - here is the key."

Type doesn't move. Nord-Ost plays with his hair. On the contrary, they awkwardly clear their throat, seeing his confusion.

"And you... and who are you, exactly? And what are you doing here? I was told that I would live alone in the house, and there is nothing else habitable on this island."

"You're right. I'm a local fisherman. Well, rather, almost local—" the guy grins, "I live on the other side. The people who put you here hire me to carry provisions for holiday-makers. Well, in case you need any help with the household."

Type notices how this fisherman is dressed in a simple, "local" way. A short sweater under a hard material jacket, a faded thin hat, and knee-high rubber boots. There are remnants of fish scales on faded jeans in some places.

About thirty years old. No more. And the look is very clear and...  kind?

Type shrugs his shoulders, and the man adds:

"You know, it can be up to zero here at night. Shall I light a fire for you?"

Frowning his eyebrows, Type shakes his head:

"Thanks. Even though I'm from a big city, I'm not such a household nerd. It turns on somewhere on the side, right?"

The man's face shows how difficult it is for him not to laugh:

"I brought the matches. The firewood is in the shed—" he hands Type a key with a leather keychain, "if you need anything, dial the travel agency, they will send Tharn."

"Tharn?"

Type begins to feel a migraine.

"Yes. Tharn is me."

Probably, this fisherman is waiting for Type to introduce himself, too, but he just shivers in the cool air.

"Okay. Go inside. And drink something hot."

With these words, Type is left alone. In an absolutely familiar state for him.