Three years

Three years - part 1

Three years. I wondered if he had changed since the last time I saw him, already quite different from those eleven years when we met as kids.

I've arrived to this new yet familiar country, inhaling the heat and the dust, that I've missed so much that I sometimes hated my new homeland for its purity and... sterility. As I rode on the old bus that smelled of mildew, I was only thinking about the mountains in the late afternoon sun. Scorched and dry with patches of that oh so familiar limestone. My homeland was a few hundred kilometers away, but there and then, it was just behind those mountains, just behind the horizon of the airport. Night had already fallen by the time the bus arrived to the city center, moving painfully slowly through the traffic jams, chaotic infrastructure and neverending cranes building a new skyline. The city had suddenly felt so foreign, although the smells of southern cities were picking at something in the back of my head. It wasn't until then that I felt alone, walking through narrow streets to find the apartment for the night. Thomas' flight was delayed, and with shameless relief I decided to indulge in my vices all by myself that evening. Out of the shower and into the fresh white linen, a bottle of wine in my hand, the AC blasting and a mindless flick on the TV, still logged into some former tourist's Netflix account. Sucker.

It was after midnight that I was awakened from a drunken sleep. Good thing I remembered to turn on – for once – the sound on my phone. We met at the gates and instinctively I hugged him, awkwardly. Both tired, we went to the room without much talk. I continued my slumber until he joined me in the bed. I saw that he noticed the empty bottle of wine but didn't say a word. Much less awkwardly now, without a word, we pressed our bodies together in an embrace, sticky heat radiating from him, in stark contrast with the cool of the room and the bedsheets. It didn't seem to bother either of us as I nuzzled against his neck, and we shared a few pecks before drifting to sleep. Not how I imagined this reunion to go, but then again, I hadn't really thought about it much, this whole travel plan some abstract way for me to escape my isolated and depressed life in an alien land. It felt at times like a fantasy, maybe that's why I put away planning until the very last moment, or maybe it was the burnout of my job that I was throttling through for the past months. Years even. But I welcomed the feeling of slumber and fantasy with both hands in a hug.

We woke up before the alarm, still enmeshed though not as close, even though the AC ran all night. I was half-asleep when he pulled me closer. Only now, in daylight, with eyes still half shut, was I able to notice the changes on him. His short hair stubble pleasantly scratching my hands, the hair on his chest tickling my face, and the soft flesh of his torso warm and tanned. His eyes were still half closed too, when we kissed and when he started stroking my body, although I couldn't tell if he noticed all its changes as closely as I did. We still haven't spoken a word while I stroked him, his hand also between my thighs, laying side by side, gently caressing each other's backs and heads with the other free arm. The first words he uttered, still with his eyes closed but with a voice very much awake and stern, even though almost a whisper, were "Continue doing that". Not even a "please" from this fine English gentleman. And so I did even though I wanted more. He finished, with loud sighs that satisfied and excited me simultaneously. Only then did we open our eyes while he said sheepishly, "oops, sorry" as I went to grab the towels and clean the mess. It's exactly how I remembered him; socially awkward, stiff in his interactions both verbal and physical, shy, yet even selfish when it came to sex. We stayed in a lazy embrace a few more minutes, discussing the plans for that day. Pay for the hotel, find some desperately needed coffee, and a bus to take us to the next destination, away from the main city and into the mountains. There were no timetables in this country, and I relished the feeling of not being hurried and moving at our own pace, even though at times I found his a bit too slow. Maybe it was my ADHD and stress, maybe it was his habits he picked up while away for so long in Arabic countries and hot climate weather, a habit I once had while living in similar conditions. "Are you trying to cover the receding hairline with the shaved head?" I teased, but he responded just "By the time the vacation is over, it will be as long as your hair, you will see.". It wasn't mean. I hadn't yet settled into this new buzzcut that was a result of a recent desperate attempt to have control over something in my life and that was now in that unflattering growing-out phase that still hadn't settled on my head as if it was still protesting the cut, and made me look like a chicken or a weird porcupine. I was not feeling confident, and this hair made it even harder. My father had said, concerned, when I first showed him "Are you punishing yourself for something, Eva?", and, truthfully, I think I might have.