A Midsummer Night - a short story

This is a short story I wrote. You may think of it what you want, and I hope you enjoy it. Interpret it as you want, because I don't even really know what it's about. I am really sorry if there are any grammatical/spelling mistakes in it, English isn't my native language. 

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They spent the night drinking wine and talking, about anything at all. He sat in his favourite chair with his feet on the coffeetable, watching her and thinking about how beautiful she was, knowing she wouldn’t stay.

She lay on the soft Persian carpet he had bought that autumn, that smelled like somebody had tried to set fire to it – which was probably just the legacy twenty cigarettes a day left behind.

And as it became later, their minds grew empty, but their hearts were full of love and distress and fear – feelings they did not know could be felt at the same time.

At last, when he felt so tired he believed he was dead already, she stood up and said:

‘If I died, would you miss me?’

He opened his eyes slowly, wondering if she was drunk (he figured the answer was yes).

‘Yeah.’

‘But, would you miss me? Or would you come to my funeral and talk to people you barely know about how you think I was a very interesting girl and how I would be missed?

He sat up straight and put his empty glass on the floor.

‘I guess that depends on the circumstances. Maybe I would miss you less if I hadn’t seen you in twenty years, other than if I would still see you every day. But perhaps that doesn’t matter. Because I can most certainly say that I will still feel the same about you as I do now, and that is a feeling I won’t ever comprehend.’ He glanced at her, but she did not respond in any way to his confession.

Instead she picked up the newspaper from Saturday and started reading the front page.

‘I’ve always wanted to be successful,’ she said suddenly.

‘What do you mean?’ he shook his head, puzzled by her intentions.

She put down the paper and turned around, facing the portrait of his father he had been wanting to take off the wall for ages.

‘I was never good at anything. Never did anyone say: ‘you have such talent, I wish I could do that.’ When I was a little girl, my parents would say: ‘that’s nice, but look at your sister’s outstanding performance.’ I wasn’t clever, I could not play an instrument. I didn’t speak a foreign language, I wasn’t funny. I wasn’t even pretty. But everyone around me seemed to be gifted and special. And I was just there, not being able to meet anyone’s expectations.’

He noticed how skinny she had become. She looked so fragile.

‘I cannot believe all of that is true,’ he said. ‘You know I think you are–’

‘The most stunning and interesting creature you’ve ever had the pleasure of loving, yes. But you are making a common mistake. You do not see me as I see me. You see what you think I am, how you want to see me – and you believe you know me. But how could you, if even I don’t know who I am?’

He did not answer, simple because he didn’t know what to say. Was she speaking the truth? Had he been a fool for thinking he could, by just loving her, save her?

She walked over to the window and opened it. The wind blew in and his postcards from New York were blown off the writing table. He picked them up and watched how she leaned out the window, letting the rain kiss her hair, her white skin, until she was completely soaked.

‘You’re going to be ill,’ he said. It was only when he noticed her shaking hands that he realised she was crying.

‘Can you please get me another drink? Something strong,’ she said, almost whispering.

He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

As he walked to the kitchen, a strange feeling crept over him. His hands searched in the dark for the almost empty bottle of Whiskey, and, having found it, he poured it into a plastic cup – he did not have anything else.

He slowly walked back, the terrible feeling in his stomach getting worse, only to find himself completely alone, standing in the dusk of the room. It was undisputable. A puddle of rain had emerged on the floor under the window and the curtains fluttered violently. And, walking slowly towards the window, he almost laughed. Almost, because he knew there was nothing funny about life at all.