Blue Glass

The Green Fairy

Love is like mustard gas.
It's blinding, it's asphyxiating, and its after effects fatal.
But no one pays attention to what comes afterward. All they want is to feel the heady rush that comes with the realization that someone else in the world loves them.
My mother had been no different. And despite my preference to believe the contrary, I was no different.

My hands left steamy imprints on the grimy window as I pressed my palms to the cool glass and watched the world go by. At first glance, no one would ever think that Germany was fighting a war by the way the streets still teemed with life. A closer look at the haggard, drawn faces of the women and children floating by said otherwise, however. That and the all too obvious lack of men spoke volumes about what this country was going through

Windows are a muse in themselves, my mother always said to me on the few occasions she deigned to speak to me. I would always find her by the expansive bay window in our parlor when I came home from school, reading compilations of Goethe or knitting doilies--and, after my father left, chain smoking and drinking. As I got  older, I frequented the small window in my room above my bed more and more often. The small but roomy windowsill was ideal for resting my elbows atop, or a bottle of wine artfully concealed in one of my wool shawls. I had been glad that a majority of the shawls I owned, save for a set of colored ones Svetlana had gotten me when she went to Russia, were either burgundy or a rich chocolate, as I couldn't begin to count the number of times I had slopped wine over them by accident.
Now, standing at a grimy window I could hardly call my own, my hands planted firmly on the sill which was so dusty the palms of my hands came away covered with a fine layer of gray fuzz, I couldn't help thinking about what was going on in Vienna now. Had Svetlana found someone else to play housekeeper for? Did she like her new employers? Were they being as nice to her as I had been? I thought about Heinrich. How was he doing on the Front? Was he still alive? Was he injured? What had he done after he discovered I was gone?

And as always, I found myself thinking about Manfred. Where was he? How was he doing? Had he gone back to the Front yet? What had his reaction been when he came back to an empty room?

I hate you. You stuck up, entitled, jaded half-wit.

Shame flooded me immediately, and I wished I could retract my words, even if I had said them in the safety of my own mind. For all he had done, Manfred was the nicest person I had ever met and didn't deserve an iota of my hatred. I didn't blame him for what he had done--he was an aristocrat after all, and he was acting the way he had been raised to act around working class people, women no less. I supposed I ought to be surprised he had even spoken to me that day at the party.

I wished things could just go back to normal. I wished I had never met him at that party. I wished I had never written back to his first letter. I wished I had never gone to see him at the field hospital when he was convalescing. I wished I hadn't kissed him.

If I had known letting him go would be this painful, then I wish I would have never met him.

But deep down, I wanted to see him again. I just wanted to have one final conversation with him, where both of us said everything that needed to be said and everything that we had left unsaid for propriety's sake throughout our time together, however short it had been. I wanted him to know that I would always love him no matter what, and that while I knew he didn't--and probably had never loved me, I hoped that he wouldn't forget me...

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the harsh, grating screech of ancient hinges from behind me as the door to my apartment swung open unceremoniously. My shoulders relaxed and then tensed with irritation at the familiar sight of Marie von Wedel, her gray hair in a loose chignon.