Max + Martha

Prague

"Do you love me?"

I tripped on a cobblestone. Damn it, why did Prague not have proper sidewalks? I didn't know what I expected from a medieval city, but it was getting annoying, slipping and tripping over these damn streets. It didn't help that Prague was, for lack of a better word, creepy. Every thing predated the Philippines, predated my own history. As someone who had strong roots back home, this was a scary thought. Prague steeped in history that the Czechs themselves considered bloody, and bore proudly.

I had never felt more out of place in my life.

Max was frowning as we walked back to the rented apartment I managed to book while we were on the train. It had taken me a little longer than usual, because I had no point of reference for Prague. It felt a little sketchy at first, when we checked in at a seemingly random building in a seemingly random road, but the apartment was lovely, with a view of the river and walking distance from the Charles Bridge.

He and I had been having the same conversation over and over since Amsterdam. 'I can't believe you didn't tell me about your twin sister,' I would say. 'I couldn't find an opportunity' he would say back. 'What else are you keeping from me?' I would ask. 'Because I don't know if I'll believe you.'

Suddenly, this question. A wrench in the conversation. Do you love me?

Space was tight on this part of Karlova. There were so many tourists that I couldn't look without seeing someone snapping a photo. The smell of cinnamon and sugar hung in the air—almost everyone was tucking into a cone shaped pastry called a trdelník, some filled with ice cream. Store after store sold souvenir items and delicately hand painted puppets, tote bags with Mozart on them.

I felt exhausted.

Max grabbed my hand and pulled me close to him.

"Do you love me," he repeated.

"You want to talk about this now?" I asked, irritated. I didn't know what else he wanted—I was here, wasn't I? In on this crazy, misguided first date, cobbling together plans and trying to enjoy myself. I would never, ever be able to do anything for him that equaled this, and this is how he—we chose to start things between us.

"I do," he said, his voice hard.

Beside us, a man started yelling "Cheater! Scammer!" at a roadside cabrio, the exact place guidebooks tell you not to exchange euros to Czech crowns, drawing crowds that pushed me and Max together as he spit at the glass partition.

"You are a scammer!"

"I can't think," I said, shaking my head. "I just need a bit of space, okay?"

He looked devastated that I had said that.

"I knew it," he said, shaking his head. "My sister told me..."

He didn't want to finish the thought, and I didn't let him. Whatever Olivia Tate told him, I didn't really want to hear.

"I'll meet you back at the apartment tonight," I said, squeezing his hand to get him to focus, because he had to know that I was here. I just needed a little time to sort myself out. "Max, please."

"Do you love me," he said again.

"I...I'll see you tonight," I promise, slipping away from his grip and disappearing into the crowd, walking back the way we came.

***

Out of all the places I'd set foot on in Europe, Charles Bridge was probably the oldest. Held together by, as Max explained, egg whites and mold, the bridge was seeped with its age. The stones were black at any time of the day, the statues of men in cages and saints with their eyes raised in benediction just added to the creepy factor.

It didn't help that it was Prague's most famous tourist spot, which meant that there were vendors selling trinkets and more souvenir items than there was in Quiapo, and it was busy at any given time of day.

Except, that is, at the crack of dawn.

I had no idea how I managed to get Max into a jacket and out the door. Our place was ten steps from the base of Charles Bridge and blessedly empty at five in the morning. The sky was streaked in a pale pink hue, with purple clouds. Against that was the bridge, old as time and black as night.

"Can we even be here," Max muttered, walking beside me, his hair sticking out in different directions and his arms crossed over his chest.

"It's a public place," I shrugged, huffing slightly as we reached the middle of the bridge. Aside from one too-drunk group of guys, we were alone.

Until music started to play. A woman in a blue polka dot dress and a man with a guitar were standing on the side of the bridge, and after I gave them a nod, started to sing "La Vie en Rose." The woman's voice was easy and sweet, just like this morning. Street performers were a dime a dozen in Prague, and were usually made of a group of classical musicians busking for extra cash, but this particular singer had such a lovely voice I couldn't resist.

"Dance with me?" I asked him, in my pajamas, on a bridge at sunrise.

He looked completely lost, poor guy, blinking as I slid our hands together and started to sway in time to the music. I'd never done this before, with anyone, and I wanted to remember this moment. His hands in mine, swaying slowly as his breath eased. He let go of my hands and wrapped his arms around me instead, burying his nose in my hair.

"You planned this?" He asked, pulling me close even as he huffed.

"I did," I said, wrapping my arms around his waist with my hands crossed behind him. "I walked here last night, ready to blind you—"

"Not unusual here, apparently." We were both remembering our tour guide's story about the astrological clock, how the King wanted to make sure it would never be replicated by blinding the original maker.

"But then I heard this girl sing."

"She does sing really well."

"And I figured, you deserved a slow dance on the Charles Bridge," I told him. "And I needed to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

That I loved him because of the little things. The way he read, the way he spoke. Because he always pulled me close and never left me behind. Because he let me walk away when I needed to. I would never be able to give him anything as special as this trip. Some days he would believe that he loved me more than I loved him. But he had to know that it meant a lot to me. That I loved him more than anything in the world. It was always the truth that was easy to say.

"I love you, Max."

"I love you, Martha. I'm sorry about they way I introduced you to Olivia. I just didn't want to make a big deal out of it."

"It's okay," I smiled, leaning my head against his chest. "But you know she's never going to let you live this down after I tell her about this, right?"