Lucy: Ice and Fire.

Part one

Nicholas

            I still cannot believe this. I cannot. After a dozen months of silence and isolation, tonight I stand here, holding the door to the house, staring at the woman who left me. The woman, who left me standing at this very spot in this very room a year ago one morning, desperately crying out her name that echoed through the forest that surrounds our home:

            “Lucy – Lucy…”

And now she stands before me, beautiful and graceful as I remember her. The memory of her looks haunted me throughout this long period of her both physical and verbal absence, I can barely speak and move: the sight of her chestnut hair, ever-curly against her pale skin and the thick eyelashes of the child she still is over her green eyes staring back at me, is far too overwhelming and shocking than any other thing I have met so far. We stare at each other in silence: my lips are dry and cold, no words come out. My mind, like a babe yearning for her mother’s milk, automatically and constantly repeats: Lucy, Lucy.

And again: Lucy.

Lucy

            The way here wasn’t difficult: the bus stop was not moved from the last time I passed it, no new routes were created and the Green Organisation was doing a good job, as no tree in this forest seemed to have been cut down. I often dreamed about coming here and sometimes I wished I could never return. I’m not implying death or a fire – I just had the thought of not finding my way here to this house. Back to the past, back to my misery, back to him. Yet, I stand here before him and I wonder: Was this necessary? Then I want to cry out in joy and be locked in a tight embrace, the one lovers get and give once reunited. But then, I know what this would mean: the return to the past, the one I longed to escape and did.

A year was too long and too cruel, I know, especially when I didn’t write him once… all the bigger surprise to see that this house was not sold and the mailbox still holds our names. Again, I hoped it to have been sold and our fates to have been sealed to not have each other in it. Wasn’t that what I was aiming for? By leaving him? With him just staring this wide-eyed at me, I partly thought I was putting my hand into the fire. What desires, what wants does a man have after a year of silence, what kind of punishment does a man give his woman after she disappears for so long without any note, but with most of her things? I was scared – I wanted to laugh at how much I was shivering inside my trench coat, not from the cold night, but from the fear of becoming a possible extra nutrition in the soil for the trees. But I didn’t see hatred in his eyes – nor the kind of death-wanting glare. I saw myself and he seemed to have been close to tears. But none were dropped. I enter the house.

Nicholas

            I closed the door. The long-forgotten sound of her step, short and light, paralysed me from both action and words for a while, as they only informed me of the reality that she is here again. I turned to face her, standing in a trench coat that had mud stains all over it, thinking that it was the very same coat she wore when it was all fine between us. Actually, when all was wonderful – the story I have made myself suppress from my mind, but with her in front of me again, I recollected our beginning.

            We met at uni: I was studying in Sussex, she at Bristol. A friend of mine organised a party that took place in a village mid-way between our universities. I was supposed to be spending the weekend revising for my end-of-second-year examinations, but I was too sick of re-reading the notes I had from all of my past History of Literature sessions at this point that I just went. The place was packed with people – my friend is a great event organiser – who were dancing, drinking, laughing and chatting so loudly I could barely hear my own thoughts. The air was cloudy with cigarette smoke, but all of a sudden, a single face cleared from the blur.

            Before I knew it, I have poked my friend with my elbow. He was irritated that I have made him spill a bit of his drink on his pants (“Man, now it looks just wrong!” he complained), but answered my question after I shouted it through the loud music.

            “Who’s that?”, I nudged towards the object of interest.

            “That girl? Lucy Stephens. Studies Psychology and the Social Arts in Bristol. Clearly not drunk yet”. He seemed disappointed by this observation, but looked back at me: “Why ask?” He lifted his eyebrows and smirked with his eyes, twisting his mouth vilely: “She caught your fancy?”

            I was quite an amateur back then, blushing was inevitable at this sort of straight-on remark. “Oh, um, of course not… I mean, yeah, she’s fairly attractive but um, hey, uh… “

            “Go talk to her, you dope. From what I’ve heard, you’re going to have trouble with getting some convo on, but if she caught your fancy… you could make it a one-night deal.”

            I looked at him, unable to believe his words: “Insult! I couldn’t do that to her – she’s far better that any other chick here. But wait, what do you mean by the “trouble”?”

            He waved his hand, never-mind like: “Oh, you know… Psychology students. I just heard that she’s a kind of fish that gets caught easily, but doesn’t allow to be eaten, you know what I mean?” I didn’t, but I went to her anyway. It all started then.

Lucy

            He seemed to be day-dreaming, staring blankly at what can possibly be the sleeve of my coat. I asked him if I can stay the night. He nodded and wordlessly helped me take off my coat and hanged it. He then mutely walked over to the kitchen, where he turned on the kettle for tea. I threw my heavy backpack on the floor and stretched my back – turned around to see him facing me, but again with distance between us. It began to scare me a bit, but I asked if I could shower. He nodded again and pointed towards the bathroom. How could he think I forgot where the bathroom is? I ignored this and smiled before I departed. He continued to stare, probably still lost in his mind. I was truly beginning to think he went insane since last year.

Nicholas

            It wasn’t a “one-night deal” as my friend predicted it to be: Lucy turned out to be the best thing in my life and mid-way through our first conversation at that party, I knew I want to be with her no matter what. She kept me in suspense and fear for exactly three weeks before she gave me a supportive sign of affection – during a movie, she rested her head on my shoulder and moved her hand over mine. I was happy and excited beyond words! And moved to finally experience the touch of her soft, child-like fingers over my own - we began dating.

            I listen now to the sound of the water sprinkling in the distant bathroom. Like raindrops in a rainforest they echo through the hallway all the way to the living room where I remain standing, lost in memories and thoughts. Occasionally there is the sound of the opening of a shower gel – probably mine – otherwise she is taking her time, I imagine the flow of hot water on her skin, now free from days-old sweat and dirt and feel the urge to join her. But then, I realize that we never got to this point in our relationship. Not yet. 

Lucy

            I locked the door, just in case he would do what any other man would like to do. It feels wonderful to be clean again, but what lies behind that door scares and worries me. I worry about the conversation to come, the words that will be spoken after he wakes up from his dreams and thoughts that are clearly in control of him right now. I find a fairly-clean shirt in the dirty-clothes bin and put it on, along with his shorts and wrap my hair in a dry towel. I feel clean, but my mind truly isn’t thus. The kettle has just turned off – and I realize that there will be nothing sweet going with the tea.

Nicholas

            On the way to the kitchen, I pass her trench coat. Absentmindedly, I smell it – the mud reminds me of our first post-graduation trip, a year after we met. We were both after our exams and quite careless about whether or not we have passed; we packed a metre-high backpack each and travelled by foot through the wilderness of the 21^st century English countryside. For two weeks we were wanderers through the fields, valleys, seaside tracks, you name it – with no responsibility, sleeping under the evening starry skies or the cover of a tent that I carried during the day. Being together made the days pass and drop dead like the flies we slapped with our Cornwall travel guide on the walls of countryside restaurants and rest-wash-and-go centres for wanderers like us. The trench coat I was smelling just now was a souvenir from this trip –as for the last few days, there was constant rain and Lucy insisted that walking with the tent over our head (respectively, her head) was out of (her) league. Once we reached a place that had a department store, she grabbed and bought the first trench coat she got hands and eyes onto. And now it dries in the house that she chose to leave and return to after a year of silence.

Lucy

            I opened the bathroom door to first see nothing except the fog of gas hot water diffuse into the relative coldness of the hallway and then notice him staring at my trench coat. He moved his hand over it and caressed it, I believe, before going into the kitchen with his head bent towards the floor. This kind action of his filled me with tenderness and confidence in a peaceful, conflict-less evening, but they disappeared as soon as they came: I leave the refuge of the bathroom and enter the hallway, walking towards the kitchen. Would these be my final steps? I do not know, but whatever trouble, bruises my Fate has for me now, I deserve it.

Part two

Nicholas

            I was just transferring the boiled water from the kettle into the prepared cups when she joined me in the kitchen. She was clean in my clothes, smelling like ginger – she clearly used my shower gel – and her hair was hidden in a turban of a towel. Her eyes were red, was it from the shampoo or was she crying? But she looked away the moment I began wondering about this, perhaps the second option is true. I returned back to my task and gave her tea – she thanked me – and we continued to stand in the kitchen with a table, a wall, between us. We began to drink, our gulps filled the silence of the room.

Our eyes met every once in a while, her eyes still red, standing out against the greens of her pupils. She then stopped drinking, turned her head towards the living room and made her way towards the couch. I watched her, identifying the small pale thin body under the cover of my size L shirt that was still wet and warm from her shower. A curl got free from the turban, brown and free. She sat down and looked at me – I hesitated at first, but then I joined her. 

Lucy

            We were each sitting at the two edges of the same couch – did I want this to happen? I don’t know, I wanted to sit down. This ever-present tension and the long journey I made earlier on to get here is tiring, I hope he won’t try anything. I hope he’ll hear me out without pushing me into anything else first. I put down my half-drunk tea onto the table despite the knowledge of it being the last kind of boundary, wall between us, as he finished his already in the kitchen. My story must be told.

Nicholas

            She put down her tea and as both of our hands are empty, all naturally have to desire to cuddle her close to me, feel her breath against my chest, now warm with excitement and adrenaline. Is it anger? I do not know. But I do want to feel her physical warmth. Silence. I smile.

            “Good to be home?” I asked her. The moment I said those words, I knew it was a most terrible line to say after a year apart. “Good to be home?” Ridiculous. But what else should I have said? “Now pour it all out. Was it because of a man? Was I not good enough for you?” This I would have said – no, screamed – a year ago, luckily she replied. With a simple nod. And I was relieved – progress.

Lucy

            Poor boy, he doesn’t and didn’t deserve this trouble. I can imagine the split-up personality he must be having now – aggressive, justification-seeking versus the caring Nicholas I fell in love with, face-to-face, eager for a reply to calm and anger him. I replied with a nod because I feared my shivers would affect my voice and he would draw in closer. This deceived me, as he noticed me shaking.

            “Are you cold? Wait, I’ll give you a blanket” Immediately he reached for it under the table and stood to tuck me into it like a child. During the process our faces were close and our eyes met at close distance. His mouth opened, a breath was released – do I want to kiss him? Then it turned out I had no choice, as his lips moved and pressed themselves against mine. Again and again. It was a matter of seconds: and I started kissing him back as he with his hands lifted and moved my legs from the floor onto the couch and lied down against me. The kisses continued – first soft and short, graduating into long and strong and eventually turned into a dance of the tongues. His breathing fastened and though my conscience knew that this was like falling straight into hell, my body demanded otherwise. His hands caressed my thighs, my waist, moving up towards my neck. He made me sit up and ripped the shirt I had off me and after seeing me in my bra, he immediately then took off his own shirt and pushed me down into the couch and pressed himself against me. My thigh was between his legs and I felt increasing hotness and hardness against it as the kisses and caressing grew in quantity. He pulled me up again and masterfully opened the bra so within seconds we were both half-naked. I was pushed back into the couch, he softly caressed my breasts and – now completely naked – back and the same hand was pulling down my pants…This had to stop.

 Nicholas

            I don’t know what went into me; it just all got out, all my desires and emotions - both negative and positive  - wanted just one thing: to have her, the whole of her, to myself, to make up for the year when I had no other woman. I only yearned for her and the memory of all those sleepless, tearful nights made me think of nothing else. I had to have her – and when my desire reached its peak and I was mid-way from fulfilling my desires, she did some turning and twisting and before I knew it, she was behind me. Her breasts were warm and pressed against the coldness of my back and her slender pale arms enclosed my neck between them. Her right palm was put against my left cheek, a contact that I told her long ago that I adore, and her head was between my right ear and shoulder. Her breath tickled my chest, but I didn’t mind. We remained this way for a while with me taking it the warmth, tenderness and calming down from the hormones that made me wild just a few minutes ago. Then the silence was broken with these words:

            “I have to tell you.”

Lucy

            With my body in the safe position behind his, I told him of the adventures I experienced this past year. About my travels through Iceland, Sweden, Ireland, Wales, Scotland and return to England, where I lived in London with my parents for the past four months, earning a living by writing short articles into the Daily Telegraph about my travels, most of which were published. I described my travels through the musical city of drunkards of Dublin, the magical cryptness and poeticism of Aberdeen and Edinburgh, the wild nature of Iceland with the thick ice lands and ever-active volcanoes, Sweden’s astounding Arctic light horizons of dawn… I told him about the nature that impressed me, the people I met, the food I ate, the drinks I drunk, the books I read, the travel guides I used and found either good or useless… I told him all, so lost in the excitement I felt in telling him the stories and memories made during this year that I haven’t noticed we were now sitting opposite each other and our eyes were looking directly into each other. By the end of my recollection of everything I could and wanted to tell, I was out of breath – and he was looking at me, so direly, while his mouth moved to say:

            “Your lips speak of joy, but your eyes tell of sorrow. Why do you tell me this all when you know when you will not be here tomorrow?”

            I didn’t know what to say – my mind was gasping for a reply like a fish out of water and I didn’t know. He turned away, hurt.

            “Well, I’ll get the bed ready for you. You can stay the night. I’ll sleep on the couch. Get dressed, it gets cold here at night.” And he departed into the bedroom, located just opposite the bathroom, leaving me sitting half-naked on the couch where it all started. Realizing that by now, it had also all ended.

Nicholas

            I was relieved to hear there was no man involved, but at the same time, I could not stand the thought of making love to her – which was exactly what I wanted to do all along and very intensely – when I did not have the assurance that she will stay with me. Her silence and lack of words after my question made me feel such sadness, repulsion and anger that if she would have even touched me, I would have hit her. Why is she doing this to me? What did I ever do to her? Was it that I didn’t like Shakespeare? Black-and-white movies? Was it that I wanted us to live in a house in a forest without any internet and television? What, what? I want to condemn her, but losing control over my emotions would be out of my league. My league! I wait here patiently for her an entire year and if she isn’t able to tell me of her love – if it still even exists, to be precise – nor apologise for all the pain she caused me, then it must be the end. It will be the end. It is the end.

            I got the beds ready and as she passed me, she made sure not to even brush her shoulder against mine as she made her way into the bedroom. “Thank you” she uttered silently. I kept a stone expression – she should feel her guilt, her coldness, her heart of ice should now burn the inside of her, the soul that I believed to be faithful to me and no-one else.

            I try to sleep but it is near to impossible. I want to kick her out of the house into the blizzard, but at the same time I wish nothing else but her presence, at least in the next room. What will happen, I don’t know. Perhaps her bags and coat will be gone by then – if so, the matter would be solved. And if not? I better sleep.

Part three

Lucy

            I tried to sleep, but I failed several times. My mind could not rest, the memories and thoughts promoted themselves on the inside of my eyelids without an intermezzo. I think about the way he kissed me: I recollect our first kiss that was quick and confused by the river Adur when he seemed to have been falling when suddenly he pressed his lips against mine while holding me for balance. We then smiled at each other, bewildered by the moment of our first more intimate physical contact. After a while we carried on with our journey silently, too embarrassed to look at each other.

            Then I recollect the first time he said that he loves me: I was astounded; it was the first time anyone confessed their love to me. I was so happy and surprised that I threw myself at him and kissed his whole smooth and widely smiling face like a child. We laughed as he held me tight and started spinning round and round. We were crazy: some passer-bys started clapping, probably believing that he just proposed to me. We laughed even more and after I was grounded, we bowed like as if we were actors in a play. The people then laughed, shaking their heads as they left us be. We looked at each other and kissed. The contact seemed so different: knowing that our relationship reached the stage of love suddenly made me enjoy the simple brushing of the lips more and kissing was no longer as emotionless: I was assured of his love and all my fear of being with someone who does not take “us” seriously disappeared.

            All this happened during the summer holidays – we were separated by the kilometres between our schools and interestingly enough, this absence seemed to have given us better focus on our studies. Both of us graduated and finished university with honours, throughout the whole year – that seemed like eternity! – we saw each other one weekend each month, as both of our allowances’ were low and travelling took both time and money. He began the habit of writing letters, most of which were about how much he misses me, how he thinks about me day and night and how he is looking forward to seeing me again, if not about the current investigations and projects of his History studies. I replied too, though I was always more hesitant about writing down my feelings and emotions, feeling slightly like a desperate schoolgirl from teenage novels. This hesitance however disappeared after a few months and though I never wrote as fervid letters as Nicholas, I assured him of my loyalty and affection in my weekly letter. I have all of his letters hidden in the drawer of my desk in the study room: I wonder if they are still there.

            After graduating and finding part-time jobs in a history magazine and as a psychologist in an orphan’s home in a nearby village, we moved into a very cosy small house in the woods. It was my idea and he seemed quite keen on being isolated from the world of materialism: “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care where we live” were his words, but in time, he started changing into a man I didn’t recognise.

            We were almost three years in a relationship when he started to become more possessive: “Where have you been today? You said you’d be home by six, now it’s eight” “Why you wearing pearl earrings to work? Kids barf” and “Our telephone bill came – who does this number belong to?”  Making love was no longer soft caresses and tender kisses: it became a battle of power, where bones and knuckles rubbed against each other mercilessly and painfully. I began locking the door when I was in the shower, as once he tore in and pushed me into love even though it caused us both pain. We argued about the most minor things like who’s making dinner (when before we used to cook together), why isn’t the bin empty (we took turns), which loaf of bread is better (when before we never really cared)… I don’t know if it was the fact that he worked at home and apart from his daily walks around the forest had no contact than me, or if he was jealous of my supposedly more active life: either way, our relationship stopped working. Arguments began in the morning with coffee, disagreements were eaten alongside our afternoon tea instead of biscuits that he eventually refused to bake and before bed, we fought about the minor things that I already mentioned. It was dreadful and hurting, especially when he began criticizing my features, calling me names and mimicking my behaviour. I repeatedly tried to offer him peace – “What about we go out for the night?” “Don’t feel like it” or “There are stars, look! Let’s make a campfire” “Out of wood (because he didn’t chop them)” but unsuccessfully, as he seemingly wanted to do all to irritate me or just wanted to be alone. I asked him one evening if he would like to talk: “Don’t try your psychologist sh*t on me”, he groaned through his teeth. At this point we had quite some money to spend and I thought that travelling would be a good escape to this ordinariness that our relationship was going through. He declined the idea: “Too much work”.  And so I did what I did: I left him, annoyed by his passiveness, irked by his coldness, hurt by his selfishness and confused by his distance. I took all I needed (we were not sleeping in the same room by now) and departed with the plan of “perhaps” returning someday.

I did return and that is why I lie here now, wide awake, recollecting all the things that happened years ago, months ago, days ago, this night, all after a year. Pushing him from me tonight was necessary: how can I revive our relationship that caused me so much pain and confusion when I do not even know if it is worth it? If he still loves me? His pushing me down, taking control of me, reminded me too much of the times when making love was all knuckles and bones – careless, not loving, only desperate for connection that was no longer spiritual or psychological. I pushed him away, thinking: is he still is the young student I fell in love with and wrote love letters to? Can he be the dove-eyed and ever-loving and forgiving being who held his coat above my soaking-wet shoulders, exposing his own to the pouring rain that one summer? I need assurance that we can work – that being together will not be torture, a punishment as it was the last months before my departure. Assurance. Though a part of me wants to leave, the other wants it: assurance of better times…

Will it get it?

Part four

Nicholas

It was soon after seven in the morning when I got myself to get out of bed. I was surprised to notice I was shaking – adrenaline and suspense I believe, from the want to know if she is still there. I wanted to be again assured that she returned – that she is back here, not with me, but near me at least. Being alone for this past year made me more sensitive to odours other than my own; I smelt soft lavender as I crossed the hallway, quietly and carefully, towards the living room. I was both glad and angry to find her on the couch, her silhouette outlined by the thin blanket I reached out for yesterday evening before the contact and the talk. Recollecting the twists of emotions I felt at those moments, I observed her, breathing faintly, her child-like face with the slightly opened mouth and closed eyes with thick eyelashes supported as she lied on her side by her hand, sandwiched between the pillow and her head. I continue to watch her, until this sudden moment when she budged a little bit and shook her head, like if in disagreement with something. The next thing I knew, her eyelids opened and her green eyes met with mine.

            Her face was rosy, probably from the embarrassment and wonder of why I am watching her sleep. She smiled and sat up, sinking her bare feet into the long hairs of the carpet. I watched her, again paralysed by the realization that she is here, but the moment she lifted her eyes my way again, I looked away and went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. The house was silent, though there could be heard the light chippering of sparrows. It was spring and I looked back in her direction to see the bright morning sunshine shine on her; my black shirt contrasted heavily with her pale skin that also stood out from the waterfall of copper hair, otherwise brown. She was looking out, the shirt so big it seemed she wasn’t breathing. I looked at myself – a true mess as on any usual morning: my hair resembling a beaver’s nest, hands and face were stamped by the intense contact with the wrinkly pillow, my boxers peaked excessively out of my pyjama pants… and Lucy, in all her preciousness and fragility, appeared beautiful and natural with stains of sleep around her mouth and eyes, in the light the colour of countryside valleys. What was there not to love about her? If I could forget the year of her absence and her yesterday’s return and our conversation, I would take the chance to hold her long into noon and I would be happy… would I?

            “Fine morning it is” she said into the relative silence and stood up to move into the kitchen. I nodded. Dull talk is better than none at all, I thought to myself. But then, out of nowhere, I said:

            “So was the morning I found myself alone in the house and your luggage missing.”

She pierced me with her eyes, the until-now green, calm valleys suddenly turned angry, raging with a sudden tempest that she must have been keeping locked up in the fluffy white clouds of her mind. All niceness and peace of the morning disappeared; it was a matter of my few words that caused the shouting, hitting of objects, standing-up, turning around, turning back again and more shouting that followed. The birds behind the windows stopped chippering – they either flew away or froze into silence on their tree branch, afraid that a single chirp would cost their lives. I stopped returning her verbal and physical blows, as I realized something I have never thought of (or more of never allowed myself to think) before. We both looked away and the house fell into brief silence. The glass of this lack of sound she broke, saying in a serious voice:

“We’re like two birds now, locked in a cage”, her eyes fixed on the couch, the one on which she slept and on which I failed to get her – a memory that both lowers my self-confidence as a man and freezes my heart due to the lost hope created solely from her return. She looked at me: “Aren’t we?”

It still amazes me how there are moments when our thoughts parallel each other – so similar, so same-timed, so natural! I nodded. I nodded – I agreed to her metaphor that expresses the following message: We do not work. I was truly surprised that I did not begin crying, begging for another chance as I imagined I would. No – I was actually glad she feels that way too. A mutual break-up is always better than a one-way one… Wait: are we going to break? Is that our case?

“I guess this is it” she said, nodding as if she was acting in some low-class drama TV series, the ones we were luckily spared from as we don’t have access to internet nor TV. Suddenly she looked at me:  “We both weren’t happy for some time. We have moved from each other too much and I doubt we could mend the cracks we have between us now. I think we should both move our separate ways.”

I looked at her. “Are you sure that is what you want?”

She seemed surprised, a small curve of a smile forming on one end of her mouth – a smile not of amusement, but of sarcasm more-of. “Did anything of what I said not suit your wants?” I shook my head.

“No. In fact, I completely agree. Perhaps this is the first agreement we had for a long time.” We both smiled a bit, but the sadness of the realization tumbled back on our faces soon afterwards – silence.

“That is well. So, now that that’s agreed on… what with this all?” she motioned with her hands the room, the house. I looked around too, so did she – amazingly, the house seemed so much different from before, knowing that the current agreement not only will ensure a future without her, but also will make living here painful, torturous, a breathing memory of what has been. “I don’t want us to be one of those people who break and leave a mess behind.”

I nodded. “So do I”. Then I knocked on my head:

“I think I got the idea for a farewell that will fulfil the criteria of little chaos”. 

Part 5: Finale.

Nicholas

            Letting go of a person after years of each other’s presence is as difficult as a small child’s detachment from his mother: one cries for ages, strongly and insistently, but with time slowly accustoms to the new life, the one without the other. It took me altogether half a year until I came to the stage of being capable to let someone else in: a female, meaning. I grieved her absence; I yearned for her return; several times I very nearly called her up to say: “Please come back to me”. But I never did – as in one time of emotional soberness I deleted her contact, burned them as I burned our memories that last morning we spent together.

            I still do not completely understand myself, why did I consciously help to our downfall? My intention was not to burn our past to make the future without each other easier, as she understood it. No, it was to make the future easier – with each other! We were not happy because of our memories, our past, it haunted us, dragged, pulled us down and deeper into the water in which we were drowning months before her unwarned depart for foreign lands. The lands of ice and fire, where she lives now, I believe. She said she will move there, that long moment by the emptied house, filled with smoke. There was a flicker of hope and excitement in her eye, an aftermath of the reflection of the strong, all-consuming element that reigned our house a few moments before at its peak. I believe there were a tear or two in her eyes, from the heat or from sadness, I do not know – it remains a mystery to me together with the reason behind her red, swollen eyes after she came out of the bathroom that evening. I guess that it is the mysteries, the uncertainties, the unexplained truths that make me emotionally calm as I am. Nevertheless, the memory of that last day together stays on my mind and remains a thought that reoccurs every day. And no matter how much time passed from the last time I saw her, these memories are as vivid and real as if it all happened just yesterday.

Lucy

            I was glad as well as relieved to hear him agree with me that there is no sense in moving on our relationship. It was surprising too; I expected him to drag me to him, nailing his fingers deep into my skin like that one time when I said that I want to be some time alone. “No, you’re not going anywhere – you’re mine!” he growled that time, looking superiorly down at me as I shrunk in fear and shock from his sudden possessiveness. No, he was not dominant this time; in fact, he seemed to have supported the idea of separation. All the more surprised was I when he said that he has “an idea” about a dignified farewell. It makes me smile, though makes me sad as well, as that morning, a new chapter without him began. But then... for me, a chapter without him began with my new affair with travelling. This affair as I call it was carried on after the separation with him and is still taking place…

Nicholas

            I led her towards the cupboard we bought from a local woodcutter; a dark-brown chestnut storage with drawers that secreted official documents, old notes from university, posters from our old rooms at school… and photographs. We used to have them taped randomly around the living room and in the hallway – did she notice the empty spaces and light-yellow stains on the white walls? – and after her departure, in a fury I threw them all into the back of the largest drawer of this cupboard. I sensed her standing behind me, not too close, not too far. I swept the photographs out, onto the floor; she watched the process that took me a while. There were 3 years of photographs at least, I swept continuously them out of the dust and darkness into the light. Once done, I breathed deeply and we looked at each other:

            “What now?” she looked at me. “So? Photographs”

            “Yes, photographs. Of me and you. Do you want them?” I asked. She froze.

            “Um… well…”

            “No, you don’t. They express the memories of our past; remember this one?” I lifted one of the rectangles of glossy paper. “We were half-drunk and running home, afraid a thunderbolt would strike us as we believed alcohol would attract it. James took the photograph, he was well sober – as always, really. Or this one,-“ I took another one between my fingers. “Here we celebrated our graduation by sleeping for twelve hours non-stop – I think it was at your place, your mum thought we were dead so she took a shot every hour as a documentation of our living existence”. She smiled.

            “Yes, memories. They all happened so long ago! And this one? God,” she giggled, pointing at one photo. “Look at your hair! “Goin’ green” – literally!” I smiled.

            “It was cool to go green. I bought a bike – see here?”

            “A bike? No, that was a scooter, you dope! See? A motor. An anti-ecological motor that needed fuel! Not green.”

            “I’ll give you that one. Nevertheless – look, I had this idea: it may sound crazy, but I think it is sensitive enough to our situation.” She looked up at me with interest. I reached into a drawer and took out a lighter. “Let’s burn them-let’s burn our past”.

Lucy

I settled down in Iceland, in Reykjavik and though I doubted it at first really (I don’t like changes), the world continued to turn. I live in a derelict cottage on the edge of the capital city and in silence I live here; I appreciate the silence, the calmness and often I spend hours looking into the distance in the middle of a long walk and my mind drifts. Sometimes it returns to my current job as a part-time English teacher at a local secondary school and to my students, sometimes it roams like a bird above the volcanoes and sea waves under the ice, hunting for fish, other times I imagine running through a flower-covered field in Ireland or walking by the Thames in ever-crowded London, watching civilization of all cultures pass me by… a few times a random villager interrupted me from my dreaming and broke the thread of imagination and memories that I was weaving like a spider over the cloud-covered skies, but the locals are very friendly, so I do not mind. Instead, I smile and look up at them and listen to them chatting away at me in their language, not wondering at the meanings behind their words, but reflecting the beauty of the unknown. I enjoy being alone and having a partly secret identity; people here know my profession and first name and that is all. It is nice to observe everything happening without having to get involved – to see fish getting caught without pulling the net of water, to hear a child playing about without having to worry about his safety, to watch the skies turn from light to dark blue without moving.

Nicholas

            She looked at me with shock: “What?!” I nodded enthusiastically, confident.

            “Why not? Look, it is our past that locks us up from each other – only by burning them, by letting them out of this cage of the world will we have room for new ones. It’s easy:” And I reached for the first photograph and set fire to one of its corners. It then fell down onto the other ones and in domino effect, the element spread. Our big smiling faces melted in the heat, graduation hats burned, drunken night outs smelled of ash, sunset kisses set real fire, green summer landscapes of Cornwall turned grey and old…

Lucy

And sometimes in silent lonely moments, I think of Nicholas. I weep out of nostalgia occasionally when I get a déjà-vu of something to do with him, feeling cruel and ruthless as well as dirty from sin for causing him pain and letting him go when it was so obvious that he wanted us to go on, despite his confidence when our past burned in front of us. 

Nicholas

            We watched the photographs burn, gradually the fire intensified to the point that our eyes began to water. We looked at each other through the smoke and she reached out for a flask of water – and killed the element’s growing strength and rage. There was only ash left and I swept them onto an old newspaper. She seemed to know what I wanted to do and smiled encouragingly. Yes, she nodded. Yes.

            We dispersed the ashes, our ashes from room to room, from wall to wall; no place in the house was spared of our past, of our purification. She found more photographs and put them on fire; she then added the old posters from our university rooms and the fire grew. She watched them deform with a sinister smile and with a sudden wake of responsibility she emptied a jar of water on it. More ash, more scattering. We added carpets, wooden kitchen tools, pillows, university books to our collection of burned objects of the Past, widening our repertoire. More ash, more scattering. More objects. More ash. More smoke, more memories turning into dust, miniature particles. We began laughing, enjoying ourselves; she began singing old folk songs as she skipped around the fire like a night creature by moonlight. Soon before long, we were left with nothing but a smog-filled house, empty of things both memorial and physical. We looked at each other and smiled.

            “I guess this is it.” I grinned. She responded with a smirk.

            “We’re not done yet. Pack your things.” We did, in a matter of a few minutes. She took off her shoes as she got her few clothes and material things and put them into her yesterday’s bag; I did the same. I noticed her disappear into the living room and returning with a stack of envelopes in her hand. I wanted to ask about them, but didn’t. 

Lucy

I cry for myself, for changing so much these past few years when before I swore to myself I would never let him go – that he is the one for me and without him, my life is doomed. Now my life is partly dependent on Nature itself and by living to sources of potential danger as close as I do, I live every day to the fullest. 

Nicholas

We got out of the house and looked at it; a construction almost as empty as when we bought it. A construction that now had now meaning for us. I looked at her; she responded the same way and smiled.

            “I guess this is it.” She said. “Do you know what you’re going to do now?”

            I looked away. “I have quite some money saved in the bank. I’ll move somewhere else and… and live.” Silence.

            “That sounds good. I’ll do the same. By the way,-“she took out the stack of envelopes out of her bag. “I want you to keep these.” I questioned their identity with a look. “Letters you sent me when we were studying. I-I want you to keep them.” Why? I asked her with a look again. “They’re more a part of you than of me. I doubt you kept my letters.” I looked guiltily away. She’s right. “see? Here, keep them, do whatever you want to do with them. Burn them, eat them, whatever – they’re yours, here.” She pushed them into my hand and as she did it, she kissed the top of my hand, softly, looking into my eyes. “You know I love you. I always will, but this is the best for us both.” She breathed in. “Farewell, Nicholas. May you live well.”

            Those were her last words – I watched her disappear into the brownness of the forest, looking into her direction even long after she was gone. Now I regret I haven’t said anything back – not even a dull “You too”. Not even that. But… but silence is dignified too. As Shakespeare says: “Silence is virtue”.  And by all I believe in, I hope her future will bring her better things than what we two would have.

Lucy

I dream, I learn, I love. I love this new life, this new chapter where I depend on myself solely and I hope that Nicholas feels the same way about his new life. I wish him happiness and an understanding and loyal companion that will make him as loving and thoughtful man as I met him. I guess it was our being together that made us partial monsters, partial cold-blooded sadistic selfish fools. It was the fault of us both that we enclosed ourselves into the shell that we lived in and here, I live with such space and freedom of mind that I do not need a man by my side. I live alone.

With a healthy mind, a healthy heart.

A life of fire in the land of ice.

THE END