To feel

      I glance through the French windows of the ninth floor: a dark, velvety haze has spread over the roofs, the streets, and the lights of the houses have mixed with the stars. I open the window and the noise of cars rushes into the room, mixed with the night city air. The megapolis sighs tiredly, and I sigh after it. My eyes stick together; I lean on the cool metal railing and enjoy the light wind ruffling my wet hair.       Either half a minute or half an hour passes, when the bathroom door slams and I tear myself away from the railing. Just at the moment when I turned around, she hangs up a towel to dry and casually throws clothes on a chair. Each of her movements gives off some elusive, tired grace, and I watch, unable to tear myself away.       “We’re watching, right?” she asking, crawling onto the sofa. I nod and crawl in next to her: the laptop is already on a chair nearby. The blankets and pillowcases are cool: I am half-lying, leaning on the armrest of the sofa. She stretches, finally sits up, and yawns.       “If you want, we can sleep” I shrug. A stupid suggestion — I know she will refuse. We don’t have much time left to waste on sleep. She turns her head and her eyebrows rise indignantly.       “I’ll sleep on the plane,” she snapped, crossing her arms, “or at home. I’ll never be so tired as to sleep before leaving. That’s not why I came here.”       I smile. My soul feels warm, as if after two years of wandering, I’m finally home. A feeling of calmness filled me with sweet poison for a whole week. All the problems that were drowning me retreated for a while, collapsed to the size of an atom, to explode in my stomach like a nuclear explosion as soon as we said goodbye. A time bomb that might kill me. That’s the price for a week’s worth of happiness. But I don’t regret it one bit.       “Can I lie down?” she asks. I nod, and feel her head on my shoulder. She can do anything. The fine line of friendship blurred long ago, the constant jokes about a married couple no longer seem so absurd. I don’t care who we are to each other. As long as she’s near, I feel happy. And I know that I will always be allowed to be as close as possible. She loves me. Although my tongue doesn’t turn to call it that loudly.       Thoughts buzz, spin and crash against the walls of my skull. For the last week, I haven’t slept more than three hours a day and my exhausted brain, accustomed to rest, is screaming in pain. My head is heavy, cottony and just trying to fall and roll across the floor like a bowling ball. My eyes are dazzled by the bright screen.       “…Most of the week we were Ozzie and Harriet…”       I play with her hair almost automatically.       “Let’s get married,” I suggest in a tone as if this topic is no more important than breakfast, “well, not right now, but in a couple of years. We’ll move to France, rent an apartment, get a cat, go to the bakery on weekends and eat croissants… To hell with romance. I want to come home knowing that I’m loved and awaited. I want to read books and watch movies together, just like now, cook breakfasts… Laugh and cry. You are the person I would trust, in a pinch, to decide whether to disconnect me from life support or not. Isn’t that called love?”.       She throws her head back and looks at me with her chameleon eyes through the rectangular lenses of her glasses. Light eyelashes, barely noticeable freckles, thin eyebrows… I catch every charming detail that she doesn’t like so much and tries to hide with makeup. My heart sank — in just five hours the plane will take her away, take her away from me. We won’t see each other for months, maybe even years. She smiles in surprise and I, through a lump in my throat, smile weakly in response.       “Better somewhere in the provinces,” she shrugs.       “It will be far to go to university,” I sigh, “but we can rent a country house and relax there on weekends. And after finishing studies we can move there for good…”       “Okay,” she yawns, “you’re okay with me just being a housewife, right? I’ll wash, clean, cook…”       “Deal,” I chuckle, and my lips spread into a wide smile. We laugh, but our souls ache, because these are nothing more than childhood dreams. It won’t happen. In ten years she’ll get married, and I’ll be sitting at her wedding. Or she’ll be sitting at mine. And we’ll continue to joke about the failed marriage with nostalgic sadness. No one will be hurt. I’ll be happy for her, and she’ll be happy for me. But now, with her lying on my shoulder, the world has collapsed into a small room and the future seems unrealistically distant.       Maybe in this future that I think about a lot, that I worry about so much, I don’t exist at all.