Rough Draft of (a) Future

Daniel, after a few steps we’ll stop in the centre of the deserted lobby. After the padded darkness of the streets, the brilliance of the crystal candelabra will be a harsh awakening. A bored night-clerk will lift his head only for a second, then return to his dignified dozing. Our timid distances will be beyond suspicion. No, we won’t strike him as illicit lovers trying to sneak past him to a room they’re not supposed to share. Yet, so deeply, both will wish we were.

This will be the end of the evening, we’ll know it, as we’ll both picture my empty hotel room, waiting upstairs, for me alone. Neither of us will want to leave, though neither of us will know how to say it.

As we’ll wait there, unknown seas and skies will travel your regard. What are you waiting for? we’ll both think, almost afraid to breathe. Then, you’ll reach for my hand.

We’ll stand like that for what’ll feel like an eternity, mere inches from one another, our warmth concentrated in the touching parts of our hands, our finger tips electric, the music of our hearts sweetly deafening.

We should be in each other arms.

“Breakfast,” you’ll say when the least expected, half-timidly, half-eagerly, while hope will be bubbling inside you, sending new sparkles to your eyes. “Let’s have breakfast together.”

“Now?”

You’ll hesitate for just a second, a tiny smile lifting the corners of your lips. It’ll be after midnight so that wouldn’t be such a farfetched idea. We’ll laugh and just slightly feel more at ease.

“Tomorrow morning,” you’ll say quickly. “Early. Very early.”

Yes, tomorrow. You’ll pick me up, that’s what you’ll say. At eight o’clock. Good night for now (my darling – only in my mind).

It’ll be in a blur. Our hands slowly slipping from each other. No kiss. Not now. Not yet. When?

And then, I’ll barely sleep in this hotel room that is meant only as an antechamber, some sort of a launching platform for a whole future of us together. An unknown, sweet, scary future.

For a while I’ll watch the city, the fog strengthening its grasp on it. But I’ll have to sleep. I will be tired. I’ll want to be beautiful for you.




The phone will ring in the morning but it won’t wake me up, I’ll be up already. Your voice, so close to my ear and so painfully far at the same time, will scare me. But you will not have called to cancel. You’ll be impatient.

“Take a taxi,” you’ll say. “I’m cooking breakfast…”

You’ll be waiting for me on the pavement. I’ll see you from a distance, your blue sweater distinct among the grey river of suits, your wheat coloured hair catching the early light.

Just to see you again will make me want to shout, and sing, and cry, and laugh. (I love you, Daniel…) The morning will be glorious – the fog a memory so distant that it will seem unreal - and that will bring a new boldness to our thoughts, our gestures.

You’ll open the door for me, before even the taxi will have stopped, and pull me out of it. You’ll pay the driver, offering a bank note much bigger than the fare, without even looking – not to be inconsiderate to him but because you’ll be so happy for what he’s brought you – and then you’ll take me in your arms as if you’ve always done that. With a gentle fierceness. Some passers-by will glance at us annoyed – we’ll be hindering their hurried steps, their hypocritical prudery.

“Breakfast’s ready,” you’ll say, laughter simmering behind your stern, tentative expression, surfacing only in the smiling turquoise of your eyes. Your lips will brush my cheek, sharing some of that powdered sugar you’ll have on your jaw, but only for a second, rather clumsily.

No matter, the harm will be done. Tendrils of fire will spread from that blushing spot, faster than I could try to fight them.

“I’m starved,” I’ll say, taking you by the waist, hanging onto you, to hide my shyness, my nose in your shirt’s collar, where your arm around my neck will hold me gently. “Mmmm, you smell of sweet things…”

(I could eat you, Daniel – only in my mind.)

“Pancakes, brioches, French toast, pear omelette…”

How playfully proud you’ll be of your cooking prowess.

“No full English breakfast, then?” I will say, in mock disappointment.

“Maybe…”

We’ll climb the steps to your flat, holding each other and holding hands – a warm bizarre weaving.

In the kitchen, the sun will greet us through immense bay windows, and a symphony of aromas - a perfect concerto of vanilla and coffee, of orange and cinnamon, of roasted almonds - will do a perfect dance for our senses.

Hands still entwined, we’ll stop and then you’ll turn to me. Your turquoise eyes will sing, and laugh, and dance, and hope, and, somehow, in the next instant – almost unknowingly - the space between us will disappear. A chaste, soothing embrace, stirred by the drumming of our hearts, by your lips pressing in turn on my eyelids, my cheekbones, my nose, my forehead, by the words you’ll speak softly – at last – in my mouth.

“I love you…”

We’ll start with an English breakfast then, my sweet Brit…