*
It was December 30th, and I was gearing up to get married, though I'd never really wanted to. Norica was on edge: she'd tripped over the cats twice, kept bumping into door frames, tried on things that no longer fit, and marked each failure with a sigh. Her waist was enveloped in folds. Her belly, almost at term, crisscrossed with veins and stretch marks, her large bottom, milky legs, thighs stuck together—all of it made me love her more than ever before, in a more protective, peaceful way: "If you ever leave me, I'll die."
I'd asked her in jest shortly before finding out she was pregnant. It was that sweet distance that called us back. After 12 years together, nothing surprised us anymore. The good was tinged with grey, the bad no longer bothered us, we were us, functioning. So, after polishing off a bottle of spritz and munching on octopus tentacles on a terrace in Larnaca, after laughing together again at systematic tasks and shopping lists, after groping each other under the table and getting drunk without a care, I asked her:
"Do you want to marry me, huh?"
Her smile was sweeter than a dream. Though we both loathed the idea of a wedding and everything that came with it, she said "Yes." We were overturned in time: young again, believing again, wanting to hook up like in college, wanting to believe in simple things. Together, anew.
We wanted all relatives to keep their distance, to just stop by the city hall and then take off into the world, but it didn't work out. Three from her family came, five from mine, plus the kids we stopped counting.
"Barbu, are we moving this year? Or don't you plan to make it to your own wedding?"
"What an awful word. Should I wear my Levi's shirt?"
"No, please, I can't stand to see that shirt anymore. Wear that navy shirt."
"But I don't feel good in that."
"But I like it."
"Norico, what a name your mother gave you! Didn't you know I dress as I want at my wedding?"
I returned from the bedroom with a wide smile, dressed in one of the thirty Levi's shirts she was tired of. As soon as I appeared in the hallway, she burst into laughter: "I bet you'll end up sleeping dressed like that." As we were about to leave, her phone rang.
"We meet at 12, I've told you three times. I'm not nervous, but I've already told you three times. Nothing, we just want to go to the park a bit. Yes, in the park in December. It's not cold, and yes, we have time to get there, we won't leave you hanging at the city hall."
We sighed in unison, then took a full lap of Tineretului Park. 3.7 kilometers. Although we were surrounded by golden light, we walked looking at the asphalt. I knew every crack. The paths were empty, frozen, everything was grey and brown. We talked a lot about the weather and how we would treat each other after having a child. We swore not to give up on sex, on travels, on breaking into Dristor in the middle of the night on Easter when all the fools go to church. It was about us, and we were always different. We shook hands and headed to the big event. Norica's head was frozen, and my hands were cold.
We returned in front of the apartment block, where we took an Uber to the Civil Status Office. Luckily, no one had arrived yet. We managed to kiss briefly before my mother-in-law appeared – noisy, grandparents – frozen, my sister – emotional, her husband and kids – shy, my mother – depressed, my father – sweaty and awkward.
I was a bit to moderately agitated, constantly moving some flower bouquets trying to please everyone, but especially Norica, who was stiff, massaging her own shoulders and dozing off on any chair, threshold, or stair she found on her way. The whole ceremony lasted at most 20 minutes. Enough to take about 50 photos, all blurred. On Sundays when I drink alone in the kitchen, I still wonder if it was, somehow, a sign.
We decided to go to Naser. Most turned up their noses ("No sarmale?"). There, preparations for the New Year's Eve were underway. The restaurant was empty, but we had a table reserved. We ordered everything on the menu, but no one felt good: they complained about the potatoes, the kebab, the heavily made-up waitresses, the sound checks that brutally interrupted any conversation. I prayed we'd end this feast without bloodshed. By ten o'clock, we called it a night and, since no one seemed to feel very well, people left quickly, willingly and without being forced by anyone. I fell asleep on the couch, to a Netflix series. Norica in the bedroom, quietly, next to the cats.
**
For our first date, I'd rehearsed a lie so many times I'd started to believe it myself: "I'm going to H&M to get some socks and underwear, then on Calea Griviței to look for brushes and large canvases on frames."
With a Lucky Strike at the corner of my mouth, I was ready to take life by the horns. Although it was just past eight in the evening, Ioanid Park was deserted. I sat on the third bench from the right, close enough to be found, far enough to see her first. I continued to measure time by rubbing my wedding ring. Anda had a duck-like sway, small ankles. She wore a white dress with thin straps and tiny flowers, two palms above her knees. She wasn't wearing a bra. She stopped three steps from the entrance, looking for me. I saw her for the second time. The first had been a month ago, when I went out with the guys to a Nick Cave concert at Romexpo; it was the first night out since Norica had given birth. I remember craning my neck after her, but I couldn't catch her eye, she was digging in a backpack, searching for something vitally important: a pack of tissues. Three liters of Guinness later, we bumped into each other at the exit. She asked for my number, and I gave it to her. She texted first, the next day over coffee. I didn't want to reply. I was trying to focus on our daughter, smelling of milk and flowers, on Norica, devoured alive by baby blues and hormones going haywire. The slower I responded, the more she persisted, writing more. My image of her was now completed from messages and pictures of nipples and lips, thrown in only see once on WhatsApp.
Approaching me, she seemed much more beautiful than I remembered. With a perfectly round and purple mouth ("Let's kiss"), she sat next to me as if she'd done it a thousand times before.
"What are you doing?"
"Here, in the park. You?"
"Me too. I have to meet a gentleman."
"Come on, don't drive me crazy. Are you allowed out at this time?"
"Are you joking?"
"No, darling. But tell me, did you get cold when you saw me?"
"No, why?"
I pointed to her chest, then we both started laughing. My phone, beginning to vibrate in my pocket, saved me. I knew who was calling, without looking.
"Hello, yes. No, I haven't gotten lost."
I stood up, apologizing silently. I filled the seconds of the conversation with an absent back-and-forth, while Anda started to bite the skin off her middle finger. I ended the conversation with an OK, hoping it was the only thing she heard. As I turned back to her, my gaze fell empty, next to the beige suede Campers Norica had given me as a gift.
"Do you have to go?"
"I think so. Sorry," I said, as I fiddled with my phone a bit more.
"Hey!"
She grabbed me by the neck and pulled me towards her. A warm tongue touched mine. Eyes closed, breath mixed, her fingers wandering over my neck, under the collar of my shirt. Caught in a trance, I slid my hand under her slightly open dress. Her left breast fit perfectly in my hand.
I left there with her numb. I spat three times on the sidewalk, waiting for bus 381, although it wasn't in my nature to do that. That night, cut by stoplights and honks, I knew there was no escape: I entered the house with a heavy heart, rehearsing all possible answers to impossible questions. I was ready to lie, to play hurt, to appear weak and helpless. But the girls were listening to Mozart's 21st and were just squealing out of the bathroom. I couldn't imagine that, at 40, you could still say "Hi!" with half a mouth. Norica served it to me short, avoiding my gaze.
"I asked you not to stay out long so I could get ready for tomorrow's meeting."
"Yeah, sorry, I totally forgot. Let daddy kiss you. I was looking aimlessly through the store, I have no idea how time passed."
"At least wash your hands first. Ah, and what did you buy?"
"Uh, I didn't like anything, just junk."
"Such interesting junk that you forgot to come home. Anyway. You put the baby to bed tonight, I really have work to do."
"Yeah, of course, how could I not put my little one to bed?"
"I asked you to buy some bananas and yogurt for tomorrow. Where did you put them?"
I'd forgotten what she told me when she called. I could hear my heart in my temples, and all I wanted was to drag Anda into the bushes in the park, not to be here. I knew I was sinking, I knew where I was going. I knew these things never end well.
"I forgot, forgive me."
"What the hell is wrong with you? It takes you ten minutes to process any question?"
"I'm in a shitty mood, I couldn't get any drawing done today."
"I'm glad it's about you again. I'll put the child to bed, don't bother."
Norica slammed the door behind her, it was exactly ten o'clock. I poured myself a glass of Gitana Saperavi, then tried to take off my wedding ring, while chain-smoking the last three cigarettes from a pack of Lucky Strike.
"What the hell are you looking for, beautiful doll, with someone whose hands swell when he drinks and smokes too much?"
***
When I turned the key in the lock, I realized I hadn't eaten in two days. I wasn't hungry, even though I was carrying a Mega bag with bananas, nuts, and too much wine. I was shitting myself with fear – I didn't know what awaited me beyond the door.
I entered and opened the windows. It smelled like summer. From the windowsill, the Inter seemed to have 50 floors, outlined by a devilish moon. A bomb to be here as a bachelor: a fuck-and-leave studio, where it smells only of tobacco and cheap perfume, never of diapers or moussaka.
It was a night of lava with sticky air, and I was already limp. Since the night in Ioanid, everything had gone haywire. We continued with drinks in the Irish Pub three districts away from where we lived. Subway mouths, park benches, groping, promises, thousands of messages and pictures from her.
I took a cold shower. I filled my hands with soap and left my wedding ring on the bathroom shelf, next to a Nivea shower gel and shaving foam. I wanted to brush my teeth, but the drain was clogged, so I left the sink half-full of cloudy water, saliva, and toothpaste. While looking for two wine glasses, I realized where I was. An Airbnb with a double bed, white linens, a long desk with curved legs, and many unnecessary details, a makeshift mini-bar, an oval mirror with a wooden frame, and two vintage postcards – one with the Eiffel Tower, another with a promenade in Barcelona. Glasses wrapped in foil, two plastic and two glass. I came out of the shower naked and drew the curtains, so the neighbors wouldn't see what animals just out of the forest look like. I threw myself on the bed.
"I've arrived, everything's OK, I'm waiting for you."
I also sent a message to Norica: "The drinking is dragging on, I'll stay here overnight." She replied: "OK."
I had brought a Bluetooth speaker with me. I turned it on softly, Fela Kuti – Zombie, and thought about what the little one would make of afrobeat and African jazz. I calmed myself with the thought that she would learn. I heard the elevator door. Silence, then the screeching of the entrance door. Foreign sounds: more imagining than knowing. I felt as if thieves were entering my house and would steal everything.
"Boo! What's up?"
"Hello, doll. I took a shower, waiting for you."
"What's with the noise?"
"It's called music – Fela Kuti. See, I got some snacks, if you're hungry, they're on the hall table."
"Later. This place is nice. You chose well."
"It's a piss, the sink is already clogged, but Magheru looks cool. Actually, I'd stay here, but I'd totally redo it."
"Are we a bit agitated?"
"No, come on, go take a shower and come to bed."
She kissed me on the forehead, took off her lilac dress – wearing something extremely pornographic, with buttons and tiny white dots, then entered the bathroom. I saw her body in the mirror for a few seconds. I thought that Norica was like this at the beginning, but then I got sad remembering how we both aged.
"I brushed my teeth in the shower cabin, I made a mess everywhere."
"Don't worry, we'll give them a bad review, and that's it."
"No, I feel sorry, the house is nice."
"You're talking nonsense, come here."
When she came out of the shower, she smelled of milk, lavender, and mandarins, a schoolgirl pretending to be a woman wearing her mother's high heels. She was well wrapped, only her white, Asian shoulders and knees drawn inward were visible. She jumped onto the bed on her feet and let the wet towel fall on me. From here, she seemed older than 19, as big as the Inter, I kept falling off it again and again. She licked her fingertips, then slowly inserted a finger inside.
I pulled her by the other hand, and she fell on her knees over me. We kissed, and then I twisted a lit cigarette in her mouth. She stretched like a cat towards the window. She pushed the curtains aside and let the moonlight split me in two. She squeaked, writhed, made dimples, and slipped through my fingers. I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed her by the neck and pushed her face into the pillow, slightly lifted her hips with one arm, and entered her forcefully. She moaned. I pulled her hair up, then sucked her left nipple – I felt like a calf being fed. I threw her back on the bed. I caressed her back and buttocks, her skin was silk. She pressed her hand against my thigh. She whispered something I didn't understand, but I didn't ask her to repeat it. I wasn't thinking, I was entering and exiting like a madman. Without conscience, I unfolded her body with such force that she screamed. A thread of saliva flowed from her mouth, shining in the moonlight. Everything was about to explode. As I climaxed inside her, I wished for only one thing: may she never grow up.
****
I was in love and on the verge of divorce.
I slept a lot, ate little, returned from Lidl with anything but what was on the list, believing that once free, she would give up all the kids following her on TikTok and come to live with me alone.
Norica hated me, she just wanted to hear that I was leaving voluntarily; anyway, she wouldn't have had the strength to do that. I was determined to leave, I had torn through Avocatnet. ro and all the mommy forums, I knew everything about braiding hair and joint custody. With one foot over the abyss, I received the message that would change everything:
"Barbu, I had a mega nasty conversation with my mom. I told her you're married, that you have a child, it turned into a bad scandal, and I almost got hit. Mom says we should stop, end it, fuck, that we have different lives, that it's more important for me to pass my exams... Don't look for me anymore, that's it. Maybe it's not our time now."
Although it was Sunday, my favorite day of the week, I knew: I had never been more pathetic than in the minutes, hours, or even days that followed. I cursed her, pitied her, and begged her to stay. I secretly blamed her for being too young and not knowing her own mind. I promised her money for Converse, shawarma, cola, jeans, and college books. I wasn't a man, I couldn't see where I was going. The end of the year was fading into fog, just like her smell, falling asleep every night believing she hadn't existed, in fact.
A gipsy woman selling bunches of lavender tied with strings reminded me of the night in the Airbnb at Inter. After we had sex, she rested her head in the crook of my arm and served me an "I love you." Smooth and simple, without knowing what she was saying. I didn't believe her. Not because she wasn't sincere, but because adults don't say that stupid thing even if they feel it.
"Stop it, little one, it's stupid."
"What, I can't say what I feel?! I'll say whatever I want."
"Yes, but we've only known each other for a few months."
"So, what? Do you have a book about when to say 'I love you' and when not?"
The days she didn't write to me sent me back to the Christmas dinners when my parents forced us to eat together at the same time, whether we were hungry or not. Caltaboș. Sarmale. A lump of frozen brain, rolled in breadcrumbs and egg, sizzling in a bath of oil. Me, small, with big eyes, behind the door frame, drooling, not knowing whether to dive into the gifts or the fry-up first. Sitting at the table, without time or watch, face to face with a plate full of steaming brain: it all started with a mouthful of desire. Then the second, the third, then gobbling, then nausea, then stuffing after nausea. Then the lemon was sprinkled all over and started all over again. So, what's to be done? You forget. And how do people forget? I don't want to hear about time, I'm too old to waste time until I forget everything.
During that period, I checked my phone ten times a minute. I obsessively sent messages and likes just to startle thinking I was receiving something from her. I went to bed at five in the morning or at eight in the evening, without any rule or sense, I wrote to her in blocks, without receiving a reply.
"Fuck your fixed ideas, tell her I'm divorcing, and that's it, it's not like I'm selling heroin in Ferentari to buy diamonds for my wife."
"Seriously, that's it? That's your great love?"
"Tell me, did you finally pass your exams, did you come to your senses?"
"And how's that beautiful ass of yours? Who scratches you like me, tell the truth."
"If you ever see me outside, cross the street, I swear I'll run you over."
And so on, until another Sunday passed, and another, and another. Among all the nights drenched in apathy, only one remained alive. It was late and a black lint detached from my navel floated through the bathtub. I was reading "A Tale of Love and Darkness" by Amos Oz, feeling things for big boys. I had barricaded myself in the bathroom with Brian Eno – Motion in field and was smoking like in college with the top window open, even though I knew what scandal followed. Norica entered for a round at the WC, but everything was so charged that she just wiped herself, washed her hands, and asked me something out of politeness, without looking at me. She left, trying not to slam the door. The door that delimited two worlds. One real, where it smelled of moussaka, and the TV was yelling on Digi24. And another where 40-year-old criminals fall into pussy and still believe in soulmates. Her world and mine. I was about to doze off when my phone vibrated, ready to slip into the bathtub: ”Psst, hey there. Are u there?”