Sultry, shimmering, slanted low, sol banks its blaze, retreats. She gazes blind to waning rays and idly flicks her hand past pale organza curtains. Feather light they waft as waves, undulating, flowing in shadows lifting, shifting, melting to gold.

Wistful, she pauses, stroking a finger, eyes lit in silent plea: seal my secrets within thy fold for I am adrift, in pain. Hunger gnaws her belly as gentian haze sweeps a mantle, soft and slow, o’er her weary soul.

Aching yearnings mingle and mix and meld, roiling into madness, uncertainty. She thought he might …

Sweet susurrations, bell tones jar and jangle, throbbing beats, lightheaded she grasps her lifeline. Murmurs: deep, throaty, hesitant. Breathless sighs beat back the fear, racing, chasing, air alive with promise. He pauses, would she …? She pauses, oh yes …

She loves the night, cooling to chocolatey silk, melting, pinpricks ablaze to fade to teasing haze, slithering, soundless screams of joy, ease down, ease down, sweet slumber sequesters her senses … adrift, all is still.

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Anne believed cunnilingus did everything for girls. Her innocence just kept letting men’s nervous oral preambles’ quiet release soothe tensions, unleashing virginal, wanton, x-rated youthful zeal.

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Alone by choice, destiny enters, fates gather, hidden– insidious, justifying kissing lustful mouths. No! Our pain quivers unbidden, rendering souls to unspeakable vilification, with xanthocomics yearning zendalets.

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“Anyone back?” called Danielle, easing forward.

Getting her inside Jen’s kitchen left me nervous, outside, pacing. “Quicker!”

“Really, sweetie. Trust us.”

“Verily.” Wishing Xanex yielded zzzzzzz’s.

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A biblical Christian deejay entertained forty Greeks. Hymns inspired Jesus’ kingdom. Lovely moments.
Noise overtook peacefulness quickly. Redemption, salvation, theocratic unity vanished watching xanthocomic yodelling Zoroastrians.

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Anger became chilling doubt. Eleven fucking gunshots. Had I just killed Louis? Most nights our private quibbles revived some tensions. Underestimated wondrous Xanax, you Zephyr.

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Almost beautiful, casually distant, elegant flattery. Growing hasty, I just know longing. My nemesis, our pulse quickening reaction still taunts unabashed voyeurs. We’re xiphoid, young, zealous.

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Allison balked, churlish, desperate. Every finger gnarled, helpless in joints, knuckles locked, motionless.

None of Paul’s quiet reasoning satisfied, too unwieldy – vacuous words, xeric, yielding zilch.

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Anna borg cederhouden dodenmaskers en feestelijk gekleurde heiligenbeeldjes in Jusses kast.

Lollige maar nogal onbeduidende prullaria, quasispirituele rommel, slappe troep uit verre werelddelen.

X-factorloze yogibende.

Zinloos.

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Vandaag zat ik onder een tegel. Ik had behoefte aan een plekje voor mij alleen en ben uiteindelijk daar terecht gekomen; een losliggende tegel in een verzakt gedeelte van een voetpad. Ik had een paar wormen en pissebedden verwacht en misschien wel een enkele oorwurm, maar er zat niks. Heerlijk. Zodra het begon te regenen werd me duidelijk waarom. Al het water verzamelde zich boven en onder deze tegel en zakte op het diepste punt verder de grond in. Ik zakte langzaam maar zeker mee tot ik uiteindelijk uitkwam in het grondwater. Daar dobber ik nu nog steeds. Zo nu en dan passeer ik een andere ziel die ook niets liever wilde dan vandaag even alleen zijn, teruggetrokken onder een tegel. We groeten elkaar beleefd en verder houdt hier gelukkig iedereen zijn mond.

=======================================

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She belonged to another – a partner in dance, perhaps more. But he wasn’t here … and I was.

I took her hand and led her to the large window in the bedroom. The drapes were drawn back and the snow came down like a single sheet of white satin, wavering and shimmering. I moved behind her and gathered her in my arms. She leaned against me, breathing shallow and fast. I let my hands wander along her bare shoulders and down her long, graceful arms. She’d reached behind me and stroked my thighs, the heat of her hands burning through the wool and heating my skin with friction and desire. I backed up and began unlacing the red ribbon from the braid, taking my time, making her stand and wait in anticipation. When her hair fell free, I pulled it up and back, fanning it out and burying my face in its subtle floral fragrance.

I led her to the bed and sat her on the edge. My hands savored the buttery feel of soft leather as she held up one leg, then the other, for me to pull the boots free. The pants were slick and silky and warm to the touch as I picked her up, hiking her onto my hips, and she gripped my waist with strong dancer’s legs. I eased her back into an arch, hair floating free, and swung her in a graceful arc. She came up on a deep breath, her eyes closed, face serene … beautiful. I set her down, working on the laces on the bustier, in no hurry. I walked around her slowly, hips swiveling, doing the walk-glide she’d showed me; and she moved into me, following with a sensual sweep of her hips, holding her arms above her head, inviting me to remove the last of the lacing. I slid the leather away and dropped it onto the floor where it fell with a soft thump.

She moved into a tango, wrapping her leg around my back, slipping her body along mine, down, then up. What little control I had left was going, going, gone. I swept her in my arms and lay her on the bed. We were in uncharted territory now. I felt her hesitate, a slight winkling of fear, and I kissed it away as best I could.

I stayed through Christmas night. We ordered in, Thai one night, hoagies the next. She cried when I left. I kissed away the tears, told her I’d see her the next day, and when she shut the door, I backed into the wall and felt the bottom drop out of my stomach.

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In the nightclub, the flashing lights and blaring music pulsed through me so strong the prickle on the back of my neck dulled to the coolness of sweat. I downed one, two, three, and they burned down my throat and made me woozy and happy until the fourth made me stagger to the bathroom and gag into a toilet. Then, vomit on my chin and eyes red in the mirror, I could hear the voice in my head again. I went out and downed another.

I felt a hand catch me; I pulled my arm away and kept dancing. The warm, smoky air was hard to breathe, so I left.

Outside, neon blurred into lines and headlights shone too brightly. I swayed, and steadied myself against the brick of the closest building. People walked past me, laughing and talking like I wasn’t there.

I slid to the pavement and leaned back against the wall, legs splayed and head lolling. I turned my head and puked again.

Fingers touched my shoulder, but nobody was there. I batted the hand away.

Somebody swept the hair off my face, away from my eyes; held a glass of water to my lips; and told me to rinse the vomit out of my mouth. I slapped the glass away, splashing water down my front, but I saw neither the glass nor the hand that held it. I lunged at the air, punching and kicking, and hit nothing.

I fell back against the wall, and felt a comforting hand on mine. I screamed don’t you touch me don’t you talk to me I don’t want you you’re not real I want you gone leave me alone.

It was gone. I was alone. I panted, staring at the whirling lights around me, and just wanted to go home and curl up in dreamless sleep and never wake up.

I tried to stand, but something pushed me back down. Hands pinned my shoulders to the walls and I tried to kick but a foot was hooked over my legs and I couldn’t get them to move, either. I recoiled, turned my head away.

A breath tickled my ear, and the voice spoke again.

I love you, the voice said. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along: no matter what you do, I love you.

And strong hands lifted me up and set me on my feet, and I stood there on the sidewalk and cried and cried and cried.

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I dream in peach satin, pealing low, slick, the succulent lipid tang invades, pervades, lingers long after the wick winks, once, twice and steals me deep.

Through scented waves he creeps and eases in as hot skin slips, enfolds, callused pads flick and trace a lazy sigh at nape, breath hot, teasing.

I dream in titian silk and cream igniting, lifting, shifting, skin a-prickle, yielding on a sigh, he steals me deep.

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‘Ga nooit met vreemde mannen mee,’ zei mijn vader altijd, en ‘wees voorzichtig in het verkeer.’ Ik was klein en gehoorzaam, en had nog niets te kiezen. Behalve een verhaal uit het grote verhalenboek waar hij me elke avond uit voorlas. ‘Jij en ik,’ zei hij als het verhaal uit was. ‘Ik en jij’ zei ik dan.

Nu ben ik groot, en alleen, en de man naast me ziet er aardig uit. Grijze ogen en grijs aan de slapen. Manchetknopen. We drinken een Leffe en nog één. Buiten sneeuwt het. Nu nog terugrijden naar Amsterdam is niet verstandig. Ik heb wat te kiezen. Een hotel zoeken of op zijn uitnodiging ingaan.

Zijn huis staat in één van die leuke kleine straatjes van het oude deel van Brugge. Hij houdt de deur voor me open. Ik stamp de sneeuw van mijn schoenen op de groene deurmat. ‘Dit is Alewijn,’ zegt hij als we de huiskamer binnenlopen. Een hamster staakt zijn tocht in de tredmolen en kijkt me met donkere oogjes aan. ‘Hallo Alewijn,’ zeg ik.

‘Het is hier koud hè,’ zegt hij en wrijft met zijn handen over mijn armen op en neer. ‘Laten we lekker in bed kruipen.’ Hij pakt een stok met een haak en trekt een luik in het plafond open. Een opgeschoven trap verschijnt. ‘Vlizotrap,’ zegt hij terwijl hij de trap uitschuift. ‘Handige uitvinding voor als je weinig ruimte hebt zoals ik.’ Met een handgebaar laat hij me voorgaan.

De zolder is klein met schuine wanden. Ik moet onder een balk door duiken om bij het bed te komen en ga op de rand zitten. Uit de onderste la van een dressoir haalt hij een pyjama en geeft die aan mij. ‘Trek die maar aan,’ zegt hij, ‘ik heb hier geen kachel. Kruip er maar vast in. Ik haal beneden wat te drinken.’

Ik trek m’n kleren uit en de pyjama aan. Flanel, een beetje vaal met verbleekte rozen. Het bed is koud, ik leun tegen de kussens en trek de dekens op tot mijn kin.
Even later komt hij boven met twee bekers warme chocolademelk, geeft er één aan mij en zet de andere op het nachtkastje.

Ik kijk naar hem als hij zich uitkleedt. Naar het kleine plukje borsthaar, zijn knieën die een beetje uitsteken. Hij trekt ook een flanellen pyjama aan, één met lichtblauwe streepjes, en gaat naast me liggen. Pakt zijn beker en houdt hem even tegen de mijne.
‘Proost’, zegt hij. ‘Ik heb verlangd naar een moment als dit.’ Hij glimlacht.
‘Proost’, zeg ik terug.
Zijn hand pakt de mijne en we liggen even in stilte naar de balken te kijken. Dan zegt hij: ‘Hou je van Tsjechov?’ Ik knik. Hij begint te lezen.

De vlinder.
Al Óljga Iwánowas’s vrienden en goede bekenden waren op haar bruiloft.

Hij heeft een mooie stem. Ik zak nog dieper onder de dekens, doe mijn ogen dicht en luister.

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She watches the deer on the far hill, a veldt of russet stems, rigid, upright in the turgid mist.
Shadows steal and congeal, then scatter, no match for the ponderous assault to come.
He stalks, skimming low, washes of still weak dawn stealing along the ridge, silent, airless.
She thrills as the arrow cocks, tendons pop, shoulder strains, quivering, eager.
He pivots, frowns, intent, so close, eases back, sighs the release.
She spins, startled, a hiss, a whimper, a heartbeat, gone.

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Herbert and Lydia both cried when they heard they couldn’t have children. It was a difficult period, full of grief, and even counselling. But finally they realised how their infertility could lead to something positive. Herbert and Lydia made a decision: they would rescue a needy child from poverty and give him a better life.

Carefully, they wrote a letter to an orphanage in a very poor country, made the necessary arrangements and booked a flight to get their child. The trip was long and uncomfortable, but the couple arrived with a light heart and inner peace.

The head of the orphanage, Mr. Tadish, welcomed them at the entrance, shook their hands firmly, stroked his moustache and gave a sign to a nurse with grey hair who immediately brought in a little man, dressed in a dark blue suit with a bow-tie.

‘I’m very happy to introduce you to your son Hannibal,’ Mr Tadish said proudly. ‘Once a poor orphan now facing a better life.’ He pushed Hannibal towards his new parents, folded his hands together and smiled broadly.

Herbert and Lydia stared at the little man in front of them. The top of his head barely reached Herbert’s belly button. Lydia was the first who dared to say something.

‘I’m sorry, but this is not exactly what we were expecting.’
‘Expecting?’ Hannibal shrieked. ‘What’s wrong with me? Prejudiced huh, you don’t like little people. I’m small but what’s in my head is pretty OK.’ He pointed to his head to stress his words.’

‘But,’ Herbert gasped, ‘this is not a child. We’re here to get our child.’
Mr. Tadish took a letter out of his pocket, unfolded it and started reading:
‘There’s plenty of room in our house but most of all in our hearts. We have so much love to give. We want to help an unlucky child.’
At this point Mr. Tadish raised his index finger. He continued: ‘It’s no problem if the child is a little older.’
He tapped on the letter. ‘See? You wrote it yourself. Besides, I told you the child was a little older than the picture we sent you.’

‘A little?’ Herbert nearly cried. ‘You sent me a picture of a toddler.’
‘How old are you actually?’ Lydia asked Hannibal.
‘I’m 42′, Hannibal said. ‘So?’
‘Oh my God.’ Herbert covered his face with his hands.
‘It’s hard to find parents for our older pupils,’ Mr. Tadish said.
‘I’ve been living in this dump for 38 years,’ Hannibal said, ‘and I won’t stay a minute longer. Do you have colour TV?’

The nurse handed him a little black suitcase on wheels. She bent over to hug him. ‘We will miss you Hannibal.’
Mr. Tadish coughed. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘we won’t keep you any longer. It’s a busy day for us.’ He opened the door to let them out.
Hannibal stepped outside, carrying his little suitcase. Herbert and Lydia followed with pale faces. The door closed behind them.
‘Hurry up’, Hannibal yelled, ‘I want a window seat.’

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He straddles the Ducati, winks, then nestles damp curls in a bulbous plastic mass, sweat still pearled on cocky lips, a nod, a kick and the beast ignites, spins, wild, shoulders hunched, power, retreating …

I love the early morning mist, still, sounds muted, frissons of cool stealing round my ankles, wayward, timid, ready to bolt as the hammer of heat stands poised …

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He was so old that they often joked he was the ghost of the building. Always there, always in the same worn-out suit and shiny spectacles, Alishah had a slightly damp smell about him, just like the old carpets they ripped out on every floor. The building used to be an old Soviet theatre and, after months of negotiations with the government, was now a spacious office.

She was in charge of the changes, and there were a lot to be made. He would often beg her to save some old junk, things that belonged to the past, just like him.

‘Not the boy!’ he pleaded as she instructed the contractors to remove the heavy statue from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Oh, please, let’s just keep the boy.’

He kept the boy. And the statue of Lenin. And a pair of dusty curtains. The team would joke that Alishah must be storing all that stuff somewhere behind the stage. He was upset when they had to block it off.

‘Come on!’ she said, pouring him a cup of tea. ‘We can’t keep the stage, can we?’

He would often stop by her office, and tell her stories. If she was busy, she would frown and he would apologize hastily, disappearing. But often, she listened. The stories were always about grand events that happened in the building, famous people who visited it and beautiful music that was once played on the stage.

Nobody knew what his role was. In their open plan offices, freshly renovated and furnished with western style desks, there was no space for someone like him. Some people gossiped he used to belong to the KGB and the government insisted that he could stay in the building. He did not speak a word of English, and she often translated for him, if anyone wanted to listen to his tales.

And then, one day, he was gone. At first, she did not notice. It was a busy day and she had a few meetings to attend and calls to make. Only later in the afternoon, stretching and yawning at her desk, she wondered where he was. ‘Has anyone seen him?’ she asked. And then the news came.

She was surprised how many people attended the funeral. The big boss from Texas, wiping his sweaty forehead in the summer heat, the flirty secretaries in short skirts, the chain-smoking local drivers. They all took a big bus to the remote village in the mountains. Someone joked that Alishah did have a home after all, and was not just the office ghost.

For months after the funeral, she kept expecting him to walk in and beg her to rescue yet another old item.

‘This building will never be the same without Alishah,’ said the Texan boss, staring at the boarded up old stage. ‘But guess what? We have found his secret stash!’

She looked up. ‘Can I please just keep the boy?’

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WHO DO YOU THINK I AM??!!

Andy’s head was abuzz with the words Ms. Anna yelled at him with her strong Polish accent. He didn’t want to upset his landlady. It was this piece of paper… if only he could understand what was handwritten on it. Judging by the lady’s reaction, the words weren’t good or polite. That was for sure.

At first, he didn’t even notice the paper. It fell down from inside a book, just when Andy was returning it to the university library some days ago. The piece of paper appeared right in front of him. He picked it up and glanced at those words, apparently Polish words, very similar to the ones he had seen at Ms. Anna’s. Out of curiosity, he decided to look for their meaning.

Mrs. Anna was the first person he turned to, but ever imagined such an answer. She was always so sweet. “Maybe I remind her to a much beloved one”, felt sometimes Andy, but never dared to ask. Some questions bring back sad memories.

So, puzzled and even more intrigued, Andy decided to go over to Clayton’s place. Maybe together they could find a solution.

Andy told Clayton the whole episode of the piece of paper, how he found it and Mrs. Anna reaction. Clayton suggested they should go back to the library and check out for the records of the book. Maybe any previous borrowers could give them a hint. By then, Clayton was as intrigued as Andy.

They asked for the records. The only name there was Andy’s.

Then, Andy remembered Ms. Danuta, Ms. Anna’s Polish friend. They went over there and knocked at the door. She wasn’t home. Jan, Ms Danuta’s annoying son, was home alone. Doubtful, Andy showed Jan the note. Jan grumbled, went red in the face, gave the boys a menacing look and slammed the door.

Discouraged, Andy folded the paper and put it carefully in his jacket pocket.

- Now what, Clayton?

Then, they remember Mr. Novak, a very well respected professor who spoke lots of languages.

- Wait a minute. Mrs. Anna was very upset after reading these words. Jan was really angry. I don’t want Mr. Novak to be upset too. Everybody appreciates him, me too –Andy said.

- Me too. Let’s tell him the whole story. We’ll tell him we aren’t the ones saying those words. We only want to know what is written here.

There they went, directly to Mr. Novak’s office. He greeted both boys, listened carefully to the story Andy told him, with some tags from Clayton. Then he said:

- OK boys, I promise I won’t react badly to that piece of paper of yours. No matter how ugly or vulgar the words are. You already made me curious.

So Andy looked for the paper in his jacket pocket. Nothing. He looked inside each and every pocket. Once again, nothing. He looked harder.

The piece of paper was simply gone.

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