I sit right behind him. Unable to speak, waiting for him to talk to me first. I think it would be rude of me to break the silence, which has by now, uncomfortably set in the kitchen. White walls and stainless steel equipment of the clinically clean kitchen never really appeared to me as cold as they do now. I was unable to find comfort in anything I looked at so I decided to observe his hands. He stands, tall and slim, his broad shoulders shifting as he is preparing his coffee and the back muscles moving discreetly underneath his shirt. It was a smart, black shirt and as always the top two buttons were undone. In silence I continued to look at his hand. Black, black coffee. White, white milk. As always he puts two spoons of sugar, automatically he adds a certain amount of glittering grains into the brown drink. It looks so easy when he does it –for me it takes ages to get just the right amount of sugar when I'm preparing his drinks.
Finally he sits on the opposite side of the table and he still doesn't say anything. I watch his lips as he puts the cup to his mouth and immediately I turn my sight away. Back to the table.
I did not deserve to look him in the eye. We both know it. We both know that I was spoiled by his love and his understanding as well as by the trust which I was given.
And now, we both know, I was never worthy of any of these things.
Two years have passed since he brought me to his house for the first time. I was just the new, inexperienced but well educated lawyer whom he found cute –as he told me later, he would hire me even if I didn't have the qualifications just because he was so drawn to me.
As a boss and a lover he was demanding; everything had to be on the best standard, whether it was me solving a court case or making his coffee. I woke up next to him in the morning; I went to sleep embraced by his strong arm.
It was only a matter of time that I moved in to his house and we tried to make it a home. It worked quite well I must say; we had everything we wanted –almost.
He never spoke much; he is the type of person that believes silence is golden –saying something could always make the matter worse, while silence symbolised "waiting"...
Waiting for the storm to go away.
He didn't tell me he loved me every day; we never had big love confessions. One may think that two men can't build a tender, caring relationship, but what did we need the words for if one hug, one kiss goodnight and morning breakfast prepared with care meant so much more than silly "I love you"?
Still, it appears I never got the concept myself.
Is that what he's thinking when he's lightening a cigarette? What is going through his head? Soon he will leave me; he will go to the court –to work. Will he think of me? Will he get mad at his assistants; will he be mean and strict because of what happened? Maybe I value myself too much. Maybe... it just happened and now it doesn't matter –it's in the past after all.
Still, I can't help but to notice how graceful were his movements, when with slim fingers he lifted the cigarette to his mouth; the tip went red for a short while and then it went back to the melancholic, grey tone which reminded me of the hue of the sky that day.
Big, GREY clouds were covering the earth with its tears.
Pathetic, am I not, to make such a cliché comparison.
The circles of smoke escaped his perfect lips.
He always wore the same smell. Even sitting here, strong aroma of the cologne tickled my nostrils; mesmerised by the smell I didn't even notice as he got up. He didn't make any noise at all. Even the chair didn't make this horrible screeching sound... I suppose that's what you'd expect from a house like this. Minimalist, practical designs of smooth and cold surfaces –I loved our, or rather his, house without all useless little bits and pieces that made houses cosy... and rummaged at the same time.
Still, old furniture in my previous rented flat would make so much noise now! And for the first time I thought that it would be welcome.
I was desperate for noise... for communication... instead I could only watch him, as he put his black hat on his head. With this manner of his, he shook the ponytail of his long, dark hair onto his back.
If one had to point out which one of us would destroy this peaceful, enjoyable arrangement they would probably point at him. Handsome, selfish and rich a boss as he could fool around as much as he wished without any consequence... well losing me wouldn't be that much of a problem.
...Or that's what I thought. Never have I realised how profound his feelings were until now that I saw him hurt.
However, he clearly didn't want me to see that. Bad luck, I know him too well.
Usually, even if he wasn't talking he would observe me with these dark eyes, making me feel uncomfortable; they seemed to see right through everything. Today though there was no communication. Neither sight nor words could fix the broken bridge between two people.
I don't recall the happenings of last night. To be completely honest, I didn't remember anything up until when he had walked in. All of what happened before was faded because of the excessive amount of alcohol. When I explained that I was drunk, he quietly noted that if all I need was for him to be out, some alcohol and a drunken bastard I could just go to hell.
Of course, I preferred to spend the night on the overly comfortable sofa.
And then, he put on his raincoat; I knew that if I wouldn't say anything now we would part in this silence. I looked down on my cup of green tea and watched my own fingers as they helplessly clang onto the sides of the cup. Would anything stop him from leaving? I quickly came up with some scenarios.
My first option portrayed me running towards him, clinging to his chest and kissing him desperately. No... he would just push me away.
The second described me trying to explain my behaviour logically. That wouldn't work either because there was no logic in what I did.
Finally, I could just ask him casually what time he'll be finished tonight; it seemed the most reasonable, but I was too afraid of something along the lines of "It's none of your business", or "Whenever it is I do not expect to find you here" as his answer. I'm a coward. Coward... scared of losing someone who is already lost. So I said nothing and looked at him again, hoping for him to at least gaze at me.
I know he loved looking at me and contemplating aloud on the smoothness of my skin and how delicate was my bone structure. All of this seemed to him bizarre for an adult my age. I would always blush and tell him to 'cutitoutyouareembarrasingme", even though I really enjoyed listening to it; at that point he always laughed and called me adorable.
Nothing like that happened this time. And so, he left into the pouring rain, without any word to me, without any look at me. This was when I just couldn't control the tears in my eyes for any longer. I urged myself to believe that I had reasons for what I did. He never assured me of the sincerity and seriousness of his feelings and it was only natural that I was looking for comfort somewhere else. I wish that I could bring myself to hate his house, where every corner, every object bore some kind of memory. I desired to rue how dependant on him I've grown. Finally, I wanted him to never have loved me, because this way I wouldn't have to see him hurt. With the dignity that I had left I covered my face with my hands as I cried. He never wanted to see me cry, and I'm not going to cry openly even at the end.