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Those summer nights - ebook
Those summer nights - ebook
This is not a story about great gestures. It's a story about the look that remains on the skin. About a touch that needs no explanation. About love that doesn't have to be loud to change everything. Julia runs away from the city, Lena paints silence. Their meeting is not a coincidence – it is a choice. But when the past knocks on the door, each of them will have to answer: is it possible to love without conditions? Will intimacy endure the truth? A moving, sensual and extremely tender novel about female love, everyday life, closeness - and about the fact that sometimes it is the hardest to stay.
Ta publikacja spełnia wymagania dostępności zgodnie z dyrektywą EAA.
| Kategoria: | Erotyka |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| Rozmiar pliku: | 980 KB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
Prologue
I can’t say when it started.
Because there wasn’t a single moment. No flash, no seismic shift.
There was only the feeling that I didn’t have to pretend anymore.
Not to myself, and not to her.
I remember her hands — the way she set a mug on the table, without rush.
I remember the smell of incense that didn’t overwhelm, but just lingered in the background.
I remember the silence between us that didn’t hurt. It was like a soft blanket, not a wall.
I stayed. For a moment. To see.
Then I stayed longer.
Not because everything was easy. But because it was finally real.
I didn’t know then that not every love has to last to be fulfilled.
Sometimes the most important stories are the ones that allow you to return to yourself.
This story is about exactly that.
About a woman who loved so much that she didn’t have to hold on.
And about me — who for the first time didn’t run away, even when I left.Chapter 1 — Stay with Meals
The rain had been falling since morning — not heavily, but as if it had no intention of stopping. Moisture clung to the bus window and to her skin. Julia looked at the blurred, drowsy green outside. No one got off until her stop. When the driver announced, “Dębki — end of the line,” she had no more excuses.
The bag was light. She had packed in silence, still at night. Dresses, a notebook, a book without a bookmark. No makeup, no plans. There was supposed to be no one here she knew, no one who knew her.
The guesthouse “At Maria’s” looked exactly as she expected — a shabby white house with balconies long overdue for replacement. Hydrangeas grew so densely in front of the entrance that she had to squeeze through. They smelled slightly sour, as if they had seen too much.
The door opened before she could knock.
“Ms. Julia? Room number three. It’s ready now,” said a short woman in a tightly buttoned sweater. “Breakfast from eight, dinner after seven. Nothing fancy, but homemade.”
Julia just nodded. She didn’t feel like talking. She climbed the creaky stairs, her bag brushing against the wall and leaving a streak of moisture. The room was small but warm. A rose-patterned bedspread, yellowed curtains, an old wardrobe with a crooked mirror. On the nightstand lay a note: “Stay with meals — 14 days. Room paid in advance. Enjoy your rest.”
She didn’t turn on the light. She sat on the bed and listened to the ticking clock from the corridor. She remembered how everything in her Warsaw apartment was quiet, dead. And here, in this provincial silence, the ticking clock suddenly sounded like proof of existence.
In the bathroom, she washed her face with cool water. The reflection in the mirror was pale, with shadows under her eyes and lips that hadn’t known laughter in a long time.
I am myself only when no one knows me, she thought.
She went down for dinner ahead of time. The dining room smelled of cooked vegetables and fried butter. The table was covered with a lemon-patterned oilcloth. A single place setting. A tomato with onion, eggs in mayonnaise, bread. Cherry compote. Suddenly it became quiet — almost too quiet.
And that’s when she walked in.
A girl with a jacket slung over her shoulder. Her hair was dark, long, and slightly damp from the drizzle. She wore no makeup, just a gaze that stopped everything. She stood in the doorway and looked at Julia for a moment. Without a word. Without a smile.
“Hi. Lena,” she said at last. “You’re the new one?”
“Julia,” she replied, surprised at how much she sounded like she was apologizing for her own existence.
Lena sat down without asking, close by. Their knees brushed lightly under the table. Julia flinched. Lena seemed not to notice, or perhaps she pretended not to. Her hands were long and strong, with chipped nail polish. She took a piece of bread and began to eat, as if she had known this house since childhood.
“Vacation or an escape?” she asked, chewing slowly.
Julia froze. The question… was too accurate.
“A rest,” she answered after a moment.
“Sure,” Lena smiled with the corner of her mouth. “You don’t really rest here. Here, you either find yourself again or you lose yourself.”
A moment of silence fell. Only the clinking of plates from the kitchen could be heard. The rain began to tap on the windows again, as if it didn’t want anything here to dry out.
“I paint,” Lena added, as if it were something unimportant. “And I help Mrs. Maria. In return, I get a room and a key to the wine. I’d be happy to show you around town. If you’re not afraid of people like me.”
“And what are you like?”
“Inconvenient,” she replied without blinking.
Julia smiled uncertainly. For the first time in a long time, she felt something under her skin. Not fear, not desire. Rather… electricity. A warning. A promise.Chapter 2 — Don’t Ask Where I’m From
Julia woke up at six thirty for no reason. Her body felt heavy, as if something had pressed down on it during the night — maybe her thoughts, maybe a dream she couldn’t remember but which had left a mark. Her mouth was dry, and the image of Lena’s eyes was still in her head: dark, self-assured, and… brazenly close.
She took a deep breath. She went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. The reflection in the mirror was a woman who didn’t look thirty, nor did she look ready to start anything. Especially not over again.
Breakfast was served at eight. She came down at eight oh three. That’s how long it took her to choose a hoodie that didn’t look like an overly clean suit of armor.
Mrs. Maria was already by the stove. In the background, the radio hummed with the low voice of a weather reporter. Milk soup one day, eggs with dill the next. Today was the second day.
“Did you sleep?”
“So-so,” Julia admitted.
“That’s good. Too many people in this world sleep too well.”
Julia smiled, though she wasn’t sure if she had the right to. She sat at the table, placing a cup of compote in front of her as if it were a point of reference, something constant. And then… she walked in again.
Lena.
This time she wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a large, stretched-out T-shirt with the words „Gdynia 2003” that reached almost to her mid-thigh. Her feet were bare. Her hair was like it had been after a sleepless night — tousled, tangled, beautiful in its disarray.
Julia felt her heart do something strange. It didn’t beat faster. It beat slower. As if it was pausing to watch.
“Good morning, my favorite women,” Lena said with a smile, not entirely ironically. She walked past, her shoulder brushing Julia’s arm. “Sleepyhead.”
“Hi,” Julia replied, too quietly, too late.
“You don’t look rested. Rough night?”
“More like restless.”
“I had something gnawing at me inside, too,” Lena said, sitting down across from her. She watched. Without embarrassment. Without exaggeration. She just — watched.
Julia lowered her gaze to her mug.
“Where are you from?” she asked suddenly, without a plan.
Lena’s gaze shifted to somewhere beside her.
“Don’t ask where I’m from.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s a question from a textbook for conversations between people who are afraid to talk about what they’re really curious about.”
Julia didn’t know whether to stay on the topic or back off. But Lena continued.
“Ask what’s keeping me here. That’s more interesting.”
“Okay,” Julia said. “What’s keeping you here?”
Lena looked at her carefully. This time without a smile. As if in that single second she had truly revealed herself.
“The sea. Chance. And people who don’t want anything to do with me, but can’t stop looking.”
The silence that followed was thick, as if the air had changed its consistency.
Julia looked at her hands. Fingers smeared with paint, skin around her nails cracked. Every gesture of Lena’s was unhurried, but confident. As if she set the pace of reality.
“What about you?” Lena asked. “Are you from here?”
“No. From Warsaw.”
“That sounds like you’re from a document, not a place.”
Julia raised an eyebrow.
“And you’re from paintings?”
Lena smiled for the first time genuinely.
“No. But sometimes I hide in them.”
The clatter of a pot came from the kitchen. Mrs. Maria turned on the fan. The dining room grew cooler, but the space between them did not.
“Got any plans today?”
“None.”
“Good. Drop by this afternoon. I have something you should see.”
“What?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“And what if I don’t come?”
Lena stood up. She stretched. The T-shirt rode up slightly, revealing a piece of her thigh, smooth and tanned.
“Then it’ll mean you’re more afraid of yourself than you are of me. And then I’ll know something about you too.”
She left her at the table.
Julia sat there for a few more minutes before she was able to drink the compote. It was too warm. Too sweet. As if someone had dissolved in it the promise of something that might happen — if she dared.Chapter 3 — Wine, Salt, and Silence
In the afternoon, the sky looked like spilled milk. The sun was diffused, pale, but warm. Julia walked down a side street toward Lena’s gallery, trying not to look at herself in the windows of the houses she passed. She felt like she was heading toward something she couldn’t name. Maybe a meeting. Maybe a confession.
The gallery was in a garage. Except there was no car or concrete. The walls were painted white, with chips here and there, the ceiling had wooden beams, and inside was Lena’s world.
Paintings leaned against the walls. A dozen of them. Bodies, women, lines — everything soft, expressive, as if painted not with a hand but with a nerve. There was no decoration in them. There was a need.
Lena was standing by one of the walls with a glass of wine. She was wearing a black top and denim shorts. On her left thigh: a trace of paint. On her shoulder — a tattoo of a woman with her eyes tied. When Julia entered, Lena didn’t even flinch.
“You’re here,” she just said. “I was afraid you’d choose a safe walk on the beach instead.”
“The beach can wait,” Julia replied carefully. “And you said I had something to see.”
“I did.”
She walked over to a table with a bottle and poured a second glass. She handed the glass to Julia. Their fingers touched for a moment. Julia felt a familiar pang in her stomach — like when you want something, but you can’t say it out loud.
“Do you want me to start with questions or with looking?” Julia asked.
“We always start with looking. Questions are too noisy.”
Julia looked around slowly. One of the paintings caught her eye more than the others. A woman sitting on a chair, naked, with her head down and her hands clenched into fists. There was no face, just the back, shoulders, and neck. But still, she had the feeling she knew her.
“Who is she?”
“When I was painting her, I didn’t know. Then I realized she was someone I hadn’t met yet.”
Julia froze. She turned around. Lena was looking at her. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she wanted to add something, but held back.
“I like to look at people when they don’t know they’re being watched,” Lena added. “That’s when they’re real.”
“And what if someone doesn’t want to be real?”
“Then I don’t paint. Or I paint their silence.”
They moved further into the gallery. In the corner, there was a small couch covered with a thick blanket. Lena sat down, stretching her legs. Julia hesitated but sat beside her. Keeping her distance. One that could mean nothing. Or mean everything.
“You know what I find most interesting about you?” Lena asked, looking straight ahead.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“How much you control yourself. Even when you’re disheveled, you smell of order. As if you think if you reveal yourself, someone will dismantle you.”
Julia was silent. She wanted to deny it, but… Lena was right.
“Maybe I just don’t like being on the surface.”
Lena smiled slowly.
“I do. But only when I know someone is watching with curiosity, not with judgment.”
Their gazes met. And then time stopped for a second. Julia felt the taste of wine in her mouth, the rush of blood in her ears. Her hand was on her thigh. Lena looked at it — not invasively, not directly. More with a question: do you really know what you want?
Julia looked away. But not her hand.
“Salt,” Lena said softly.
“What?”
“Salt. You have the taste of salt in you. Not sweetness. Not bitterness. Just something that stays on the tongue long after the touch is over.”
Julia shivered. She didn’t know what to say. Maybe that’s why Lena didn’t get closer. Didn’t try to touch her. She just handed her a little more wine and said:
“Come back here tomorrow. In the same hoodie. I want to paint something for you.”
“What?”
“Your silence. And what you’re holding behind it.”Chapter 4 — Fingerprints on Glass
Julia walked back to the guesthouse as if in a trance. She couldn’t remember how she passed the promenade, how she avoided the souvenir shop where she usually bought mint gums, or even when the sun had set.
Only one thing was in her head: „Your silence. And what you’re holding behind it.”
What Lena said hit her harder than anything before. Because it wasn’t a flirtation. Not a provocation. It was… recognition. As if someone had truly seen her. Without judgment. Without defenses.
That evening, she couldn’t sit still. She paced her room like a mouse in a trap. She left the wine untouched, the book unread. Instead, she opened the window and looked at the moon, which hung over the treeline, as matte as a breath on a mirror.
Finally, she went out. She didn’t tell anyone. She just got dressed — in the same hoodie, as Lena had asked — and walked through the empty streets.
The gallery was closed, but the side door was left slightly ajar. The light inside trembled, as if it, too, was hesitant.
Julia went in.
Lena was sitting on the floor in sweatpants, with bare feet. In front of her was a canvas — still white. Next to her were a cup of water, brushes, and wine.
She didn’t look up right away.
“I thought you wouldn’t dare,” she said quietly, without provocation.
“I thought so too,” Julia replied.
She sat down across from her. The silence lasted for a few seconds that stretched into hours. Lena reached for a brush, dipped it in dark paint, and without a word, drew it across the canvas — a single, curved, soft line.
“Close your eyes,” she asked.
Julia obeyed.
“What do you feel?”
“Silence.”
“Where?”
“Here,” she said, pointing to her chest.
Lena came closer. She sat behind Julia, right behind her back. Julia could feel her breath on her neck. She shivered, but she didn’t move away.
I can’t say when it started.
Because there wasn’t a single moment. No flash, no seismic shift.
There was only the feeling that I didn’t have to pretend anymore.
Not to myself, and not to her.
I remember her hands — the way she set a mug on the table, without rush.
I remember the smell of incense that didn’t overwhelm, but just lingered in the background.
I remember the silence between us that didn’t hurt. It was like a soft blanket, not a wall.
I stayed. For a moment. To see.
Then I stayed longer.
Not because everything was easy. But because it was finally real.
I didn’t know then that not every love has to last to be fulfilled.
Sometimes the most important stories are the ones that allow you to return to yourself.
This story is about exactly that.
About a woman who loved so much that she didn’t have to hold on.
And about me — who for the first time didn’t run away, even when I left.Chapter 1 — Stay with Meals
The rain had been falling since morning — not heavily, but as if it had no intention of stopping. Moisture clung to the bus window and to her skin. Julia looked at the blurred, drowsy green outside. No one got off until her stop. When the driver announced, “Dębki — end of the line,” she had no more excuses.
The bag was light. She had packed in silence, still at night. Dresses, a notebook, a book without a bookmark. No makeup, no plans. There was supposed to be no one here she knew, no one who knew her.
The guesthouse “At Maria’s” looked exactly as she expected — a shabby white house with balconies long overdue for replacement. Hydrangeas grew so densely in front of the entrance that she had to squeeze through. They smelled slightly sour, as if they had seen too much.
The door opened before she could knock.
“Ms. Julia? Room number three. It’s ready now,” said a short woman in a tightly buttoned sweater. “Breakfast from eight, dinner after seven. Nothing fancy, but homemade.”
Julia just nodded. She didn’t feel like talking. She climbed the creaky stairs, her bag brushing against the wall and leaving a streak of moisture. The room was small but warm. A rose-patterned bedspread, yellowed curtains, an old wardrobe with a crooked mirror. On the nightstand lay a note: “Stay with meals — 14 days. Room paid in advance. Enjoy your rest.”
She didn’t turn on the light. She sat on the bed and listened to the ticking clock from the corridor. She remembered how everything in her Warsaw apartment was quiet, dead. And here, in this provincial silence, the ticking clock suddenly sounded like proof of existence.
In the bathroom, she washed her face with cool water. The reflection in the mirror was pale, with shadows under her eyes and lips that hadn’t known laughter in a long time.
I am myself only when no one knows me, she thought.
She went down for dinner ahead of time. The dining room smelled of cooked vegetables and fried butter. The table was covered with a lemon-patterned oilcloth. A single place setting. A tomato with onion, eggs in mayonnaise, bread. Cherry compote. Suddenly it became quiet — almost too quiet.
And that’s when she walked in.
A girl with a jacket slung over her shoulder. Her hair was dark, long, and slightly damp from the drizzle. She wore no makeup, just a gaze that stopped everything. She stood in the doorway and looked at Julia for a moment. Without a word. Without a smile.
“Hi. Lena,” she said at last. “You’re the new one?”
“Julia,” she replied, surprised at how much she sounded like she was apologizing for her own existence.
Lena sat down without asking, close by. Their knees brushed lightly under the table. Julia flinched. Lena seemed not to notice, or perhaps she pretended not to. Her hands were long and strong, with chipped nail polish. She took a piece of bread and began to eat, as if she had known this house since childhood.
“Vacation or an escape?” she asked, chewing slowly.
Julia froze. The question… was too accurate.
“A rest,” she answered after a moment.
“Sure,” Lena smiled with the corner of her mouth. “You don’t really rest here. Here, you either find yourself again or you lose yourself.”
A moment of silence fell. Only the clinking of plates from the kitchen could be heard. The rain began to tap on the windows again, as if it didn’t want anything here to dry out.
“I paint,” Lena added, as if it were something unimportant. “And I help Mrs. Maria. In return, I get a room and a key to the wine. I’d be happy to show you around town. If you’re not afraid of people like me.”
“And what are you like?”
“Inconvenient,” she replied without blinking.
Julia smiled uncertainly. For the first time in a long time, she felt something under her skin. Not fear, not desire. Rather… electricity. A warning. A promise.Chapter 2 — Don’t Ask Where I’m From
Julia woke up at six thirty for no reason. Her body felt heavy, as if something had pressed down on it during the night — maybe her thoughts, maybe a dream she couldn’t remember but which had left a mark. Her mouth was dry, and the image of Lena’s eyes was still in her head: dark, self-assured, and… brazenly close.
She took a deep breath. She went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. The reflection in the mirror was a woman who didn’t look thirty, nor did she look ready to start anything. Especially not over again.
Breakfast was served at eight. She came down at eight oh three. That’s how long it took her to choose a hoodie that didn’t look like an overly clean suit of armor.
Mrs. Maria was already by the stove. In the background, the radio hummed with the low voice of a weather reporter. Milk soup one day, eggs with dill the next. Today was the second day.
“Did you sleep?”
“So-so,” Julia admitted.
“That’s good. Too many people in this world sleep too well.”
Julia smiled, though she wasn’t sure if she had the right to. She sat at the table, placing a cup of compote in front of her as if it were a point of reference, something constant. And then… she walked in again.
Lena.
This time she wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a large, stretched-out T-shirt with the words „Gdynia 2003” that reached almost to her mid-thigh. Her feet were bare. Her hair was like it had been after a sleepless night — tousled, tangled, beautiful in its disarray.
Julia felt her heart do something strange. It didn’t beat faster. It beat slower. As if it was pausing to watch.
“Good morning, my favorite women,” Lena said with a smile, not entirely ironically. She walked past, her shoulder brushing Julia’s arm. “Sleepyhead.”
“Hi,” Julia replied, too quietly, too late.
“You don’t look rested. Rough night?”
“More like restless.”
“I had something gnawing at me inside, too,” Lena said, sitting down across from her. She watched. Without embarrassment. Without exaggeration. She just — watched.
Julia lowered her gaze to her mug.
“Where are you from?” she asked suddenly, without a plan.
Lena’s gaze shifted to somewhere beside her.
“Don’t ask where I’m from.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s a question from a textbook for conversations between people who are afraid to talk about what they’re really curious about.”
Julia didn’t know whether to stay on the topic or back off. But Lena continued.
“Ask what’s keeping me here. That’s more interesting.”
“Okay,” Julia said. “What’s keeping you here?”
Lena looked at her carefully. This time without a smile. As if in that single second she had truly revealed herself.
“The sea. Chance. And people who don’t want anything to do with me, but can’t stop looking.”
The silence that followed was thick, as if the air had changed its consistency.
Julia looked at her hands. Fingers smeared with paint, skin around her nails cracked. Every gesture of Lena’s was unhurried, but confident. As if she set the pace of reality.
“What about you?” Lena asked. “Are you from here?”
“No. From Warsaw.”
“That sounds like you’re from a document, not a place.”
Julia raised an eyebrow.
“And you’re from paintings?”
Lena smiled for the first time genuinely.
“No. But sometimes I hide in them.”
The clatter of a pot came from the kitchen. Mrs. Maria turned on the fan. The dining room grew cooler, but the space between them did not.
“Got any plans today?”
“None.”
“Good. Drop by this afternoon. I have something you should see.”
“What?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“And what if I don’t come?”
Lena stood up. She stretched. The T-shirt rode up slightly, revealing a piece of her thigh, smooth and tanned.
“Then it’ll mean you’re more afraid of yourself than you are of me. And then I’ll know something about you too.”
She left her at the table.
Julia sat there for a few more minutes before she was able to drink the compote. It was too warm. Too sweet. As if someone had dissolved in it the promise of something that might happen — if she dared.Chapter 3 — Wine, Salt, and Silence
In the afternoon, the sky looked like spilled milk. The sun was diffused, pale, but warm. Julia walked down a side street toward Lena’s gallery, trying not to look at herself in the windows of the houses she passed. She felt like she was heading toward something she couldn’t name. Maybe a meeting. Maybe a confession.
The gallery was in a garage. Except there was no car or concrete. The walls were painted white, with chips here and there, the ceiling had wooden beams, and inside was Lena’s world.
Paintings leaned against the walls. A dozen of them. Bodies, women, lines — everything soft, expressive, as if painted not with a hand but with a nerve. There was no decoration in them. There was a need.
Lena was standing by one of the walls with a glass of wine. She was wearing a black top and denim shorts. On her left thigh: a trace of paint. On her shoulder — a tattoo of a woman with her eyes tied. When Julia entered, Lena didn’t even flinch.
“You’re here,” she just said. “I was afraid you’d choose a safe walk on the beach instead.”
“The beach can wait,” Julia replied carefully. “And you said I had something to see.”
“I did.”
She walked over to a table with a bottle and poured a second glass. She handed the glass to Julia. Their fingers touched for a moment. Julia felt a familiar pang in her stomach — like when you want something, but you can’t say it out loud.
“Do you want me to start with questions or with looking?” Julia asked.
“We always start with looking. Questions are too noisy.”
Julia looked around slowly. One of the paintings caught her eye more than the others. A woman sitting on a chair, naked, with her head down and her hands clenched into fists. There was no face, just the back, shoulders, and neck. But still, she had the feeling she knew her.
“Who is she?”
“When I was painting her, I didn’t know. Then I realized she was someone I hadn’t met yet.”
Julia froze. She turned around. Lena was looking at her. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she wanted to add something, but held back.
“I like to look at people when they don’t know they’re being watched,” Lena added. “That’s when they’re real.”
“And what if someone doesn’t want to be real?”
“Then I don’t paint. Or I paint their silence.”
They moved further into the gallery. In the corner, there was a small couch covered with a thick blanket. Lena sat down, stretching her legs. Julia hesitated but sat beside her. Keeping her distance. One that could mean nothing. Or mean everything.
“You know what I find most interesting about you?” Lena asked, looking straight ahead.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“How much you control yourself. Even when you’re disheveled, you smell of order. As if you think if you reveal yourself, someone will dismantle you.”
Julia was silent. She wanted to deny it, but… Lena was right.
“Maybe I just don’t like being on the surface.”
Lena smiled slowly.
“I do. But only when I know someone is watching with curiosity, not with judgment.”
Their gazes met. And then time stopped for a second. Julia felt the taste of wine in her mouth, the rush of blood in her ears. Her hand was on her thigh. Lena looked at it — not invasively, not directly. More with a question: do you really know what you want?
Julia looked away. But not her hand.
“Salt,” Lena said softly.
“What?”
“Salt. You have the taste of salt in you. Not sweetness. Not bitterness. Just something that stays on the tongue long after the touch is over.”
Julia shivered. She didn’t know what to say. Maybe that’s why Lena didn’t get closer. Didn’t try to touch her. She just handed her a little more wine and said:
“Come back here tomorrow. In the same hoodie. I want to paint something for you.”
“What?”
“Your silence. And what you’re holding behind it.”Chapter 4 — Fingerprints on Glass
Julia walked back to the guesthouse as if in a trance. She couldn’t remember how she passed the promenade, how she avoided the souvenir shop where she usually bought mint gums, or even when the sun had set.
Only one thing was in her head: „Your silence. And what you’re holding behind it.”
What Lena said hit her harder than anything before. Because it wasn’t a flirtation. Not a provocation. It was… recognition. As if someone had truly seen her. Without judgment. Without defenses.
That evening, she couldn’t sit still. She paced her room like a mouse in a trap. She left the wine untouched, the book unread. Instead, she opened the window and looked at the moon, which hung over the treeline, as matte as a breath on a mirror.
Finally, she went out. She didn’t tell anyone. She just got dressed — in the same hoodie, as Lena had asked — and walked through the empty streets.
The gallery was closed, but the side door was left slightly ajar. The light inside trembled, as if it, too, was hesitant.
Julia went in.
Lena was sitting on the floor in sweatpants, with bare feet. In front of her was a canvas — still white. Next to her were a cup of water, brushes, and wine.
She didn’t look up right away.
“I thought you wouldn’t dare,” she said quietly, without provocation.
“I thought so too,” Julia replied.
She sat down across from her. The silence lasted for a few seconds that stretched into hours. Lena reached for a brush, dipped it in dark paint, and without a word, drew it across the canvas — a single, curved, soft line.
“Close your eyes,” she asked.
Julia obeyed.
“What do you feel?”
“Silence.”
“Where?”
“Here,” she said, pointing to her chest.
Lena came closer. She sat behind Julia, right behind her back. Julia could feel her breath on her neck. She shivered, but she didn’t move away.
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