BOHEMIAN GLASSWARE
A Short Story
Shhh! Don’t worry. Stay calm.
I know what you’re trying to say. I do. Don’t tire yourself, save your energy. Life is so predictable these days. It used to be exciting. You know what I mean, all too well. Yes, you know. I’ve seen that sparkle in your eyes.
I remember how your whole body would tremble every time I smiled at you. And how, every time I pronounced your name, you had to dry your hands because your palms would be covered in sweat. Mine too. The hair on my neck standing on end because your bare knee accidentally touched mine under the table. Grandma would ask me why I was blushing so much. Maybe she already suspected.
Were we happy? I think so.
At least at the beginning. Two naked teenagers, face to face. Fools, just playing, answering some perverse call of nature. I don’t know what, something powerful, like a fire that starts with a small spark in the ditch of a lonely road and devours until the last tree of the surrounding forest.
The family’s incomprehension was never an impediment. We left knowing how to navigate the winding social path. We were travel companions — some would call us accomplices, others libertines.
After that, what…? Well, some good times came. After so many years traveling the world together, we returned to this old house. The old woman couldn’t prevent it from ending up in our hands. And here we have dwelled in peace since then, between the walls that saw us kiss each other for the first time.
We had a good life, my dear. We never worked too hard, and we never got too cold. We danced and drank almost as much as we wanted. It was enough for me; I thought it had been for you, too. Growing old together was all we had, or something we had at least.
And then, that look again, that wicked look. The sparkle had returned to your eyes — the wicked sparkle. But you weren’t looking at me; you were looking at someone else.
That day, at Julian Mendoza’s house, I thought I was going to explode of rage. I came back to the patio carrying a stupid tray of who knows what only to find you standing there, with your half-smoked cigar and your new shoes, shaking the rocks in your rum glass with rhythmic disaffection, as if you wanted to hide something. And that fixed gaze. It wasn’t me who lit that fire.
Ah, you look surprised. Yes, I knew, I’ve known since that dinner. I have no idea how far you dared to go. But that doesn’t matter, dear. It’s ridiculous to imagine that anyone else could be interested in this shapeless pile of bones, skin, and fat that you’ve become. Forget about it. Only I, who mapped your skin with my tongue, who carved my name into your chest with my nails, and still shudder at the memory of your hands on my buttocks, the smell of your armpits, the coarse texture of your hair. There’s little left of that now, what a macabre joke time has played on us.
I saw you. I saw the sparkle in your eyes, and it was like seeing you alive for first time. All those memories came to punch me in the face. I felt this thing here, in my chest, in my gut. Burning. I don’t know if it was pride, jealousy, or compassion, but it was there, and it was impossible to stop.
I didn’t wait.
To end it, the next day, I started to grate glass into every meal I cooked for you. You’ve eaten almost all the Bohemian glassware we inherited from Grandma; there are barely a couple of wine glasses left. Yes, that was all your suffering, your ulcers, your internal bleeding. The glassware that was the old witch’s pride.
Grandmother, remember her face? I do. I think a lot of her lately. Those eyes, the twisted mouth, the way she cursed us.
I wonder if she ever dared to tell anyone about us. I don’t think so. I’m sure there was some gossip, but she would not acknowledge it.
Wicked, she called us when she found us naked, sweating, exhausted in her bed… WICKED? Maybe she was right.
