Restoration of My LGBT Universe
Can remembering love bring joy instead of grief?
Thinking about living as a couple under the same roof 20 years ago in Saint-Petersburg, Russia was very challenging. We dated a few times and then fell in love with each other; or at least I did. Imagine two guys in their early 20s, controlled by unexplored desires and fears of the reaction of society , two black sheep in the city of white nights. Our relationship ended in two months; he cheated on me with a friend on his trip to the country.
He couldn’t say it to my face, so he decided to use the benefit of written communication. It took a lot of time for him to find words for describing what he had been through and how sorry he was for hurting me. He handed me a folded piece of paper and left the room for the kitchen. He had no idea what it took me to start the relationship with him and what I sacrificed for that decision, and he would never know about it. (It turned out later nothing was worth sacrificing.)
As I read on, my world began to crumble. Rage and anger took me first. Then came an obsession for fixing things up and starting all over. I was in my early 20s and I had all the rights for any kind of reaction. No one was around to give advice or even just listen.
My days turned into a continuum of chain-smoking and coffee-drinking; my appetite was gone. I wasn’t aware that I would see the light at the end of the tunnel in nearly three months. One particular working day, he gave me a mobile call. I remember his uncertain voice making a ground-breaking proposal:
Let’s live together. It would be a two-room apartment this time, one room for you and another one for me. I would be free to bring lovers, you too. No judgment.
I kept listening, my heart pounding louder and louder. He added:
Occasionally I’d have sex with you. You know, not just sex. You know, I have feelings for you.
The light in my eyes went out. I opened them again, thanked him for those words and hung up. Those words were something that helped me get out of the post-breakup state. All that experience turned out to be so bright that I included it in my novel Truth with Ornaments.
“His name was Danny.” Madam Verona smiled thoughtfully. “We met when I was twenty-five, and he was a year older. We were full of life, ideas, and plans.” She took a candy in a blue foil and held it above the bowl.
“Neither he nor I was rich. We had complications in our families, so we decided to move in and rent a one-room apartment almost on the outskirts of the city. That was typical for young couples. The place had a small kitchen and a tiny bathroom. There was a balcony, and it warmed my heart. In the evenings, I recall times when we used to go into it and watch the sun go down, the sky full of shades of yellow and blue. I was happy back then.” Madam Verona propped her chin against her hand. “More tea? Please!”
“Yes, I’d love to.” Evan smiled and took a bite of his candy.
“We loved to spend evenings in the kitchen. We took turns cooking supper, building plans for our future. It felt so good to realize I was not alone in the world. How confident I was about tomorrow!” She began unwrapping her candy.
“One day he had changed. He stopped going to work and stayed in bed most of the time, occasionally getting out for a cup of coffee and a puff of smoke.” She bit a little of her candy. “Dark chocolate,” she said,“ my favorite.
“I tried my best to support him. There were times when it seemed he had lost all interest in me, his passion smoldering, rarely rekindling to life. You do understand what I mean.” Evan nodded.
“One evening he said that he needed time to sort things through and abandoned me. I remember I made a strong coffee, went out into the balcony, propped against the railings, and smoked cigarette after cigarette.
“From time to time, we spoke over the phone. The fragments of conversations I used as pieces of the puzzle to figure out what I did wrong. One night I took courage and went to his place. Standing on my knees, I begged him to come back. It didn’t help, though. ”
“Time wore on, and little by little, it began to heal me. It wasn’t easy to rent the apartment on my own, so one day, I moved house.
“Why am I telling you this?” It was a question that warranted no answer. “I like you, Evan. There are just too many thoughts inside of me lately.”
“You should have a special friend.”
“At my age?”
“Age is irrelevant. You look amazing.”
“The way I look is irrelevant. I do not trust an-y-one,” she said, pronouncing the last word in syllables.
To the broken-hearted: look for the right words. They’ll restore you and your uni-verse.
Dear Reader, thank you for reading. You can support my writing (due to geo position I am not eligible to join the Medium Partner Program) by getting a copy of Truth with Ornaments on Amazon.
From Russia with love.
