Letters from Yelena by Guy Mankowski Read Free Book Online Page A

could see a woman’s blouse, which looked recently abandoned. For some reason I decided not to think about it. Until we sat down together we remained in our separate universes, trading
features of our new roles.
    I saw for the first time the uncompromising terrain of dating. Each person has learnt enough about the other to assume the date could work, and yet the attending anxiety reveals aspects of the
other far too intimate for a first encounter. We have to leave room for our accomplice to find their mask amongst this exposure. I was careful to appear remote, detached, but accommodating. You
were clearly trying to hide how flustered and inadequate you felt, which made me feel more attractive. I took in tokens of your appeal, scattered around the house, each reflective of your
creativity. It was suggested in the nude charcoal paintings lolling over one end of the couch; it was in the sheaves of writing pinned under glass jars. You asked how the season was going – I
tried to make out it was just one occupation I had. The pots started to boil over and we hurried to spread their contents out on the table. You seemed relieved that I didn’t want to be waited
on, not knowing that a man had never even cooked for me before.
    As we sat down together to eat, I realised how time experiences separation in such scenarios. While we talked I grew to know the endless chasms that can stretch out between one sentiment and
another. It occurred to me that a date was perhaps nothing more than a matter of joining the dots. I could see you thinking that you constantly needed to have the next step of the evening ready to
disclose. And it felt as if it was my job to calm that process, but more pressingly to validate it. That tension soon broke into a sense of expectation. An interesting question opened out on the
fertile terrain, which we felt indulgent to remain on for long, so charged was each moment with awareness of the next. In coaxing one another through that it occurred to me how quickly the two of
us took our mutual attraction for granted. I found pleasure in the rolling momentum, which we took it in turns to hurry and suppress. In so doing I temporarily forgot the appeal of your fragrance
and the curiosity in your eyes. But when such charms hit me – between one wry observation and another – they were completely disarming. Gradually, as the plates started to clear, it
became apparent that there was laughter in the air, laughter that was now unburdened by fear. Indeed, the two of us had found enough fertile patches in the conversation to return to at later dates.
That generous sprinkling of promising moments was the glitter that would soon illuminate our relationship.
    The flirtatious energy remained as you took the plates inside and fussed over the hot sauce for the pudding. I was stood at the entrance to the chalet, wondering if I could venture inside when I
heard you draw closer. You pressed a glass of wine into my fingers – slightly steamed by the heat of the kitchen. You lingered as our eyes held one another’s. Your eyes darted to my
lips, and the moment I raised my chin you kissed me. I cupped your ear in my hand and giggled, kissed you back as your hand darted down the suddenly thin fabric of my summer dress. The tang of
white wine was on your lips; the sun bloomed overhead. I felt it nestle in my back and I laughed. ‘Our pudding, I’ll burn that as well!’ you said.
    ‘Then fetch it quickly,’ I answered. ‘And we can enjoy the last rays of the sun.’ I sounded imperious, and you shouted something inaudible back. ‘Can we eat on the
steps of the chalet?’ I asked. Inside it I had seen a typewriter, and the notebook you’d had with you when you first saw me dance. I  was  intrigued  by  the 
thought  of  its  consequence,  and what it might reveal about your life. On your way back you momentarily looked concerned. ‘If you like,’ and then, ‘of
course.’ You handed me a bowl of