“Today is our birthday,” and she checks my phone to memorise the date. I don’t understand. With my eyes, I tell her so. She reaches for my hand and begins to explain. Explain the things I should know, because I have a tendency to read her mind. “Earlier, we were dancing. I looked up at you, and suddenly, I thought, ‘I love him.’” She pauses. “Today is our birthday.”
“Goeiemorgen.” I greet her in Dutch. Not much reply. She seems confused. I repeat, her eyes light up, but she shakes her head. English will have to do, and it works. Out of town, more than that, out of the country. From Italy in fact. I know the place, been there now and then, so I continue my questions. She lives on a hill in Tuscany, not far from San Gimignano, and studies in Venezia. Of course she knows this already, quite boring to her in fact, so she poses her own inquiry. “Show me your music.”
I pass my first test, which allows me to lunch by her side. My turn, and I look for familiar album covers on her phone. We discuss common ones, and leave it at that, we both have lectures in a minute. No problem, we switch mediums and that evening chat until three a.m. Tomorrow’s our second date, at eleven in Leuven’s greenest place.
We find each other on a bench in the sun, highest point, surrounded by trees in front of a grass field. She brought eggs, tomatoes, bread and before we notice three hours pass. Talks about summer, music of course, and the remarkable connection between us. We have known each other for twenty four hours.
Over the weekend we chat. Pictures from Sputnik and Apollo. More albums for us to listen to.
Monday after class we walk around town and talk more. Unfortunately she has a friend over, and needs to go home. Tuesday’s much the same, but then her friend returns to Germany, and we can go on another date.
It’s Wednesday, a bit past four in the afternoon, her classes are done, and she’s coming over. We talk and talk, the sun starts to fall, so we head to the supermarket to grab some pasta and Belgian beers. We work our way down the line, finish five bottles, listen to her music, lie on the bean bag, until she falls asleep in my embrace. I keep the songs coming, until we eventually move upstairs, and sleep through the rest of the night.
Thursday and it’s almost midnight. She’s at my door, carrying some notebooks for tomorrow and not much else besides. In the darkness on the pillows, it’s time for secrets. About her fears; my concerns. It might not be easy, sometimes it will hurt, as love tends to do. “But I really enjoy your company, talking with you for hours. I want to try to make this beautiful.”
Difficult to leave the bed. Many kisses are waiting to sparkle yet. To make up, I return home with sweets from the market after my first lecture. She might be moving in, as home is cleaner than it has been in months. After my second lecture we kiss for hours, and I’m much late in getting home for the weekend. Dad comes to pick me up in the darkness.
Two difficult days, I feel like I’ve lost something, and I’m frantically looking for that which is not here. Like rehab, I’m feverish and there’s a tremor in my hands. We chat the whole time through, but I’m counting down the hours until I can get back on a train to Leuven. It’s a tight hug, just outside the station.
We won’t discuss that night, but focus on the next. I scour through the streets to find her ingredients, real Pecorino and Guanciale. She reads my columns, seems to enjoy, and of course the Geuze doesn’t hurt. She makes the best Carbonara I’ve ever had, but the meal is heavy, and we put our backs to the carpet and after killing the lights I start picking songs. Songs full of darkness and lonely emotions. Exactly how we like it.
We stand up and hold each other close. I feel her shake and kiss the tears from her cheeks after Aznavour. I tell the tales connected to my music, about the cold waters of Iceland and broken fishing boats of Cabo Verde. Time for another secret.
“Today is our birthday,” and she checks my phone to memorise the date. I don’t understand. With my eyes, I tell her so. She reaches for my hand and begins to explain. Explain the things I should know, because I have a tendency to read her mind. “Earlier, we were dancing. I looked up at you, and suddenly, I thought, ‘I love him.’” She pauses. “Today is our birthday.”
