__Does it still hurt?
He stood as he pulled his pants up.
__What does?
__Your knee.
He lifted his right leg and extended is foot forward. Again, and then once more.
__ I’m fine. I can walk, so I’m good.
As the door of our room slammed shut, the only thing I could hear was the rustling sound of our thermal pants and the light thuds of our footsteps as we walked towards the elevator. It hummed along the piano music faintly drowning the silence between us. I could hear his breathing while he tapped his fingers on the railings of the elevator and the buzz of the engine seemed to compliment it.
He insisted that we take the train to “the gate” despite the condition of his right knee. He’s exhausted, so am I, and I know he’s pushing himself a little too hard. Three days ago, he had just flown in to Madrid and within five hours, he was on board a plane to Reykjavik. From there we hiked mountain ranges, walked miles and miles of frozen land, and endured low temperatures he’s never experienced before.
When we were still together, I promised myself that I’d take him to Iceland once the right time presented itself. The time came, but it never occurred to me that we would come as visitors and not as a couple. We remained friends, though we still do the things we did before. Only less passionate, more regretful. Sometimes painful.
Tomorrow, he returns to Madrid, and he may never want to see me again. He had no more reasons to, I fear. While I hope this won’t be the last, I have enjoyed the last three days spending time with him. We slept on the same bed, made love, kissed, and last night, we watched a film in Icelandic without the subtitles on. He fell asleep on my shoulder while I stayed up as long as I could.
As I woke up to my freezing feet in the bright early morning of Reykjavik, I realized that he had curled on his side of the bed with his back against my thigh. I slid down to lay my body against his. This woke him up, of course, as he threw the blanket over us. I turned to him to wrap my arms around him, expecting him to push me away, but I was too sleepy to remember what happened.
__We can take the cab, you know.
He gave me a weirded-out look and smiled bitterly. The biting cold of the air outside was familiar, but it was nice to see some sunlight. I had never been so thrilled to see my shadow on the ground.
__There’s more stories to be seen when you ride with locals. You can take a cab, and I’ll just meet you there if you want…
Stories, stories… It’s what he always wanted. On our anniversaries, dates, and on his birthdays, all he wanted were stories. I thought he was easy to please, but I was wronged easily. Some stories made him so depressed he would not talk to me for days. Some made him so happy he’d shower me with sweet texts, and on many times, he wrote me letters.
The ride lasted faster than I thought. Neither of us had ever been here, but an avid traveller that he is, I knew he’d already figured out how to get to “the gate” even before he landed in Reykjavik. The same cool air greeted us as we exited the train, and I followed his lead around the exhausted pavements. He led me to where the streets rested, far for the sunlight to reach. The streets were quiet, as most streets in this city were, yet I was beginning to feel lost and far.
__Ah.
He stopped walking, and I almost bumped into him.
Across the street, straight to our left, was a rusty gate. Its walls were painted white, like the plate tied on it. To miss it would be difficult, as most walls on this street were painted in gloomy colors, as if mimicking the moods of the skies. As we crossed the lonely street, the sign became clearer.
“Single Gloves,” it said.
I looked at him, to see his reaction. It was the familiar smile he puts on whenever he becomes one with something or someone special. He smiled at me, and I tried to smile back.
__This is it.
Thousands of miles from his home, somewhere in the depressed streets of this arctic city, he seemed to have found the antidote to the false joy he’s had while spending time with me. I could not find the reason why he was brightened at this moment, but I enjoyed it far better than hearing his laughter.
He walked backwards to lean on the parked car. The sound of his bag being unzipped was the loudest sound I could hear, louder than the faint bustle of the busy street few blocks away. He pulled out his notebook, and at the sound of his retractable pen, I began to disappear from his presence.
I was not sure if I was hearing his pen dance across the paper of his journal or if I was just imagining it. Usually, it wouldn’t take him too much time to write something down when he needed to, so I stood there struggling to keep warm as I stare at the gate.
The bottom part of the sign looked torn, leaving the “g” of the “gloves” look more like a “q.” There were wooden covers inside it, like a reverse scaffold, with the smell of paint, as if someone had just painted its inner walls. Probably. It was too dark to tell what’s inside as if the gate asked light to keep its secrets.
He was still writing.
There were gloves of different kinds covering the spikes of the old gate. Some were just hanging, some on the ground. One was pink with a neon yellow lining whose middle finger covered one of the spikes and another, of brown leather, with its thumb up. There was a gray right glove dangling from the index finger and another gray one on the ground. There was a puffy blue glove smashed into the coils of the gate, a black one, a maroon, and a darker brown. The more I look, the more gloves I see.
My eyes were glued to the gate now, and I felt him walk up beside me.
I looked at him. He’s now smiling at me. I smiled back and asked him.
__What… is this?
I looked back at him, and his smile was gone, though he was looking at the gate now.
__It’s a gate for single gloves.
We were both watching the gate now. Quiet, beside each other, but obviously far away.
__It’s a gate for single gloves.
__I heard you the first time.
__I know.
I sighed, and he chortled. We stood there for a few more minutes until we silently decided that it was time for us to go back. He was content, and I was still confused. We spent the rest of the day hopping from one shop to another as we made our way back to our hotel. We were exchanging stories over the local food and local shops, watching the Icelandic folks spend their day without us, pretending we did not exist. It was all happening to quick for me, as our last night together crept near.
That evening, I found him watching the late gray night of the city as I stepped out of the bathroom.
__What’s the matter?
__Nothing. I’m just tired.
__I know.
He walked towards me, lightly limping.
I was two inches taller than him, yet he easily planted as kiss on my lips. I felt his skinny arms wrap my half naked body.
__Thank you.
He whispered.
The following morning, with the sky still dark, I felt his arms still around me. We were naked under the sheets, and though I could not see his face, I knew he was already awake.
__Will I ever see you again?
My question seemed to startle him. I tightened my embrace. He looked up to me.
__’Course you will.
He leaned in to kissed me.
There was a long pause before he finally broke the silence. He slid off the bed and started packing. I watched him do it quickly as I fought the drowsiness. In about two hours, he’d be on a plane and I’d be alone for another day.
As soon as he was ready to leave, I tried to put on clothes – my underwear at least – and said my goodbyes. I wanted it to be more special, thinking that this will be the last time we were alone together, but it turned out like we were still living near each other. We would be in the next few months, but after that, it could be worse.
__Are you sure you don’t want a cab?
As always, he declined my offer as he kissed me, perhaps the last time. As the door shut, I crashed back on the bad and surrendered. For a few minutes, I tried to harness everything and put me to sleep but I just could not. I sat up and watched the same skies he was watching last night.
My feet brushed on something on the floor.
It was his glove.
He must have dropped it.
Quickly, I put on some more clothes and tried to run after him. I knew he’d be long gone, but there was a likelihood that he might still be reading a book while waiting for the next train to the airport.
I ignored the piercing cold air as I bolted out of the hotel doors and walked swiftly to the train stop. There seem to be more people walking around, but I easily managed to get to the stop. I could not find him, as I expected, so I dialed his phone number.
__Hello?
__Hey… You, uh… You forgot your glove.
There was an unfamiliar silence.
__Did I?
For some reasons, I knew he was smiling on the other line. I could feel it. Then I heard a light giggle.
__You’re smiling right now, aren’t you?
__Yes.
He giggled again.
__Yes, I am… I know you’re smiling too.
He hang up, and I started my way back to the hotel.
And so, the air of this Reykjavik’s uninviting autumn breath froze everything I was ever scared off. How I wish there was a mirror in front of me, for I have never seen what true relief looked like. Indeed, I was feeling it at that moment. I’ve felt it, and I’ve heard it – but I wanted to see it.
I put his glove inside the breast pocket of my coat. I breathed out a smile, and the cacophony of the footsteps of the passers-by started to become louder. The air remained criminally cold, with my hands shaking. All these I ignored for I have never before felt satisfaction as timely as this.
Letter-Borne Pictures 