geneva
During finals week, I’d spent days on various reports and papers, scribbling in the margins of notes and books, checking facts, revising flashcards and prepping with friends. I’ve an unshakable faith in plodding persistence.
We were tested and sent packing.
Today, I’m in Geneva, with Peter (my bf). He works for CERN. I’m on vacation - but he has to work sigh. Peter apartments with a roommate, so, oh-darn, we had to make alternate arrangements.
We’re ensconced at the fabulous Hotel de la Paix. It’s my treat, I’ve been dorm-roomed for months, and Vive la différence!
The hallways are hushed here, as if moss-covered - noises fade quickly after use. The purposeful quiet feels physical, like a cotton covered fairytale hug after noisy dorm life - where doors slam and people yell at 3am.
Freshly cut flowers accent with color, and infuse the suite with scents that calm and relax like subconscious aromatherapy. This is the land of chocolate, and little treats are stashed everywhere to surprise and delight.
I’m a cryophile - from the Greek "kryos" (cold) and "philos" (lover) - I like my environment cold. In the dead of New Haven winter, when it’s 20°f, I sleep with my dorm room windows open and I seldom use more than a sheet for cover. When Peter would sleepover, he’d try and close the windows, “GEE-zus,” he’d say.
“Don’t be a big baby,” I’d suggested, generously cracking them back open again, “I’ll keep you warm.”
That being said, have you ever slept under freshly starch-pressed egyptian-cotton sheets?’
The cotton is orchid petal light and soft - the starch-pressing means the top sheet stands-off your skin, only barely resting on you, as needed - like an angel's kiss.
At college, I handle the menial chores of daily existence, like laundry service, and there are no freshly pressed sheets.
Hmm.. ok, something poetic-ish
Our experiences are stacked,
laid and layered like bricks.
We’re making something
but the form isn’t clear.
Is it solid and cohesive
- will it last - who knows?
I’d been Facetimimg with Lisa (she’ll join us next Friday), while Peter looked through some work papers. Since he isn’t on vacation, he wants to finish something before we leave for Paris tomorrow, where we’ll meet my parents for mothers-day.
As I came into the bedroom, Peter, propped up on the bed, said, “You ladies were talking for a while.” And still not looking up from his papers, he added, “How’s Lisa?”
I thought I’d made a firm decision - but now I was afraid.
Still, after a moment - I just blurted it out, saying, “I told her I love you.”
I’d said it in a rush - my pounding heart sounded like thunder.
He looked up. “You did?” He asked, radiating an irritating amount of pleasure.
As I’d said it, I felt a relief that turned into a wave of anxiety verging on nausea.
He still had an open mouthed expression of success and pure joy, so I said, “Shut up.”
“Say it again,” he asked, laying down his papers and taking off his reading glasses, “what you said to her.”
For some reason, I felt a sudden hopelessness. “Not now,” I said, turning away.
“Why,” he asked, I could hear the smile in his voice of insistence.
“Because.. reasons.” I explained, then I went into the bathroom and turned on the water.
“Tell me!” He pleaded from the other room.
I felt flushed, and didn’t want to talk, so I squeezed-out too much toothpaste and started to brush my teeth.
“I can’t heah muuf,” I said, purposefully inaudible through a mouth full of suds.
“Anais,” he called, but I closed the bathroom door and leaned back against it.
I suddenly wanted to go home.. or back in time.
Later, I’d calmed down. Was my declaration really a secret - or common knowledge available to the most casual observer?
We’d had dinner room-serviced (Nordic-fusion cuisine from the Fiskebar) but I still felt a little off and moody. We were settled on an uncomfortable, Ikea-like, off-white couch and we’d queued-up ‘Parks and Rec,’ when I had a terrible thought.
“You must think I’m easy,” I voiced it, looking down, my hair hiding my face from him, “the way school ends and I just flee into our arms.”
“You.. EASY?” He said with a chuckle, “NNNOO,” he added snarkily.
I turned on him sharply, tucking my hair back behind my ears for verbal combat. “I feel like I’m being very vulnerable with you and you’re just laughing,” I pronounced.
“ALL right,” he said softly, as he turned and wrapped his arms gently around me, “don’t get yourself all wound-up - or I won’t get a chance to say ‘I love you,’ back.”
.
.
songs for this:
Good Life by Sammy Rae & The Friends
Swingin Party by The Replacements
Redwood Tree by Jamie Drake
All My Girls Like To Fight by Hope Tala
Copyright ©
Anais Vionet
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