short story nine

Mother’s instinct
Her name was Julie. She was a great and wonderful girl. Since the first time we’ve met, there was this special click only two individuals can have the first time their green eyes meet. Julie’s eyes were as green as mine, but with a tickle of Irish naughtiness around the dark green iris. Her red curls were a perfect match to these marbles and the white velvet skin incorporating her sublime body. She was a nice girl, Julie.
It was on a hot late Tuesday afternoon when we met in the park. It was her idea of meeting in the park. The breeze of the sea in the park had a soothing impact on the sweaty city. I didn’t know the city and the city didn’t know me, but it certainly wasn’t a stranger to Julie. Julie knew everything. Even if her age didn’t reveal all the knowledge she had, her smile surely did. It was one of this smiles that could tell you the tales of the world. All the legends and myths of the planet were hidden in Julie’s smile.
I was just a new person to that world. A rookie. I just arrived five days prior, completely disorientated and in search of a new shelter. The YMC hostel had been very kind to me for the past four nights but the thin walls permitting the sounds of the young next door couple kept me awake throughout the night. I was really looking forward to meet Julie. She wasn’t just a promising companion, but her apartment was even more appealing.
Julie started with a small chitchat about the city and its traffic. According to her dark grey suit and neat pumps, I assumed that her cubicle-nine-to-five-job was a demanding task. She agreed on my offering of a mango ice tea and a handful of salted peanuts at the shabby bar around the corner. While peeling the salty crust off a roasted peanut she started to tell me about her apartment we were going to share for the next six month. Julie’s enthusiasm of the place she called “home” with such warmth was becoming contagious. She talked about it as if it was the most serene place on earth with its own life and vibe. At that moment I was confused about what my own excitement was about. The idea of not having to share my nights with fifty more pot-smoking-oversexed-drunk-partying-unwashed backpackers from all around the world, or having a place where I could rest and carry on with my writing or having to share a space with funny-great-looking-sexy Julie.
While slurping the last melted ice cubes and nibbling on peanut crumbs we decided that it will be great fun to move in together. I would be the quiet-working-inspiring housemate and Julie on her part will provide the positive and energetic vibe. Friday was decided to be the visiting day and if everything was to my liking, the Sunday would become D day. That meant that I had only two more nights to spend at the very costly and noisy YMC. Julie just made my day.
Julie’s apartment was to my liking very much. It was exactly as the way she had described it. An oasis of serenity. The spacious common living room was nicely furnished with a large red sofa, a small glass coffee table, a big widescreen TV, a desk – her desk- and two comfortable modern fauteuils that were very inviting to reading a good book with a glass of mango ice tea. Julie’s room with the en suite bathroom was hosting a large bed and two neatly arranged set of drawers. The kitchen was large enough to accommodate two non cooking persons and my room with its large window and a small balcony was all that I could wish for.
D day passed very quickly by unpacking my almost empty bags and moving in my newly bought sleeping sofa. After a quick meal at the Indian take away, I jumped into the bathtub in my unshared bathroom and sank away with Jeffry’s new novel. Jeffry Archer for the non-readers. A great beginning of a great new life. I just couldn’t wish for anything better. This was surely the place where I could retract into solitude and work on my book. Knowing that I and Julie would be nothing more than a happy housemate couple, I could settle on the first four chapters without any intrusion of emotions. Her impossible working hours and my own working schedule was a certain promise that our paths wouldn’t cross too often. A mere good morning or a passed by good night was the sole exchange of words between me and Julie. We avoided discussing our work, past, present, future or anything in between. There was no need for a mutual swap of such useless information. My life didn’t mingle with hers or vice versa.
That lasted for about one week. The mutual temptation was too hard to resist. A mad love affair began as soon as the night fell on that hot Monday in July. A most pure and unrestricted sex life was forming and developing at the same pace as my novel. We changed positions a lot more than Julie changed her suits, not imagining that the big book of Kama Sutra would be far too thin. Despite our different working hours and life styles we managed to make frenetic love with an average of three times a day. It was a physical escape and an animalistic need. The glass table, the balcony, the bathtub, the timber floor, the stove, the dryer, the tiny chess table, the three beanbags, the barstools in the kitchen and the desk had been submitted to fulfill their duty of being a platform for our uncontrolled sex. It wasn’t love or affection. It all resumed to desire, attraction and intercourse without moral obligations. No discussion about it, not prior or after.

As the cold and snow simultaneously entered the city and the fluidity of the traffic increased, the little and multicolored light bulbs were decorating most of the neighborhoods, my fifth chapter was coming to a completion. One month per chapter was a very good progress and all thanks to Julie. As in any corner of the world, Christmas is a time to celebrate, a time when relatives gather around big tables and recall upon stories from the past relieving certain moments, most of which are meant to embarrass at least one of the present sharers of the big, round, decorated and filled table.
A couple of weeks before Christmas Eve, we were chatting over a glass of green Canadian port and listening to Leonard Cohen on YouTube. The night drew closer and the sky grew darker when we approached the subject of Christmas. As Julie had never spoken much about her relatives, it didn’t really surprise me when she mentioned that she will spend that particular night in her apartment with a glass of port – most probably not green and not Canadian – or a glass of cherry. When our bottle reached the half we extinguished our cigarettes simultaneously, wished each other good night and went to bed.
The very next day my mobile rang as I was entering the seventh chapter. My dear mother was announcing her visit to the far and lonesome son. Christmas is a family engagement and must and will be celebrated with the family. Moreover, she announced me that my father would accompany her as well on this round the world journey. She inquired about the top end hotels in our neighborhood and the best car rental companies at the airport. She was a very attentive, organized and independed woman. Not a single detail ever missed her trained eye. She could tell you a person’s history, character, family ties and education only five minutes after meeting him.
Julie, darling Julie noticed my shaking after hanging up and gave me a big warm smile and a wink. Without any demand from her part I repeated the entire conversation and expressed my worry about this future encounter. Julie assured me that one night wouldn’t be that difficult to endure and even suggested to have the Christmas together at our apartment. She even offered to cook the traditional turkey and providing the wine. Such a nice and hospitable girl Julie is. Such a good housemate and friend.
The arrival of my parents resembled to the arrival of JFK in Dallas Texas. I was most assured that not only the neighborhood had noticed it but the entire city as well. For the occasion, I and Julie prepared some drenched in oil brochette, burned turkey, along with some smashed potatoes, mushy overcooked vegetables and a bavarois that could send you directly to the diabetes wing of the ER room at the local hospital. I had put on my most presentable suit that consisted of a pair of clean denim jeans, a navy blue shirt and my black Converse. The moment Julie entered the living room, my breath stopped somewhere between the larynx and bronchi. A green simple but elegant dress was accentuating her eyes and a pair of silk roman sandals was gently touching her ankles while the laces were softly squeezing her calves. The simplicity of her wardrobe was a perfect impersonation of Julie’s beauty.
During dinner, I was seated by my mom’s orders, between my parents while Julie was occupying the seat between my parents. My mom just couldn’t take her eyes of Julie. The night passed just like any uncomfortable nights where actors know their lines and roles in order for the play to have a respectable happy end. Everyone kept his or hers promise to the script and the cues of the invisible director. After thousands of obvious compliments about the food, somewhere between the soggy vegetables and the over- sugared bavarois, my mom, “discretely” invited me to the kitchen in order to “choose the right dessert spoons”.
My mom had smelled something for a long time about the true nature of my relationship with Julie, but we had agreed or to be more precise I had begged Julie not to reveal it to my parents for the sake of global peace. I had enjoyed my tranquility, harmony, freedom and mental calm so far to such an extent that I wasn’t willing to ruin it by having to answer all kinds of conservative questions. Once in the soundproof interior of the kitchen, the old fashioned and traditionalist questions started to pour over my head. She’s smashing, my mom started to attack by the flank. Ignoring my silent comment she continued to a more direct approach revealing a psycho-analytical syntax of Julie’s personality and an over elaborated description of her beauty. The final touch was a blunt question about our sex life. It took me over fifteen minutes to convince my mom of a wrong judgment of our affair, using hard arguments and absurd contra arguments melted into a political correct context. I convinced her that our co-living was merely based on the commodity of sharing the rent and the bills. That evening ended in a perfect harmony and lots of forced laughers.
The next day, my parents took off to the other side of the world fulfilling their duty of visiting my other relatives. The house returned to its old state and once again the vibe was set to the mode of maximum tranquility. While we were cleaning up the place, Julie noticed that one of her photographs that were pinned to the kitchen board was missing. It was a photograph of Julie where she was dressed up for her brother’s wedding depicting Julie in her highest splendor. She asked me if I knew anything about its disappearance and very subtle if by any chance my mom could have taken it for any unknown reason. Knowing my mom’s hidden intentions of projecting her pride of her son’s possible girlfriend, I decided to write her an email. After many hours of contemplating on the best approach I decided on the following:
“Dear mom, I am not insinuating that you did or did not take Julie’s picture from the pin board in the kitchen, but the truth is that it is missing and I felt obligated to write you this email. Big hug to you both, your son.”
The same night I did receive an answer:
“My dear boy, first of all I would to thank you and Julie for the great Christmas we have had together. I am not insinuating that you do or do not have sex with her, but if you would have slept last night in your own bed, you would had found the picture under your pillow where I had put it last night. Big hug, your mom.”