Pod kůží Under the Skin

X.

I walked home on foot, even though the buses were still running. I didn’t feel like getting on any of them. In the meantime, the snow had intensified, and a thin white layer was slowly covering rooftops, benches, and sidewalks. The city felt unusually quiet, and I had the feeling that if I walked slowly enough, that evening would not end.

I could still feel his hand.

Not on my palm.

Somewhere inside me.

And every time I thought of it, I caught myself smiling.

I arrived at my apartment shortly after one. I only switched on the small light in the kitchen, tossed my jacket over the back of a chair, and stood there in the silence for a while. Everything was exactly as I had left it. The mug on the counter. The book on the coffee table. The keys by the door.

Only I was no longer the same.

I stayed in the shower much longer than usual. Hot water ran down my shoulders, and I went over that moment by the stop again and again. His look. The way he took a breath. The way he touched me so carefully at first, as if he expected me to recoil.

I didn’t.

When I brushed my teeth later, I glanced at myself in the mirror without meaning to.

I was smiling.

At myself.

For a moment I looked serious.

Then I laughed.

“You’re an idiot,” I muttered to my reflection.

This time I fell asleep almost immediately.

I woke up only late in the morning. The sun was shining straight into the bedroom, and for several seconds I just lay there before I realized why I felt so strange.

Then it all came back.

The pub.

The snow.

His hand.

The kiss.

I pulled the duvet up to my chin and closed my eyes.

It was strange how a person can replay an entire evening over and over and discover something new in it each time. It was enough to close my eyes and I felt his palm, his embrace, and that moment when everything suddenly stopped seeming so complicated.

The phone lay on the nightstand.

I reached for it.

Nothing.

I put it back.

Actually, that was good.

I still had no idea what I would write to him.

The morning slipped by in strange timelessness. I turned on the washing machine, tidied the kitchen, and tried to read. After a few pages I realized I had no idea what the book was about. My eyes skipped from one line to the next, but my head was somewhere completely else.

The phone vibrated.

I smiled before I even looked at the screen.

Just one word.

Even so, it made my heart race.

I opened the keyboard.

I wrote:

Deleted it.

I tried:

Nothing.

I set the phone down on the kitchen counter and opened the fridge. I just stared into it in silence for a while, as if it might tell me what to write.

Then I noticed a pack of turkey breasts.

I had bought them several days earlier.

Suddenly I remembered our very first conversation. All those conversations about cooking. The way we had jokingly promised dinner as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I smiled.

I closed the fridge, picked up the phone again, and this time wrote without thinking.

I stared at the screen for several seconds.

Then I sent it.

And almost immediately regretted it.

I put the phone down on the table and tried to occupy myself with something else. I made coffee, turned on the radio, and mindlessly wiped the kitchen counter, even though it was already clean. After a while I sat down on the couch.

I lasted barely a minute.

I picked up the phone again.

Still nothing.

“Perfect,” I muttered.

“That was a really great idea.”

I thought about deleting the message.

But it was already too late.

Next to it was the plain text:

Sent.

Exactly when I was about to put the phone down again, it vibrated.

I just exhaled.

I smiled so hard my cheeks ached.

I didn’t delete this one.

The reply came almost immediately.

I stared at that message for a while longer.

Then I set the phone on the table and leaned back in the chair.

I had just invited someone to my home.

I had never thought it was a big deal before. Hardly anyone came over to my apartment. Not because I rejected people, but because I’d never even thought to invite anyone. It was simply my space. The place I returned to after school and work, where I could be alone and not have to deal with anything.

And now all of a sudden I was wondering whether I should change the bedding.

I stopped myself.

“No.”

That was already absurd.

Instead, I decided to start cooking.

I salted and peppered the turkey breasts and put them in the baking dish. I added butter, a handful of chopped walnuts, several sprigs of thyme and rosemary, a couple of cloves of garlic, and slid it all into the oven. I liked this recipe. It wasn’t complicated, it just needed time. And I suddenly had more of that than I knew what to do with.

Mashed potatoes can wait until later.

Until then I had nothing to do.

I walked through the apartment as if I were seeing it for the first time. I straightened the throw on the couch, carried the mug to the sink, and wiped the kitchen counter even though it was clean. In the bathroom I changed the towel, stared at it for a while, and then took it off again.

The original was perfectly fine.

“Calm down...”

I sighed and opened the oven.

The meat looked exactly as it had earlier.

I poured the juices over it anyway.

The phone vibrated.

I smiled before I even looked at the screen.

I stared at that message for several seconds.

Then I slapped my hand to my forehead.

“Of course...”

I hadn’t sent him the address.

I copied it quickly and sent it.

The reply came almost immediately.

I laughed.

Out loud.

I set the phone back on the counter and opened the oven once more.

The meat still needed its time.

But this time I closed it again right away.

Only then did I realize that I didn’t actually know what Adam liked. Whether he drank wine or beer. Whether he ate everything. Whether he preferred extra meat or potatoes. I knew his smile, I knew how he laughed, and I knew he hated Rolničky. But I had no idea about a hundred ordinary things.

And yet he was about to sit at my table.

Oddly enough, that didn’t scare me.

On the contrary.

It felt right.

I put the potatoes on to boil and started setting the table. I laid out two plates, two glasses, and cutlery. Then I opened the drawer with the candles.

I took one in my hand.

I turned it between my fingers for a while.

Then I put it back.

That would be too much.

I looked around the apartment.

For the first time all afternoon, I had the feeling that there was nothing left to fix.

I sat down on the couch.

I lasted barely half a minute.

I got up again.

I went to the kitchen, drained the potatoes and began mashing them with butter and a little warm milk. When I opened the oven, the smell of roasted meat immediately spread through the whole apartment. I poured the juices over it and nodded in satisfaction.

This time it was truly done.

I turned the oven off and looked around once more.

I looked around the apartment one last time.

The plates were set.

Dinner was waiting in the oven.

There was not a single mug lying around.

No mess anywhere.

There was nothing left to straighten.

Nothing to keep my hands busy.

At exactly that moment, the doorbell rang.

I stayed standing in the middle of the kitchen.

My heart raced just as fast as it had the night before at the bus stop.

I took a deep breath.

And went to open it.