Alina Bronsky - Broken Glass Park

After that I don’t hear anything more.

I’m awakened by the wind coming in the open door. Volker gives me his hand.

“We’re home,” he says. “Or do you want to sleep in the car?”

I take his hand and let myself be pulled out of the car. Then he lets go again quickly.

Then don’t, I think.

We walk up the stone steps to the front door. His keys jingle. Inside I brace myself with one hand on the wall and work at my shoelaces with the other.

At some point I realize Volker is standing next to me. And that he hasn’t turned on any lights.

I lose my balance and my forehead lands on his shoulder. His shirt smells good, though it’s sweaty. I like the mix of sweat, cologne, and gasoline scents. The smell of the hospital is in there, too, along with cigarettes from the restaurant earlier tonight and a touch of alcohol.

I rub my forehead on his shoulder.

Volker tussles my hair, pushes me upright, and turns on the light.

Then don’t, I think again, turning my back to him and walking slowly up the stairs.

He passes me and turns into the kitchen.

I stop there, too.

I lean against the wall and watch as he pops open a bottle of red wine and pours himself a glass. He empties it and refills it. And again. And again.

Then he notices me.

“Would you like some?” he asks. “Or have you had enough for tonight?”

“More than enough,” I say. “Actually, I don’t drink.”

“That’s a shame,” he says. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe because I come from a country where so many people drink themselves to death.”

The glass clinks as Volker puts it down.

“You’re still young,” he says and walks past me out of the kitchen. “You’ll change your mind a few more times.”

I don’t think so, but I don’t say that to him.

I walk behind him as if on a leash. Finally we come to the door behind which his bedroom must be. He goes in and doesn’t notice that I follow him. In bare feet I’m very quiet.

He sits down on his bed and holds his head in his hands.

“It’s a double bed,” I say, surprised. Not sure what I had expected.

He looks up, startled. It’s dark; he probably can’t even make me out.

“You?” he says. “You again?”

I sit down next to him. I can feel the warmth of his hips next to mine. He doesn’t move away.

I’m not sure exactly what happens next. But he’s holding my head with both hands. He kisses me on the mouth, harder than I had expected, pushing me into the pillows. His fingers run through my hair for a tantalizingly long time. I suppress my nervous shivers and press back, running my hand along his back where his shirt has ridden up.

And then it stops feeling good to me anymore.

His kisses are too fast and aggressive. I don’t like it that his watch scratches my skin through my sweater and that his other hand is pulling my hair. I get the feeling he is thinking of somebody else.

It’s been a long time since I was in such a ridiculous situation.

He grunts in my ear. The booze on his breath makes it hard for me to get air. I try to squirm away, but he follows determinedly, relentlessly. I roll away again and again and each time he comes after me and wraps me in his arms.

He probably thinks it’s just a game, and that he’s supposed to chase me.

I’m not sure how to tell him I don’t want to play anymore.

It’s not that I don’t still like him. But I want him to let me go.

But I don’t have the heart to shove him away or to ram my knee between his legs. I still like him too much for that, even if his magic is quickly fading.

I roll around the entire bed until I’m sideways against the wooden headboard. I can’t go anywhere else. I turn away from Volker and press my face and hands against the cool wood.

Then he lets go of me.

As I look with surprise over my shoulders, he is sitting there rubbing his face. “I’m sorry,” he says in a gravelly voice. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Did I scare you?”

I pull myself away from the headboard and sit up warily.

“Why would that scare me?” I say. “I’m not that easily scared.”

“Please forgive me,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done that. What a night.”

He sounds horrified. He won’t stop rubbing his face and holding his head in his hands.

“Nothing happened,” I say. “Everything’s all right.”

Please forgive me,” he repeats. I’m beginning to get tired of his apologies.

“My god,” I say, “it’s fine. I started it, after all.”

“I nearly could have. .,” he says, shuddering.

“No, you couldn’t have,” I say calmly. “I know how to defend myself.”

“You do?” he asks, turning his ashen face toward me. “Where’d you learn that?”

“Volker,” I say wearily, “you really don’t want to know all that, do you?”

He doesn’t answer.

I pull the covers out from under me and get under them. Grab the nearest pillow and shove it under my head. It’s a joy just to lie like this in a nice, soft bed. The corners of my mouth turn upward into — I can’t suppress it — an inappropriately sunny smile.

“What are you planning?” Volker asks hoarsely.

“I want to sleep,” I say.

“Here?” He sounds totally spent now.

“Yes,” I say. “You can be sure I’ll never sleep alone in this house. Always something going on here. It’s almost like at home.”

“And me?” asks Volker. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“There’s enough room,” I say. “I’ll keep my clothes on just so there are no misunderstandings.”

“You must be crazy,” he says.

I smile in the darkness.

“I bet you’ll leave now,” I say. “I bet you don’t trust yourself — because you’re afraid of me.”

“You’ve just lost that bet,” Volker says. “Give me back my pillow. I won’t sleep well otherwise. Take the other one.”

“You know what, Volker,” I say just before I fall asleep.

“What,” he murmurs from a yard away.

“I thought I was already old,” I say and yawn, causing the sentence to come out wrong. I start over: “I thought there was no difference between me and adults. Between me and you, for instance.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But now I get it. When you’re old, you do things differently. At a different tempo. I’m not old yet. For me, it has to go very differently.”

“What?” Volker mumbles. “What are you talking about?”

“Sex,” I say.

“Those are tough thoughts,” says Volker. “What a fucked up night. Quiet now. Let’s get some sleep.”

I’m soon awake again.

Volker has a clock in his room. It’s seven in the morning when I sit up. I’m wired but wrecked at the same time. It’s light outside. The chirps of birds waft in through the partly open window. The sun shines on Volker’s sleeping face. He looks tired and gray.

He’s lying on his back, his mouth half-open, his face slack, a hand tucked behind his head. He’s no longer a young man. I can see that clearly this morning.

Something starts to well up and gnaw at me. A feeling I recognize and hate like the plague. A feeling called pity. I don’t like the image of Volker racing down the autobahn in the middle of the night with Felix, waiting in the hallway of the hospital, and driving home alone.

Who could possibly leave someone like that, I think. Someone with graying hair, someone good-looking and sophisticated and funny. How can you just abandon your child, especially when he’s so sick? A red-haired kid with freckles and a white scar beneath his T-shirt.

Easy.

Then I think of something and jump up, kick myself for my inconsiderateness as Volker stirs, and then tiptoe out of the room. The wood floor is warm and smooth underfoot. And with no shoes on there’s no squeaking noise as I walk on it. I run into the guest room, remembering how just a few hours earlier I had been crying and stumbling around screaming for Volker. It all seems like a distant nightmare, something I dreamed years ago.