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  Remember

  By Cristian Mihai

  Copyright 2012 Cristian Mihai

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  First edition, April 2012

  www.cristianmihai.net

  Table of Contents

  Remember

  About the Author

  Also by Cristian Mihai

  Remember

  Dear Dexter,

  What if I were to tell you how this story is going to end? Would you read on? What if I were to tell you what the biggest tragedy in my life was? Would you care? If I were to flood you with useless information about who I am and what I do, would you remember any of it for more than five minutes?

  That’s why I am not even going to bother telling you my name.

  To be honest, I have absolutely no idea how this is supposed to work. You know, how writing about something that happened to me is going to help me or exactly how I should write it down. Do I write it in the present tense, as if it’s taking place right now, as I write the words, or do I write it in the past tense because it already happened and there’s no way it’s going to happen again?

  I know, I know, first world problems, but I have always thought that the one thing we shouldn’t be afraid of is the past. It’s selfish and stupid to remember over and over again the moments of our joys or sorrows, because history rarely repeats itself during a man’s life. Therefore, the past should be buried and forgotten.

  Yes, it’s contradictory that even though I feel this way, I am writing down a little bit of my own past, in a pathetic and absurd attempt at preserving it. You know, when I’ll be old, I want to read these papers and remember. Because it is sad but true that no matter how much we try to keep them intact, memories die. Memories die, and there’s no way to bring them back once they have vanished from our mind.

  A long time ago, when I was a kid, I used to keep a diary. And every night, before I would go to sleep, I would write down everything that had happened to me during that day. It was a painstaking process, so after one month I gave up.

  But this is not what I want to write about. No, not at all. I want to write about her. So here goes nothing.

  If there’s one thing that I regret, then it must be the fact that I never experienced love at a very young age. You know, a pure and simple love, like one you have when you’re five or six or seven. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the type that used to play with others too much. Introverted is one of the words my mother used ever so often to characterize me as a person, and as I grew up, I did my best to become the exact opposite of what that word describes.

  Yes, Dexter, I know I’m just like a dog chasing his own tail. And yes, I am going to write about her. Eventually.

  Maybe right now, after I write a couple more words. You know, so I can man up and figure out how to write about her without blushing like a stupid kid who has seen boobs for the first time.

  I’ve always thought our first love, for those who remember it, is something that carries with it a certain charm, a certain echo. And every other love feels connected to this first one, to the moment of our first great disillusion, when we forgot to be young and naïve. It’s a strange thing, to keep something as childish as our first love as a way of comparing the amplitude of our feelings as adults, but I reckon this happens to a lot of people.

  But, yes, you are right. I have to write about her.

  Well, she was my first kiss. We were young and a little drunk, and she only did it because… well, I don’t really know why she did it. And it wasn’t a real kiss either. Our lips touched for only a brief moment, but I remember it so clearly. It burned. That’s how I can describe it. That kiss, that second when our lips met, was enough to make my lips burn hot, feverishly hot to be exact, for almost half an hour. And for a long time it was enough to make them burn whenever I remembered.

  Dexter, Dexter, guessing by your name, I think you don’t know much about the educational system in Romania. So I should tell you that in Romania, when you’re in the eighth grade, you have to take these tests, so you can know which high school you’re entitled to go to. And well, kids from a bunch of schools come to the same place to take those damn tests.

  That’s where I saw her for the first time. In the school yard, waiting to go inside to take the tests. It was quite sunny and hot outside. For the first time in my life I genuinely believed that a girl my own age can be beautiful. She was kind of skinny, to be honest, but still, I couldn’t stop staring at her. I wanted to go and talk to her, I really did, and I struggled to find the courage and words needed to do that, but I couldn’t. What would I tell her? What would the other kids think about me? You know, it seems to me that whenever I think about my life before high school, it’s clear that I behaved as if my mom had kept me locked in a closet or something.

  But, dear Dexter, I should tell you something about ladies, so you can understand that I am not an introvert anymore. There’s only one thing when it comes to picking up girls, anywhere, anytime. You have to be willing to make a fool out of yourself. That’s all. You just have to go there, without making wild assumptions, without day dreaming about how that girl is going to be your wife someday. No expectations, no trembling voice, no heart pounding like crazy inside your chest. You look her in the eye and say what you feel like saying. It doesn’t really matter, but it helps if you say something crazy or interesting. But no clichés. Please, never try one of those pickup lines that sound so smart but have been around for so long they’re entitled to have their own drivers license.

  But honestly, Dexter, with a name like that you should better be good looking or rich or both.

  Let’s get back to her. After that summer day, I didn’t see her. I didn’t know her name or anything else about her. So I simply got over her and began to think about other stuff.

  I don’t believe in destiny. I believe in luck, which is pure chaos, but I don’t believe in destiny. But somehow, I saw her again on the first day of high school. In the school yard, with all these kids I didn’t know (because I didn’t know anyone at my new school) all I could do was stare at her and hope that she would be in my class. You know, there were like seven classes of freshmen, and so the odds were against me.

  I don’t know if it was destiny or not. All I can say is that we were classmates and the fact that I was going to see her almost daily for the next four years made me shiver with excitement. But still, I was afraid to talk to her. And I didn’t for a month or so. Not a single word. Some part of me wished to be invisible; some part of me avoided her at all costs.

  That is, until one day, when we ended up talking. Don’t ask me how or why or exactly when. I am only human, and even though I pride myself with my memory, this I don’t recall.

  Looking back at how I felt back then for someone I didn’t know, I honestly do think that I was a bit obsessed with her. And we all know, from TV and movies and books, that obsessions are never, ever healthy. But I didn’t care. But I didn’t tell her how I felt either. As in, I never got the courage to tell her even a little bit of the affection and weakness I had for her, which was far stronger than the weakness a fat kid has for Nutella.

  I told you something about a kiss. Yeah, that happened during a New Years’ Eve party, and I am pretty sure she forgot all about it the very next morning. And I never mentioned it either. It was my secret, something that could keep me awake at night, something that I could
dream about, over and over again. It’s strange, because words are so stupid sometimes, but I think the only words that could explain how I felt all those years are these ones: painful pleasure.

  Everything was one sided in this strange relationship. She dated other boys, and I, well, I tried my best to get into the school’s soccer team.

  We were close friends. We talked a lot, and I was, without really regretting it, the freaking king of the friend zone. I made no attempts at escaping the zone, but I embraced it as my only hope of having her close to me.

  Before I tell you more, you have to know that I am not that person anymore. An introvert. I have had plenty of women, and I am not lying. And for you to realize how many chicks I score these days, you should know what I do for a living; I own a few nightclubs and a modeling agency. So, my friend, do not worry about me, because life’s good.

  Anyway, let’s get back to our story. After high school was over, I left the country. I struggled for a while before making it big, but it was worth it.

  I never managed to forget her, if this is what you’d like to ask me. No, she was there, sometimes in my dreams, sometimes in the moments I thought about my days as a teenage boy. Every brunette I met or saw (because you need to know this: brunettes are the only women a man should love. Yes, I know this is a matter of taste, but… still… you should love brunettes,) reminded me of her.

  And to be brutally honest about myself, I never even tried to forget her. I never even tried to fall in love with someone else. I know, love is never a matter of choice, but you can let go. You can forget, at least enough of it so you can love someone else.

  Six years later, when I met her again, I had already grown sick and tired of always being disappointed by every brunette I saw on the street so, at first, I didn’t recognize her.

  I was in Rome at the time.

  If I were to ask you to imagine the most beautiful place on Earth, odds are that you’d think about a landscape, a mountain or a beach or something, but Rome is as wonderful as anything nature managed to create. It’s a mesmerizing history book that never ceases to amaze me, no matter how many times I visit.

  And there, on a narrow sidewalk, filled with tourists taking photographs with indescribable fury, I saw her. I saw her eyes, blue and wild, a tender light glittering inside them, and I felt as if her beauty answered to all of life’s questions. You know, like who created the Universe and all that.

  When our eyes met it was as if, and there’s no way of avoiding a cliché here, my whole being was struck by an earthquake that sent ripples across everything that I was or had been. It was then that I realized she was the girl who used to make out with all the popular boys in school while I was busy helping her with her homework.

  A man put his hand on her waist and kissed her on the cheek. He had an enormous camera tied around his neck, and a smile that said, quite clearly, that he thought being in Rome to be a miracle or something. He wore a cheap t-shirt, like those souvenir t-shirts they sell for less than ten bucks in bazaars and such. He was a pathetic creature.

  I began to walk toward them, with the confidence of being worth several million dollars and the general idea that I was no longer an introvert. But as soon as I stood a mere foot away from her, I found it difficult to look her in the eyes and swallowing never felt to be such a strange thing to do. It felt as if it required a conscious effort on my part to breathe or for my heart to beat.

  “Hi,” I said, and my voice was weak, just as it used to be in high school. Meeting her again had reduced me to being a freaking moron again.

  She smiled. “Hi,” she said. The guy next to her furrowed his eyebrows and grinned in a semi-menacing way.

  “Do you remember me?” I tried to put on the most decent smile I was capable of.

  “Of course.” She hugged me.

  That was when I realized who the guy was. One of my classmates, only he was taller and better built.

  “Ah!” he said. We shook hands and smiled at each other, maybe even nodded our heads in one of those quiet and embarrassing moments.

  “So,” she said and brought her hands together in a quasi-pious posture, “what have you been up to?”

  “Not much.”

  After all the years that had passed that was the only thing I said. And it was the closest to the truth as possible. Without her, I hadn’t managed to do anything of importance.

  “Oh!”

  “You?”

  “Well.” She looked over to the guy. “I got engaged.” And she showed me a ring, kind of cheap and kind of simple.

  “Oh!”

  “I’m sorry you lost in the playoffs,” the guy said, as if we were old buddies or something and he was trying to console me.

  “Luck just wasn’t on our side,” I said and remembered that back in high school this guy, whose name was Dan something, had been obsessed with sports. He had even been our soccer team’s goalkeeper. “Do you still play?” I inquired as if I accepted the fact that we had to pretend that we liked it each other.

  He shook his head.

  “He’s an engineer now,” she said.

  I haven’t written down her name yet because I still find it a painful thing to do. You know, it makes her memory even more vivid. Just by writing it down on a piece of paper, her memory grows stronger.

  Alexandra. Alexandra. Alexandra.

  As you can see, the first one was kind of rushed because I wanted to get it over with as quick as possible, and the second one, well, you can see that my hand was shaking pretty badly because of the shock of seeing her name so close to my face. But the third one turned up okay.

  “How long has it been?” I asked her.

  “Three, four years?”

  “Almost six,” I said. “Do you want to have a coffee or something?” I asked her and managed to look her straight in the eyes – a small victory. “I mean the both of you.” I smiled at Dan or whatever was his name. “We can’t just stand here on the sidewalk and talk,” I added when I realized that they were pondering whether or not to accept my offer as if I wished to buy their souls. “With all these people passing us by.”

  Long story short they agreed to go to a small café down in Piazza Venetia to have a cappuccino. We sat at a table near the window. That I remember, because there were always people passing by and peering inside, as if there was something incredible happening in that small café.

  We talked a while about what had happened in our lives, what we had become, you know, boring stuff, because I was far more interested in the future. And, as you may or may not imagine, I couldn’t concentrate with her eyes constantly pressing hard against my soul, when all I could think of was how much I wanted to feel that burning sensation on my lips again.

  “Who would have expected for you to end up together,” I said jokingly and laughed, so they could see I couldn’t care less.

  “Me,” she said and kissed Dan or Daniel or Danny on the lips.

  And that damn illusion burned hot on my own lips, a stupid, vague feeling that no longer felt as real as it used to.

  Before I could say anything, the waitress came with our order.

  “Thank you,” I said as she put a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. (You should know that I don’t tell people “Thank you” or “Sorry” very often, with the exception, of course, of waiters and waitresses. You know, people who are paid to be nice to you.)

  “Where are you from?” the waitress asked.

  “Ro-” I tried to answer, but Daniel interrupted me.

  “Russia,” he said and smiled.

  The waitress giggled. “Aw, Russia. Nice country. Big,” she said and she did a gesture with her hands, as if she tried to draw the map of the country itself.

  “Why the hell did you tell her we’re from Russia?” I asked him after the waitress had left.

  I think that I forgot to mention the fact that we were speaking in Romanian at the table, so it was fairly easy for anyone to figure out what country we were from, but that didn’t anno
y me as much as lying about who we were. Anyway, he didn’t even bother to answer.

  Alexandra smiled and said, “Come one, if you tell them you’re from Romania they…”

  “We’ve been here for a week and…” Dan left the sentence unfinished.

  “Do you remember that restaurant in Venice?” she asked him.

  He put his hands hard against the table. “Yeah, yeah. Dude, you should hear this,” he said and turned to face me. “We were eating at this restaurant in Venice. Luxury, I tell you, five stars, exquisite, all that.” He raised his hands in the air, and I was pretty sure he was going to kiss the tip of his fingers and say, “Mamma mia!” or something ridiculous like that. Instead, his figure turned grave, and in an almost whispering voice he said, “The waiter was super nice until we told him we’re Romanians.”

  “And after that, you should have seen him…” added Alexandra.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Dan nodded. “He practically spent an hour or so, while we ate and drunk, circling our table.”

  “It was as if we had our very own bodyguard,” Alexandra chuckled.

  “Well…” – that was the only word I said, before Dan started once more to raise and lower his hands in an almost savant manner.

  “So now, every time we go to a café or restaurant, we’re from a different country.” He grinned as if he had just said something particularly clever.

  Alexandra rose from her chair and kissed Dan on the cheek. I could feel the burn caress my lips once more. Feverish, delightful, passionate, playful. You know, just words, but for me, they paint a pretty accurate picture of what was going on in that moment. I felt the urge to press my fingers against my lips, but it would have been an odd thing to do, so instead I ran my tongue over my lips.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. “You boys behave.” And she disappeared along with that burning sensation that made me feel as if something made my lips squeeze. You know, like when someone grabs you by the cheeks and purses your lips in an awkward position.