breath. Within five minutes I’ve opened all the windows and grabbed the dusting rag. An hour later, and just before three o’clock, the house is fragrant and clean, and I even have enough time to shower and change.
At three o’clock I hear a knock at the door, and I rush to open it. At first, I only see an old pickup truck that I’ve spotted before parked in front of the carpenter’s. There are a lot of curved wooden boards in the truck bed, which I assume will become my bookshelf. Then Aris appears from behind the vehicle, with his lanky frame in his baggy jeans, and his smile is the sun that this cold, gray day has been missing. We say hello, and he begins to hoist the boards onto his shoulders. I don’t know how he can lift all that weight. I show him into my house and take him into the bedroom, pointing out the wall where I would like my bookshelf to go. It takes him three trips back to the truck to bring all the wood into my room. He takes off his overshirt so that he’s just in a T-shirt.
“Can I stay and watch, or do you prefer to work alone?” I ask.
“Sure, you can stay.”
I sit on the bed with my legs crossed, and thus begins one of the greatest hours of my life. I am free to watch Aris without having to look away, without anyone seeing me, without feeling ashamed. His movements are so graceful. He affixes two brackets to the wall and then wedges in the wooden boards, which are sanded and shaped to fit together perfectly. He makes it all seem effortless. He works methodically and continuously, but without haste. His hair sways in front of his face to the rhythm of his movements, occasionally obscuring his blue eyes. I want to ask him how he learned to work with wood this way, if it’s his own method or if someone taught him, but I don’t want to interrupt him. I understand that he likes silence, so I remain quiet and simply watch. He finally fits together the last piece, a small hook hanging from the lower board, then turns to me.
“I thought you might like a hook there,” he says. “You can hang a necklace or dried flowers. Whatever you want.”
“It’s all perfect. And it’s identical to the design you sketched for me. Have you built many like this?”
“This is all yours. No one else will ever have one like it,” he says, staring at me. How could I not imagine a deeper meaning in his words? My hands are sweating, and my cheeks are becoming dangerously warm.
“You have an incredible memory,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice how agitated I’ve become. “But what if I move houses?”
“I’ll come back, take it down, and mount it in your new home.”
I think to myself that as long as he’s here, I’m staying put.
“And what if I move to the United States?” I ask him, laughing. He smiles.
“You’d just have to pay for my trip,” he answers as I continue to laugh. “But I hope that won’t happen,” he adds, suddenly serious.
“I hope so too.”
We keep looking at each other, without saying anything, but in the end I can’t hold his gaze any longer. I stand and offer him tea. He follows me into the kitchen and sits down at the table, which I’ve already set. My hands tremble as I light the fire under the kettle. I can’t speak, fearful that I would only be able to mumble incomprehensibly, so instead I quietly prowl around the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, Aris doesn’t say anything either, but his silence doesn’t bother me. He’s so calm and serene. He sits there, motionless, with his eyes fixed on the window overlooking the woods. He appears utterly relaxed, as if he’s perfectly content where he is. The water is finally boiling, and I pour it into the teapot, then slice two croissants that I warmed up.
“Jam or honey?” I ask.
“Honey please.”
I spread a thin layer of honey on one of the croissants and give it to Aris. Our hands touch for a brief moment, and we both raise our eyes to look at each other. I swallow hard and turn to grab the teapot,
At three o’clock I hear a knock at the door, and I rush to open it. At first, I only see an old pickup truck that I’ve spotted before parked in front of the carpenter’s. There are a lot of curved wooden boards in the truck bed, which I assume will become my bookshelf. Then Aris appears from behind the vehicle, with his lanky frame in his baggy jeans, and his smile is the sun that this cold, gray day has been missing. We say hello, and he begins to hoist the boards onto his shoulders. I don’t know how he can lift all that weight. I show him into my house and take him into the bedroom, pointing out the wall where I would like my bookshelf to go. It takes him three trips back to the truck to bring all the wood into my room. He takes off his overshirt so that he’s just in a T-shirt.
“Can I stay and watch, or do you prefer to work alone?” I ask.
“Sure, you can stay.”
I sit on the bed with my legs crossed, and thus begins one of the greatest hours of my life. I am free to watch Aris without having to look away, without anyone seeing me, without feeling ashamed. His movements are so graceful. He affixes two brackets to the wall and then wedges in the wooden boards, which are sanded and shaped to fit together perfectly. He makes it all seem effortless. He works methodically and continuously, but without haste. His hair sways in front of his face to the rhythm of his movements, occasionally obscuring his blue eyes. I want to ask him how he learned to work with wood this way, if it’s his own method or if someone taught him, but I don’t want to interrupt him. I understand that he likes silence, so I remain quiet and simply watch. He finally fits together the last piece, a small hook hanging from the lower board, then turns to me.
“I thought you might like a hook there,” he says. “You can hang a necklace or dried flowers. Whatever you want.”
“It’s all perfect. And it’s identical to the design you sketched for me. Have you built many like this?”
“This is all yours. No one else will ever have one like it,” he says, staring at me. How could I not imagine a deeper meaning in his words? My hands are sweating, and my cheeks are becoming dangerously warm.
“You have an incredible memory,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice how agitated I’ve become. “But what if I move houses?”
“I’ll come back, take it down, and mount it in your new home.”
I think to myself that as long as he’s here, I’m staying put.
“And what if I move to the United States?” I ask him, laughing. He smiles.
“You’d just have to pay for my trip,” he answers as I continue to laugh. “But I hope that won’t happen,” he adds, suddenly serious.
“I hope so too.”
We keep looking at each other, without saying anything, but in the end I can’t hold his gaze any longer. I stand and offer him tea. He follows me into the kitchen and sits down at the table, which I’ve already set. My hands tremble as I light the fire under the kettle. I can’t speak, fearful that I would only be able to mumble incomprehensibly, so instead I quietly prowl around the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, Aris doesn’t say anything either, but his silence doesn’t bother me. He’s so calm and serene. He sits there, motionless, with his eyes fixed on the window overlooking the woods. He appears utterly relaxed, as if he’s perfectly content where he is. The water is finally boiling, and I pour it into the teapot, then slice two croissants that I warmed up.
“Jam or honey?” I ask.
“Honey please.”
I spread a thin layer of honey on one of the croissants and give it to Aris. Our hands touch for a brief moment, and we both raise our eyes to look at each other. I swallow hard and turn to grab the teapot,
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