The Lullaby of Polish Girls by Dagmara Dominczyk Page A

Serbia, or some other war-torn Balkan state. He looked the way she sometimes imagined Sebastian Tefilski would look all grown up. He was staring at her, openly, his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. She looked away and smiled; it was textbook flirtation. The rain misted over her face, the bus was nowhere in sight.
    “Would you accompany me for the coffee?”
    Anna had been right. His accent was thick. She paused and lifted her left hand, wiggling her adorned ring finger. The man hung his head in mock despair, and placed his hands over his heart. “Please, anyway?” She laughed as the bus rolled up.
    “Sorry,” she mouthed over her shoulder, and as she boarded the B43, for a moment, she actually was.
    Anna thought about that man for days. She fantasized about running off with him, and she kept her distance from Ben, confused by her feelings. The idea that Ben wasn’t enough, that he would never understand, had been planted.
    When she crawls back into the kitchen from the fire escape, Anna’s cheeks are raw and she feels like someone realigned her vertebrae or something. The shower is running and she decides to actually make breakfast. The idea comes to her out of the blue, and, aside from piles of take-out menus in the cupboard and a few utensils, Anna is unprepared. She finally unearths a frying pan, after rummaging through a moving box marked KITCHMISC.
    Minutes later, three eggs sizzle on a paper plate. It’s not much, but it’s something. Ben emerges from the bathroom, swathed in a towel, trailing steam. “For me?” he asks, pointing to the table. She nods and manages a smile. The whole thing—her effort and his approval—feels lacking, as if they both know a bit of protein can’t apologize for everything. Ben eats right then and there, water dripping down his arm as he digs in. Anna wishes the sight could arouse her, or at best reassure her, but she feels nothing except for a small lump of revulsion when, after the last bite, Ben burps loudly. He leans in to kiss her in thanks, and she lets him.
    After Ben leaves for work, Anna goes to her desk, and pulls out an old address book. The numbers look like hieroglyphics and her fingers shake as she dials them.
    “Słucham.”
    Poles answer the phone in a myriad of ways: a basic
halo
, a polite
dzieńdobry
, or an impartial
słucham
, which translates literally to “I’m listening.” When Justyna says it now, it almost sounds like a dare.
    “Justyna. It’s Anna Baran … from New York.”
    “Hi, girl. How are you?”
    The neutrality in her old friend’s voice takes Anna by complete surprise. “I’m so sorry. My mom told me yesterday.”
    “Yeah …”
    “I wish I could be there.”
    “No, you don’t.” Anna can hear the smile in Justyna’s voice; she knows Justyna is trying to keep the conversation light but somehow it does the opposite.
    “How’s Damian? Last time I saw you, he was a baby, right? When was that? 1998?”
    “Yeah.”
    “And then I got that movie and I—”
    “—became a star?” Justyna’s voice doesn’t belie any accusation, but Anna doesn’t know how to respond.
    “I’m sorry,” she echoes, at a loss.
    “Well, you know, shit happens, right? Damian’s fine. He’s fine.”
    “He’s six?”
    “Seven.”
    “Is he a good—does he like school?”
    “Hates it. He’d rather, you know, while away the hours whittling.”
    “Whittling?” Somehow the conversation has gotten off course.
    “Yeah, it was a thing he did with.” Justyna makes a sentence out of what should be a fragment. “He’s a big baby, though. Still wets the bed, but what are you gonna do? He’s a handful,
wiesz
?” Anna nods her head, but, no, no, she doesn’t know.
    “Justyna. Really, I’m so sorry. If you and Elwira need anything, I can wire you some money and—”
    “No, no,” Justyna quickly interrupts, “we’re okay. But thanks. So. How are
you
? You married?”
    “Justyna, there’s a Western Union near—”
    “Listen,