by Thea Archer
I kissed his lips gently.
"And a raspberry pie," I echoed, smiling.
I continued combing through the fridge, assembling ingredients for breakfast. I heard a shutter sound behind me and turned back to glance swiftly at Ian — he was engrossed in his phone.
"Let me guess, hashtag, 'my man can cook'?" I asked.
"Hashtag, 'my man has a gorgeous ass.'"
I sighed.
"Mom's your follower," I reminded. "Think again."
"Duh, love, I'm afraid she suspects we have sex sometimes."
"Right, it seems like she's realized that when we announced our engagement."
"Besides, Lothar constantly posts pictures of his girlfriend, why shouldn't I? We can do everything straight couples do. We just do it better."
I chuckled.
"Oh, by the way," Ian said and put his cup on the table. "Since I'm so blessed to be a chef's fiancé... I have a present for you."
I blinked, surprised, and Ian rolled himself out of the kitchen toward his office.
I returned to the counter and sipped at my coffee, thoughtful, preparing myself for another Ian's sumptuous purchase.
Fiancé.
My glance reflexively dropped at the ring on my finger that Ian gave me last month. Well, he hadn't actually given it to me, I could hardly call it a propose because I'd woken up in the morning with a ring on my finger and a note beside me, Let's get married, while Ian had locked himself in his office because he was too embarrassed, so I'd had to answer him by texting.
Ian rolled back into the kitchen, but this time with an A3 thick manila envelope at his lap.
He stopped in front of me, not daring to look me in the face.
"Look..." He started, his cheeks flushed a subtle pink. "I know how hard you've worked to start your own pastry shop, while at the same time... you've always been beside me. But I'm sure I know you were meant to be a pastry because... I have never met anyone who liked doing what they do more than you. It's a week till the shop open, so... It's the least I could do for you."
He held out the envelope, and I reached for it, smiling, deeply moved by his words.
I laid my coffee aside and ripped open the envelope — there were several thick Stonehenge sheets inside it, each neatly wrapped in thin translucent paper.
I carefully pulled them out, and my breathing ragged uncontrollably as my glance slid across the first sheet.
"It's... It's..." I faltered, my heart pounding in my throat.
"The paintress you were looking for three years," Ian said softly.
It was a beautiful drawing in watercolor pencils — the image of bluish gardenia flowers spread across the rippled water surface. It's been a while since I saw that painting technique last time, but it was solid burned into my memory, I would know the style anywhere.
"Annika..." I whispered, brushing my thumb across the tiny signature in the bottom left corner of the sheet.
"It's Anselm, actually," Ian said, and my head snapped up to look at him. "That's why you couldn't find her — legally, she's still a male. It's Anselm Dennhardt."
So, that was their shared secret, I realized.
I looked down at the second painting in the stack and smiled, though I knew my expression was nothing but melancholic. It was the drawing of a dancing pair, the colored replica of the picture Ian pinned to the South Gate's wall of the terminal when Annika's gone.
"I bought the ones I liked the most," Ian said. "But now I have her agent's contacts, so you can..."
"No," I interrupted him. "These are perfect."
"I just thought that they would look great in your shop since it's mainly art nouveau." He said and added when I looked at the next picture. "Oh, this one is my favorite."
I felt a smile breaking across my face.
"Of course it is," I murmured, gazing at the bright moon, above the misty green forest.
"Hmm?"
I stacked the paintings into a pile and put them aside.
"Ow," Ian gasped surprisingly, as I hooked my hands under his arms and pulled him up. He embraced my neck as I supported most of his weight with my shoulders, allowing him to touch the floor with his toes.
"Thank you," he whispered in a low but fervent voice, caressing my hair.
"That's my line," I said and placed him at the counter; he immediately wrapped his legs around my hips, pulling me closer.
He cupped my face and smiled warmly.
"I wanted to thank you for those four years," he said finally.
He stared at me, his eyes dark, intense.
I exhaled as I realized what he meant.
"I am so sorry," I said fervently. "I forgot it's our anniversary. I'm a waste of space."
He giggled, his fingers stroked my cheek.
"Of course you forgot. Given what you have to remember, it's nothing."
He trailed his thumb along the scar crossed my left eyebrow. I knew that scar was the thing he regretted the most — the scar from glass splinter he had thrown at me three years ago in the middle of his second suicidal attempt I'd prevented.
"Ugh, I wish you fell in love with someone less borderline and more mobile,' he said. "But at the same time, I'm so grateful you chose me. Isn't that selfish?"
I caught his hand and kissed his palm.
"No, it's not," I said and looked up at him — a smile lit his beautiful face, and I felt hopeless again, overwhelmed with emotions.
All this time, I have never had any regrets falling in love with him.
The memories of the last four years were partly afflicted, but they had led us to that very moment of pure, unblemished, absorbing happiness. I would never forget us lying on the floor covered with blood as I'd been begging him to live, to stay with me. I would never forget his tears on my neck, his sobbing, his anemic face, while I'd been persuading him not to give up after his ankle ligament reconstruction surgery didn't work. But I would also always remember the first smile he'd given me, the first kiss he'd hesitantly pressed against my cheek, the first confession he'd whispered timidly in my ear. That was my private hell, and I accepted its rules, I'd signed the contract voluntarily.
"I love you," I muttered.
All those four years, I've loved him more than everything else in the world. All those four years and one tiny, fleeting moment — the imperceptible moment that had flashed through my lifeless mind and made me fall in love with this person with every atom of my eternal soul.
* * *
[1] "747" by Mark Forster
[2] Act 4, Scene 5 of Hamlet by William Shakespeare