One Week

by Roya Carmen

  Finally, we make it to baggage claim, and I watch intently for my suitcase. Thankfully, it’s colorful and not easy to miss. I bounce up and down like a kid when I spot it. “That’s mine,” I shout out. “Mine. Mine.” Like anyone cares. A couple turns and gives me a look — yes, crazy American.

  I run to the carousel, but I can’t quite get to it. In my haste to reach for my suitcase, I bump into a little old lady — she’s about four feet tall and a hundred years old. She almost topples over, and I grab at her tiny frail arm to keep her steady, a little too hard. She winces and clutches her arm where I’ve grabbed her.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I tell her as I watch my suitcase disappear around the bend of the carousel. She says something in Danish (I assume), not too impressed. I don’t fail to notice the few people around us who have witnessed the commotion. Her daughter (I assume) shoots me a tight smile. No harm done, it says. God, this is so embarrassing.

  I sigh audibly. Nice start to the trip – I barely get three hours of sleep, I forget my favorite sweater on the plane, and I almost killed a little old lady. What if she’d fallen onto the carousel? She would have been a goner for sure.

  Yet... it gets worse. I spot him from the corner of my eye. He’s tall, as gorgeous as I remember, and has the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on his face.

  “Tell me you didn’t see that,” I beg.

  He laughs, and it’s just like the laugh I love to hear when we video chat, but even better — more real. “That was hilarious. You almost sent her on a ride on the carousel.”

  I cover my face with my hands. I can’t look at him. He’s too fucking beautiful. He’s wearing the most stylish black jacket, a red scarf, dark jeans, and stylish brown shoes. Some things don’t meet expectation when you finally see them for real, but not him. I don’t want him to look at me — I know I probably look like hell.

  He closes the distance between us. “I’m so glad to see you, Gabriella.” He smells like the beach. I want to breathe him in forever. He wraps his large arms around me. “No rush,” he says. “Let your suitcase roll around for a while.”

  Oh, God… how can a hug feel so good? Heat spreads from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. I literally melt into him. I don’t ever want to let go.

  It may very well be the longest hug ever known to man — it’s definitely a contender for The Guinness World Records. People probably think we’re long lost lovers, or one of us has survived a terminal illness against all odds, or perhaps they think he’s the separated-at-birth brother I’ve never met until today.

  But all good things end. “I really need to go pee.” Traitorous bladder, how dare you ruin our moment.

  He reluctantly lets me go. “You go, and I’ll get your suitcase.”

  “It’s the super colorful one with the stripes,” I tell him. “My name is on the tag.”

  He smiles. “I know… I saw you almost destroy a tiny elderly woman trying to get at it.”

  “Shut up.”

  I run to the washroom, and make a beeline for the toilets but there’s a line. Ugh… after what seems forever, I finally get to empty my tiny bladder. When I go to wash my hands, my fears are confirmed — I look awful; bed head and raccoon eyes. I grab some Kleenex from my bag and attempt to clean my eyes.

  Eli is waiting for me, standing next to my suitcase. I take a moment to fully appreciate the view — he is a specimen of a man; tall and lean. He carries himself just right — he doesn’t have a superior stance nor does he slouch. And eyes like his are why poems were invented. And those lips… I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to feel them on mine.

  “I look awful,” I tell him. “I’m usually… prettier than this.” Really, I am… sometimes, when I do my hair and stuff.

  He laughs again. Well, I might not be pretty, but at least I’m amusing him. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and I think he means it. I blush like an imbecile, of course. He might have striking eyes, but I don’t think they work quite right.

  “You must be tired,” he says.

  “A little,” I admit. “But I can’t go to sleep yet, or my internal clock will be completely messed up.”

  “I get that,” he says in agreement. “We need to have lots of fun and keep you awake.

  Fun. I like the sound of that.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “A stroll around Nyhavn, and lunch at a bistro. There’s this little bookstore I like. And maybe a bike ride, and then, dinner at my place.

  All I hear is ‘dinner at my place’. “Sounds like a plan,” I say cheerfully.

  He turns on his heel and pulls my suitcase. “Let’s go then.”

  I follow him eagerly, anticipating the unknown.

  We take the tube to Nyhavn. When we get out of the metro, the sun beams down on us, yet it’s still quite chilly. The streets are busy and full of energy, and lovely too, just like so many other Europeans cities. The amazing colorful architecture never ceases to amaze me, such attention to detail. My artist’s eye appreciates every single aspect of it. The cobblestone streets are gorgeous but a little difficult to navigate with my suitcase, yet Eli is doing a fine job. He’s moving pretty fast, and I struggle to keep up with him while still taking it all in; the buildings and boats in the canal.

  After a short walk, we finally arrive at a hotel right in the middle of Nyhavn. “We’ll keep your suitcase here for the day,” he tells me. “I know the owner. He’s a good friend.”

  I help him trek my suitcase over the few steps and we enter a modern, sparse and very white space; contemporary ultra-modern chairs, vintage framed posters, a rustic wood coffee table, a rack of flyers of attractions. Red cushions add a pop of color, and tucked in the corner, are a bunch of suitcases and duffel bags. It seems like a resting stop for travelers’ belongings.

  “Hey Eli,” the man at the counter calls out. “You made it.”

  Eli is a little breathless when he responds. “Dave, this is Gabriella.”

  Dave extends a hand. I shake it, and smile up at him. He’s tall like Eli, with curly black hair and a dark complexion, friendly brown eyes, and a little extra weight around the middle. I like him already.

  “So nice to meet you,” he says. “I’ve heard so much about you,” he adds with a wink.

  “Oh, have you?!” I ask, and gaze in Eli’s direction. Eli blushes and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

  Dave grabs my suitcase and settles it in with the others. “Your bag is safe with me,” he assures me. “If you want to grab a bite, feel free, breakfast is still being served,” he says and nods in the direction of a cafeteria room. I take a peek, and realize I’m famished. “Thanks so much.”

  “You wanna go see?” Eli asks.

  We venture into the space, and my stomach does a little happy dance. Pretty white linen covered tables with glass candle holders, an old piano in the corner, and a cafeteria full of food.

  Eli and I fill our plates with a selection of deli meats and cheeses, hard boiled eggs, fruit, and Danishes. There’s also yogurt and oatmeal. We grab some orange juice and some coffee (I certainly need it).

  Everything tastes so good. Eli watches me eat, fascinated. “Wow, you were hungry.”

  “Famished,” I tell him. “These curves don’t just happen by themselves.”

  “No, they don’t.” He smiles. “Eat some more. I love those curves.”

  I smile. I know my curves are not for everyone, but I’m glad they’re for him. I appreciate a man who likes a woman with meat on her bones.

  “So, is this free?” I ask, hoping I won’t need to shell out a small fortune for this breakfast. I’ve heard Copenhagen is a very expensive city.

  “All free.” He grins. “Dave is my best buddy, and he owns the place.”

  “You certainly know how to choose your friends.”

  “Yep,” he says. “Well, just look at you… my new friend.”

  I smile shyly, and turn my gaze down to my huge plate of food.

&nb
sp; We then walk the streets for the next three hours. I snap photos feverishly, like the tourist that I am. Eli tells me that he loves to take photographs as well, which he uses as reference for his watercolors. Apparently, his paintings sell pretty well in the tourist shops. We stop by an old book shop, where Eli buys me an old book of poetry. It has a worn red cover with gold foil letters. The pages are frail and smell musty. I know I will treasure it forever.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  WE VENTURE INTO A GIFT SHOP where we finally separate and browse the aisles. There’s all kinds of colorful interesting stuff — I’m in shopping heaven. I buy a pretty decorative box for Emma, and an antique toy car for Theo. Eli buys a fork. I shake my head, wondering what kind of weirdo I’m hanging out with. “Do you always buy random flatware when you’re just walking around, chilling. Do they not have flatware at restaurants in Copenhagen? Should I go back in there and buy one too?”

  I’m fascinated by the Danish coins — they call them Kroners. I study the 2 Kroner in my hand — it’s so interesting; cool design, and a hole in the middle. I almost want to wear it as a pendant on my neck.

  He smiles. “You hungry?”

  “A little. It’s only been three hours since breakfast.” The thing about me is I’m usually always hungry. If I were ever on Survivor, I’d die by day two.

  We take a seat at one of those outside restaurants lining the boardwalk. It’s so cozy; small white tables, bistro wicker chairs, and red flannel throws — the kind you can buy at Ikea. I immediately wrap myself in one, and watch the buskers do their thing. The guy close too us is an amazing singer. He strums his guitar with no care in the world — it’s wonderful to watch. I reach into my purse and give him a few dollars. I hug myself as I head back to our table. I’m still wrapped up in the red throw.

  Eli studies me, concern tracing his brow. “Are you cold?”

  Yes, I am. My jacket is not quite warm enough. “What?! My chattering teeth gave me away?”

  He grins. “I told you to dress warmly, you silly girl.”

  “I know, I did bring a sweater, but I took it off on the plane, and forgot it there.”

  He shoots me a sweet pout and shrugs out of his jacket.

  “No, no… you don’t need to—”

  “You’re freezing,” he points out. As he pulls off his cozy sweater, his t-shirt rides up and I spot the delicious dark line below his navel. Desire rushes through me, and I tell myself to stop being so pathetic. Right now. Although, in my defense, I can’t even remember the last time I had sex. Probably a few days before Valentine’s Day. I mentally do the calculations in my head. I haven’t been laid in over two months!

  “What’s wrong?” Eli asks. “You look like you’re in pain. Really, it’s no problem,” he says as he hands me his sweater — it’s so soft. The goosebumps on my arms are cheering, “Yay! Yay! Sweater!!”

  “Thank you.”

  He pulls his jacket back over his t-shirt, and meanwhile, I take mine off and slip into the sweater — it feels like heaven. I pull my jacket on again, and then wrap myself in the throw — it’s quite the production.

  He studies me again, a huge grin on his face.

  “You think I’m funny, don’t you?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  We almost share a moment then, but the server breaks the spell. “Hello, how are you today?” Her slight Danish accent instantly makes her interesting. She’s blonde, perky and pretty, but Eli doesn’t seem to notice. She’s quick to take our order; a pork sandwich for Eli, and a small potato omelet for me.

  We chat about my flight. I tell him about the crying baby and the couple sitting next to me. And he talks about beds; apparently he has a room all ready for me. I think it’s cute how he pretends we’re not going to sleep together — he’s the perfect gentleman. When our food arrives, I dig in — it’s delicious. I people watch as I enjoy my omelet.

  The woman next to us sits alone and is engrossed in a book. She’s finished her burger, or possibly a sandwich. Small remnants of bread and lettuce dot her plate. She’s still picking at her potato wedges. They actually look pretty good.

  Eli leans into me quietly with a playful mischievous expression, and my mind instantly goes there — maybe he wants to play footsies under the table. “You dare me to steal one of her potato wedges?”

  I look over at the middle-aged woman who is still completely engrossed in the story she’s reading. “What?!”

  “Watch me,” he says. He digs into his small shopping bag, and pulls out the fork. He tears off the price tag and wipes the fork with a napkin. I watch him intently, not believing my eyes. He pulls at the end of the fork and extends it — suddenly, it’s over two feet long. I stifle a laugh, not believing he’s actually going to go through with it.

  He smiles at me as he slowly inches the fork over toward her plate, ever so slowly. I want to laugh so badly but I know that if I do, I’ll blow his cover. The woman is completely oblivious. He quietly digs the prongs of the fork into one of the wedges. I’m watching intently, and my pulse is racing. He slowly pulls the fork back. He’s pretty good at this — I wonder if he’s done this before.

  Finally, he pops it in his mouth and chews.

  “Is it any good?” I ask in a whisper.

  “Delicious,” he replies. “You want one?”

  Before I can object, he’s at it again. This time, he moves a little faster, and a second or two later, he presents me with a potato wedge. I open my mouth, and he sets it carefully between my teeth. It’s actually kind of sexy — I’m never ever going to look at potato wedges the same way again.

  It’s pretty tasty, a little spicy. “Mmmmm,” I mumble, and then I lose it, and burst out laughing.

  He laughs too, and the woman turns to us, a brow cocked, probably wondering what in the heavens is wrong with us. We quiet down and after a beat, she reaches for a potato wedge and turns back to her book.

  “You’re a weirdo,” I say.

  He grins. “So are you.”

  After lunch, we rent bicycles, and go cycling around the city. Our bikes are retro-like. His is red, and mine is robin’s egg blue. I have a basket and a bell I like to ring as much as I can. Eli turns to me and smiles every time I do. I wear a safety helmet, but not many people do. I suck in the crisp air, and mentally check off an item on my bucket list: Ride a bike in Copenhagen. I’ve always wanted to do this, even before I ever met Eli, either in Copenhagen or Amsterdam. It’s apparently the thing to do.

  As we nip through the tourists and traffic, I try to focus, but I can’t help doing a rundown of my bucket list in my head.

  Nyhavn (check)

  Eat a good meal at a quaint little bistro (check)

  Ride a bike (check)

  See the Little Mermaid statue

  Ride a boat on the canal

  Queen’s Winter Palace

  Kiss Eli <3

  Ride on Eli’s Vespa

  Tivoli Gardens

  Visit Eli’s studio

  And finally… and this one is pretty detailed.

  Sex, sex, sex. Preferably against a wall (I’m not sure why my Eli sex fantasies always feature a wall and not a bed. Maybe it’s because I’m looking for something exciting, sex in an alley perhaps. I don’t question it too much — I just go with it.)

  I almost ram right into a baby stroller. Thank god, I stop myself just in time, and shake my head. I really need to stop thinking about sex.

  Following our bike ride, we sit on a bench for a while, and Eli tells me a little about the city. Adrenaline has been coursing through me all day, and I’m finally crashing. I’ve had two coffees but it doesn’t seem to be helping.

  “Are you tired?” he asks. “You must be.”

  “I don’t want this day to end,” I tell him. “But yes, I’m exhausted.”

  “Let’s go home,” he says. The words coat me with unexpected excitement.

  “I’d like that.”

  He takes my hand, and I entwine my fingers in his. His hand
is so much larger than mine, and also so warm, and rough. I love the feel of it, and I let the sensation soak in all the way to my core. I never want to let go. We walk in silence, and every once in a while, he turns to me and smiles, and I practically melt into the cobblestones. “I’m so happy you’re here, Gabriella,” he finally says. “I can’t tell you how much.”

  “Probably as much as I am to be here,” I tell him.

  He stops and turns to me. “But don’t feel like we need to… this isn’t about that.”

  He’s talking about sex… obviously.

  His gaze is glued to mine when he tells me, “I don’t have any expectations. I know it’s complicated with you and your husband, and you have kids… I don’t want to get in the middle of—”

  “You don’t want me,” I blurt out, desperate. I hate that I sound so pathetic.

  His gaze travels the length of my body, from my breasts, down the curve of my hips, all the way to my flats, and back up again, and stills when he reaches my eyes. He digs a hand softly in my hair and pulls a strand between his fingers. He stares at my mouth. “Uh… no, believe me,” he says, his voice not quite as soft as it usually is. “I want you.”

  I feel light headed, and I almost reach for him. I so badly want to kiss those sensual full lips of his.

  “But I also don’t want to ruin your life,” he adds and pulls away.

  Come back.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “YOU WON’T,” I ARGUE. “You won’t ruin my life. My husband and I have an arrangement.”

  He turns to walk again. “Sounds pretty complicated.”

  I quicken my stride to be in step with him again.

  “I don’t like complicated,” he says.

  “Me either.”

  We are both at a loss for words, swallowed up in the noise and energy of the city. I don’t know what to say. I understand what he’s getting at. I’m basically here for a week to fuck him, to use him, to entertain myself, to make it hurt less, to forget all about Amanda. I’m using Eli — it’s what I’m doing. Then, off I’ll go, back to my husband and kids and white picket fence (it’s actually black and wrought iron) but that’s essentially what I’m doing. I wonder if a small part of him hates me.