One Week

by Roya Carmen

  “Kinky boy,” I breathe.

  “I love your ass,” he says. “I can’t get enough, and your amazing tits,” he slides his hand up my torso and grabs a handful, and bites my shoulder softly. He’s a biter, this one. John is not really a biter. I don’t know what to think. Do I like it? Yes, I think I do. “Do it again,” I beg. “Bite my ass again.”

  He laughs. “Okay, one more nibble, and then I need to grab a condom.”

  I’m glad he’s got his head on his shoulders, because I was completely forgetting. We can’t be as free as I am with John. I lie on the cool crisp sheets as I wait for him to have his way with me, any way he wants.

  I watch him sliding the latex over his erection, anticipating him inside me, pleasuring me, bringing me to a place I’ve never quite been to before. Our place.

  When he finally sinks into me, I almost cry. I can’t let this go. How will I go on, every day, without this? Without him? He presses his hand on my sex as he pounds into me. I moan at every thrust, every hit of my G-spot. I press my hand over his and slide it down over my wetness, until the both of us break apart.

  “I love morning sex,” I tell him over breakfast — we’re having pancakes and fruit with freshly whipped cream.

  He smirks. “Do you ever have morning sex with John?”

  I sigh. I don’t like it when he asks me questions about him, he brings him back into my life, when I’m trying to forget all about him, about my ‘real life’, about Amanda, about having to say goodbye to Eli. “Can we not talk about John?” I ask. “I just want to focus on us.”

  He nods and takes a sip from his glass of orange juice. “I’m sorry. I keep doing that. I… I’m just curious about him, about your marriage.”

  “Don’t feel bad, Eli. It’s completely normal, given… our situation.” What I’m doing is not fair. I’m putting him in the middle of our marriage and our problems. He doesn’t deserve that. And I know I’m going to hurt him, and it breaks my heart. I watch him as he digs into his pancakes, and he’s so beautiful, so perfect, so funny, and so talented. How could he not find someone else to replace me very soon? I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Maybe not initially, but eventually, soon enough. No, I’ll be the one who will spend the rest of my life remembering him, and wishing I could have just one more touch. I wonder who I’ll think about when I’m very old, and drifting away… Emma and Theo, and John, and Eli?

  “So what are we up to today?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject. I also can’t wait to see what he has in store for me. This is his city, and he’s the one in charge.

  “I thought I’d take you to Christiania,” he says. “It’s very cool.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve heard if it,” I tell him — it certainly wasn’t on my list.

  “It’s a hippie commune,” he tells me. “The food is great, and it’s definitely an interesting place to visit.”

  “A hippie commune?!”

  He laughs. “A bunch of hippies about fifty years ago got together and took over abandoned military barracks and made their own rules,” he explains. “They even have their own flag.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “Great street art, and lots of cannabis, if that’s your thing,” he says.

  He surprises me. Is he a pot head? “Is that your thing?”

  “Not really, but I’ve indulged. I can’t even remember the last time…” he trails off. “Clara was into it.”

  Clara, Clara, Clara. I want to know more about her. I picture the tall blonde with big blue eyes. I’ve seen her when I creeped his Facebook feed — yes, I went that far back. She looks like a blonde Emily Blunt, and she was obviously tall, as tall as him in some of the photos, wearing five inch heels, I assume.

  It’s hard to reconcile the image of her with me. I suppose the man must not have a type. I mentally scold myself, and tell myself to stop thinking about her. She was the love of his life, and trampled his heart. And I only have him for a week. And that’s exactly the reason I shouldn’t focus on her.

  “I can’t wait to see Christiania,” I tell him, and hop to my feet — we’ve got places to go.

  This place has rules. I didn’t think a hippie commune would have rules, but there’s a big sign at the front. No photography or running in the Greenlight district, no private cars, no weapons, no hard drugs, and quite a few other ones. Apparently bullet proof vests aren’t allowed. “So glad I left my bullet proof vest at home,” I say to Eli. He laughs — he totally gets my lame sense of humor. John doesn’t — never did.

  Floyd and I are instantly fascinated by the place. It is beautiful chaos; stunning street art seems to cover most surfaces, lodging made out of recyclable materials, and marijuana leaf signs abound. Everyone seems so relaxed, as if they don’t have a care in the world. People are smoking, chatting with friends, with dogs in tow. The smell of marijuana permeates the air. There’s an artisan who is working on chairs and tables which appear to be built entirely out of junk. There’s a sign of a happy face on his wall. Smile More, it simply says. A mother laughs with her young son, and two teenagers hold hands, mismatched clothing and torn jeans. I study them, and wonder if they’re happier than those who have chosen a conventional lifestyle; a day job, a mortgage, and a white picket fence.

  In the market, there are racks of vintage t-shirts; Bob Marley t-shirts, pot leaf shirts, and the like. There are lovely handmade purses, jewelry, wallets, belts, vests, and all kinds of stuff, all of it colorful. I’m eager to buy something and support the community. I flip through the shirts and settle on an oversized The Doors t-shirt. Jim Morrison’s gorgeous face stares back at me and I smirk. Gabriella Moore would never wear this, not in a million years, but me, whoever I am, wants this. I used to love The Doors when I was younger. My college boyfriend introduced me to them — we used to listen to the greatest hits over and over. I’ve even been to visit Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris.

  “That would look great on you,” Eli says, “with nothing but your panties on,” he adds, a little too loudly. Anywhere else and I’d be embarrassed, but we’re in Christiania, the land of the free, of choice, of free love too, I’m sure.

  I buy the shirt, five very cool leather purses (one for me, one for Maeve, Corrie and Kayla, and a small one for Emma). I also buy a cool old watch, which I’m sure doesn’t work, for Theo — he’s obsessed with watches these days. For John, I buy a flask — the man loves his brandy. “I didn’t know you were a shopaholic,” Eli teases. He’s eyeing a gorgeous vintage leather satchel — it has his name written all over it. It is pretty pricey; a cool sixty dollars, we’re told. It breaks my heart to see him walk away from it. I dig into my purse, hoping I’ve brought enough money. “Can I have it for fifty-five,” I ask. “It’s all I have left.”

  The old man with the dark mustache studies my bag of goods — he must realize that I’ve contributed generously to their little economy. “Sure, love,” he says with a toothless smile.

  I’m giddy when I catch up to Eli. I hand him the satchel. “It’s yours. I bought it for you.”

  He looks surprised, and a little uncomfortable. “You… you didn’t—”

  “I wanted to,” I tell him. “You got me the poetry book, the little mermaid, that beautiful painting, and that pretty paperweight. You’re spoiling me, and I wanted to get something for you too. I can’t repay you enough for all you’ve done.”

  He winks. “Oh, you’ve paid me enough.”

  Dirty boy.

  He’s beaming as he pulls the satchel over his shoulder. “How do I look?”

  “Pretty hot hipster, I’d say,” I tease.

  He laughs. “Let’s go walk through Pusher Street,” he suggests, and I happily tag along, completely clueless.

  There are tons of pot dealers — cannabis, hashish, I’m not sure what you call it. They wear scarves over the bottom of their faces. Eli tells me it’s to not be identified in case they’re raided by the cops. That’s also why there’s no running — because if you take off running, people mig
ht think there’s a raid, and it would be chaos. There’s more pot memorabilia. I don’t know what eighty percent of the stuff is, and I feel so uneducated. We stop by a colorful candy store/bakery, but I have a feeling there’s more to this place than what the eye sees. They have cookies, brownies, and lollipops. A playful smile traces Eli’s lips. “You want a lollipop?”

  “Are those special lollipops?” I ask.

  He grins.

  “So I guess I shouldn’t buy any for the kids?”

  “Definitely not,” he says. “Would you like a taste?”

  “Yes,” I whisper with a glimpse back, as if Mr. Berton, my junior high school principal were right behind me. He caught me smoking once, and I’ll never forget how stupid he made me feel. Gabriella Moore has never done drugs in her life, but this person, the wild, new person I am right this minute, is curious, and just might.

  Eli buys us two lollipops. They’re pretty big and they look very tasty. I feel like a kid. “We’ll save them for later,” he says.

  We continue our journey through Freetown and take in the sights — this place is like nowhere I’ve ever been to. Tons of graffiti, little houses on unkempt wild gardens. There’s street art of a giant bunny, and a giant bee with the words Honey over Bitches underneath. I try to decipher what the hell that means. We walk up to the canal. It’s peaceful up here.

  I set my large bag of goodies next to me as we take a seat by the water. Floyd settles down right beside me. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  He grins at me and I know that I could never ever tire of that smile, even if we had a million years together. “I thought you might find it interesting.”

  I look out into the distance, over the water. “It’s so nice here.”

  “My mother would have loved this place,” he tells me. “She was a free-spirit.”

  I smile, not quite sure what to say. I know he misses her.

  “What was your mom like?” he asks. “Tell me about her.”

  I smile. “She was funny, overprotective, and a little uptight sometimes. I don’t think she would like this place at all.”

  He toys with a blade of grass. I study his long fingers. “I guess our mothers were very different.”

  “She loved me so much,” I go on, wanting to tell someone this — I’ve never really talked about my mother to anyone. Once in a while, the kids will ask me questions about her, especially Emma. Unfortunately, Theo doesn’t quite remember her. “She was very protective of me.”

  “I think all mothers are.”

  “True,” I agree. I know I am. “She never liked John,” I confess. “She was pretty vocal about it. I mean… not right in front of him but…”

  His brow curves with a curious expression. “Why not?”

  “She thought he was a bit controlling, a bit of a narcissist. She resented the fact that I left my job to take care of the kids when he’s home all day. She always saw me as a modern woman, and I guess I disappointed her.”

  “I disappointed my mother too when I moved out here,” he says. “I think we all do.”

  “That’s why we were fighting when she died,” I finally confess, the words painful to utter. “I told her to mind her own business and get out of my life… those were the exact words I used before hanging up on her. Those were the last words I ever spoke to her.”

  He wraps an arm around me, and the both of us are silent for the longest time.

  “She was out with her two best friends for a night on the town, when they got T-boned by a pick-up truck on the way home. She was sitting in the passenger seat and died instantly. Her friends survived, but one of them is paralyzed from the waist down.”

  He squeezes me tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It happened only a week after we last spoke. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “You can’t re-hash the past, Gabriella. You’re slowly drowning yourself if you do.”

  “I know… but I can’t stop obsessing about it. It’s all I’ve thought about until…”

  “Until what…”

  “Until I met you,” I confess. “Now you’re all I think about.”

  “Happy thoughts,” he says with a playful grin. “That’s good.”

  “Sexy, happy thoughts.” I grin like an idiot.

  And he kisses me.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ELI PULLS OUT A TREAT for Floyd, and we scarf down some sausage on a bun from a street vendor — we’re both famished. “This is the best sausage I’ve ever tasted,” I tell him.

  “Everything tastes better when you’re starving,” he says as we walk out of Christiania. The weather has been overcast all day and finally the rain hits us. We’re not surprised. We expected it, but not early enough to bring umbrellas. We get drenched as we walk back home, and it is freezing. Yet, I’m having so much fun. How can even the nastiest weather not foul my mood? I guess this is what they call love. The giddy kind. The kind that has an expiration date. Our expiration date is in four days.

  When we finally get home, Floyd shakes off his fur, showering us in the process, but we couldn’t care less — we’re already drenched. “Come here,” Eli says. He grabs my bag, takes my hands, and we head to the bedroom. He throws the bag on the bed, and peels off his jacket. “Strip,” he says. “I want it all off, except for the panties.”

  I smile and obey willingly, peeling off my clothes so fast, you’d swear I was in a ‘get naked’ contest. He tears off his white t-shirt, and his abs look more delicious than ever. When I finally get down to my panties and bra, he winks. “The bra too.”

  I reach back for the clasp, bashful. I undo it and let the flimsy lace material fall to the floor. I’m cold and vulnerable. My nipples are hard, from the chill of the room, and also from the way he’s looking at me, like he wants to eat me up whole.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he says and inches closer. “Let me have a taste before I cover you.” He bends down, and takes my breast in his mouth.

  I gasp in pleasure, enjoying every second, but before long, he releases me and reaches for the bag. “Put it on.” He throws me The Doors t-shirt. I catch it and bring it to my nose. It smells like Christiania which is a scent I can’t quite describe — freedom, pot... paint, garden. I slip it on.

  “Sexy as sin,” he practically growls. He’s still wearing his worn jeans and leather belt, and I quickly take care of that.

  We make love on the bed, for the second time today. Post-lovemaking, we lie in each other’s arms and suck on our lollipops. We stare up at the beams of his ultra-cool loft ceiling, and we daydream.

  The rest of the evening is a little fuzzy. Everything swirls around me, and I feel freer than I’ve ever felt in my whole life. Everything seems more amazing, more colorful. We dance around the living room in our underwear. I’m still wearing the t-shirt I bought, and we’re listening to The Doors on Eli’s vintage record player. The sound is scratchy but it’s so much better than listening to a CD. “I need to get myself one of those players,” I tell him. “I could start collecting records.”

  I feel so mellow, so open. For the first time in a long time, I don’t think about anything but the moment, and how beautiful Eli is. I don’t worry about tomorrow, or replay yesterday. I don’t worry about goodbyes, or wonder if I’m doing the right thing, if I’m messing up my life.

  None of it matters. There is only this moment, and the two of us.

  We share countless kisses and even more laughs, and when the hours have finally worn us down, I fall asleep in his arms on the blue sofa.

  I check my messages first thing in the morning. The time difference makes communication a little tricky. It’s ten in the morning here, but it’s still just four in the middle of the night back home. They’re all sleeping.

  I can’t believe you’re holding back on me. You’re wicked, Corrie writes.

  —

  I smile and reply, I’ll share some secrets when I come back. ;)

  —

  I still love you, Gabbie
, John writes. We can work through this.

  My heart swells when I see a message from Emma.

  We miss you so much, Mommy!! School is going good. Here is a picture I made in Art class… it’s you and me at the park. Theo says hi. He’s behaving like a good boy.

  —

  Beautiful pictures, Maeve writes. Eli is so handsome… yummy! How are you ever going to be able to leave?

  I don’t know.

  Sorry I haven’t kept in touch, Kayla writes. I’ve been busy. Hope you’re having a great time. Don’t forget to take a lot of pictures… it’s an amazing city!

  I’ve rested Eli’s elephant painting against the wall on top of his dresser, just where I can see it when I’m in bed. It still amazes me every single time I look at it. Following a nice shower, I slip into some comfortable capris and a striped t-shirt and hoodie. We’re going to Tivoli Gardens today, and I’m so excited. It’s the second oldest amusement park in the world, and it was on my bucket list.

  We share a quick breakfast; toast, apples, and croissants. Eli whips up some banana smoothies, and I smile at the memory of those banana photos. “I loved those silly banana pics,” I tell him. “You clearly have too much time on your hands.”

  He laughs. “I guess you could say I was a little excited about you coming over.”

  “Me too,” I say as he hands me a smoothie.

  We walk to Tivoli Gardens, and I’m glad I’ve worn my sneakers because I have a feeling we’ll be doing a lot of walking. Eli looks delicious as usual; he has that fashionable European thing going on. I don’t think I could ever tire of looking at him.

  Large colorful vintage posters catch my eye as we make our way closer. “We’re almost there,” he says. We’re like two small kids, practically bouncing. I wonder if he’s always like this; full of life. Or is it because he’s with me? I know I’m not always like this. Is he in love too?