A piece of something.

A long, long while ago, I used to write stuff. Fictional stuff, which was supposed to build a whole, a story or a book or a something. I found a piece of this, 6 months old and by that the youngest addition to a story that has been dwelling in my head for years now. It’s unedited, it’s no masterpiece, but I want to share, because maybe sharing will motivate me to get back to it. (Also, this is in English because, I have actually no idea.You’re welcome.)

Book characters are like children. Once one stuck with them to a certain point, one should take care of them.
So please, throw back at me whatever you are thinking, internet.

As he poured himself a cup of wine, he threw a glance to the side. Holding out the carafe, he asked, “Wine?” She nodded. Then, noticing he wouldn’t see her, said “yes”. It sounded too quiet. To hoarse. Too afraid. Without looking her in in the eyes he would place the full-to-the rim cup in front of her. She emptied it with the first try. It was sweet, good wine, presumably very expensive. Within seconds it took over her tongue and her head. “Just let me have one more. Or two. Or several. Before I get out if this really pretty dress.” He stared at her then tried to drown a smile. Not a chance. She already caught it. “It is a pretty dress. Especially on you. You shouldn’t get out of it too early.” She held out her cup and he refilled it. “Also it will be no use if we both get royally drunk.” he added. “Then stop.” she retorted. And after a few seconds she added, quiet, but more confident. “It doesn’t matter how much I’ll drink, I’ll still be afraid.” “There is nothing to be afraid of.” With a very slow, considerate move he placed his cup on the small table again and walked over to her seat, just to take the still refilled cup out of her hand and add it to the collection. Hands on her armrests her forced her to look up and listen to him closely. “I won’t do anything. Unless you ask me to.”

If she had just one more cup, or two, maybe she would have been couragous enough to trace the embellishments on his shirt with her fingers, up to his face and his lips, one thing leading to another. They were both tipsy, what bad could happen? She looked down on her hand, imagined what the fabric would feel like, what his skin would feel like, how it would taste to kiss when they both had have wine. Isaak waited. When she didn’t respond, he slowly got up, giving her back her personal space. She felt like she lost something she would never get back.

“It’s okay. You being afraid and everything. I am, too. We don’t have to do this. Not now, and not ever.”

Ana opened her mouth but he shook his head. “Not, it’s okay. I know you agreed to this to please my father. I will promise you something.” He came one step closer again, looking a little lost, but dermined in a way children are when apologizing for something they did wrong. “Very soon as my father has to realize this is not what makes either if us happy, as soon as he understands he was wrong, you will be free to do whatever you want. Wherever you want to got, I will let you. This is just.. temporary.” He stretched out a hand, but didn’t know what to do and let it sink down again. “I promise.”

But this is what I want. Being with you is what I want. It’s you not wanting to be with me.

She nodded. That was all. The wine dimmed the stinging in the corner of her eyes as well as the black hole inside. That was all.

After a few minutes, she spoke.

“If it’s all the same to you – I’d really like to get back to getting drunk now.”