True Story
The sun floods the room like a warm, gentle sea. Its rays warm my cheeks. I squint and wake up. He is lying next to me, his head on my shoulder, his hand on my stomach. I gently kiss His cheek. He slightly furrows His brows, and His hand returns to where it was all night—on my breast. I smile and blissfully close my eyes. How wonderful it all is...
We met just two months ago, though it all started much earlier. I noticed Him back in the fall. I was running to the factory office. It was windy and damp outside, so I was actually running, loudly splashing through puddles in my too-big, too-heavy boots. He was walking ahead, talking
to some middle-aged guy. I laughed to myself: "What a funny guy! Tall, skinny, bow-legged. And such a funny walk—he walks as if he swallowed a mop. The helmet on his head looks like a bell. And those short pants... Gavroche, I swear."But suddenly He stopped and glanced at me. That's when it all happened. I also froze a couple of steps behind Him. My chest ached, goosebumps ran over my skin, my breath caught. I probably blushed. And from the way His eyes sparkled, the way His cheeks turned pink, I understood He felt the same thing.
His hand suddenly squeezes my breast slightly. Despite the hard work, He has very soft palms and gentle touches. I kiss His cheek again. His hand shifts to the right and now kneads my right breast. Soon, lips join the palm and fingers—so silky that I sometimes envy Him. They gently suck on the nipple, and I arch my back slightly and begin to moan softly...
Our first date happened to be on February fourteenth. It wasn't that we planned it—like everything else, it happened on its own, without much calculation or thought on our part. It was a Friday, and as usual, we finished work a bit earlier, and Uncle Pepe allowed me to stay out until morning.
Uncle Pepe, or Giuseppe Baldo, is the chief installer from the company "Baldo Betons," where I actually work.
I am ethnically Ukrainian. When I was 18, my mother married an Italian named Massimo, who is one of the co-owners of "Baldo Betons." Two years later, my mother brought me to her, so I finished school in Italy. My relationship with Massimo didn't work out, but his relatives, especially Uncle Pepe, accepted me very well. It was he, upon learning that their company had received a contract for concrete supply and installation in Ukraine, who suggested to his director and, incidentally, cousin, to hire me as a translator.
They say Italians are either excellent singers or superb masons. Uncle Pepe is that rare case where both professions are successfully combined in one person. He has a wonderful sense of humor, a brilliant mind, and a beautiful voice—a velvety baritone with a slight, aesthetic rasp. Everyone, young and old, adores him. Uncle Pepe is alone, he has no children of his own, so he devotes himself completely to work, and he calls me exclusively his daughter...
My thoughts are interrupted by His hands, which are already fully in charge between my legs, and His tongue, exploring my mouth with extraordinary agility. I moan quietly with pleasure when His cool fingers, as if by accident, slide over my clitoris, and I dig my nails deeper into His shoulders. But suddenly He stops. I involuntarily frown and open my eyes. He pats the pockets of the jeans lying on the floor, searching for a condom.
"Will you put it on?" He asks, waving the shiny package in the sunlight.
I just smile in response...
Our first date was like a fairy tale. No, He didn't take me to a restaurant, didn't give me lavish bouquets, and generally didn't try to impress me. We drank tea in a supermarket cafeteria, walked in the park and around the city, looked into each other's eyes, and talked about everything. I felt so at ease with Him that I completely lost track of time.
And we woke up in the same bed in a rented apartment.
Since then, we've spent every weekend together.
Uncle Pepe said He wasn't right for me. The girls from the office said the same thing:
"What do you see in him? He has nothing. Well, yes, he's cute, funny, but he's a laborer. No prospects—only a technical school behind him! What could a soon-to-be graduate of an Italian university and a semi-literate vocational school graduate even talk about?" they were indignant.
Only I know—higher education is not a guarantee of intelligence and decency.
I had a boyfriend from "my circle." We studied in the same year, attended the same lectures, watched the same movies, and read the same books. It seemed—topics for conversation, shared views. He had excellent grades, a brand-new BMW coupe, and a father who was the head of a large trading corporation. His name was Carlo. We had quality sex in an apartment he rented specifically for me. For dates, he took me only to the most fashionable places, and when we met, he gave me huge bouquets of flowers. Of course, I melted from all this, like chocolate on a stove.
Why did it all end? I don't know. Just one fine day, I woke up next to him and remembered the joke about a truly terrifying woman—that a man would gnaw off his own hand to escape. Or maybe I felt that he was simply buying me? No, not like that. I felt it from the very beginning, but I preferred to think that such relationships—commodity-money relationships—were normal. And on that day, I suddenly realized I didn't need it. That same day, I packed my things, left him all the gifts he had managed to give me, called Uncle Pepe, and said I was ready to go to Ukraine.
While the documents were being prepared, I lived under siege—Carlo came to our house daily, called me, bombarded me with letters full of tender words, even tried to sing serenades. But I held my ground steadfastly. My mother said I was a fool, that a second chance like this wouldn't come, that I was just being difficult and would regret it. On the eve of my departure, we had a big fight.
And three months later, I found out that Carlo was telling our mutual acquaintances all sorts of nasty things about me. Honestly, I don't care what others think—public opinion has never interested me much. It disgusts me to think that the person who recently swore eternal love to me, called me the only one, special, not like everyone else, is now slinging mud at me. It's low. Besides, I honestly explained the reason for our breakup to him, and it seemed to me then that he understood...
But now all that is in the past. In the present—is Him. He doesn't tell me about love, rarely gives compliments, but it's not needed—I see everything in His eyes.
Right now they are sky blue...
His hands gently stroke my stomach and breasts, His lips explore every millimeter of my body. Although, what is there to explore? In those two months, in those sixteen nights we spent together, He has studied me better than Himself. He knows exactly where to kiss me, caress me, or just lightly touch me to give me the greatest pleasure. During sex, He thinks, first and foremost, about me. That's why only with Him do I have multiple orgasms in one night.
But even when we're not having sex, we are good together. Next to Him, I don't need to pretend,
to put on airs. I don't have to wear makeup, do my hair, put on special clothes or shoes, or behave as someone else thinks is necessary. With Him, I can run after pigeons in the central park shouting, "Birdies!", I can greet dogs, I can make eyes at a baby passing by in a stroller, I can put my feet up on a bench and read poetry, I can retell the plot of a book I liked or read out particularly memorable passages. I'm not afraid of seeming stupid, funny, or flighty. I can dance at three in the morning to music from a mobile phone on the porch of some administrative building. Because I know that no matter what I do, no matter how I behave, no matter how I look, He will support me, understand me, protect me.
Next to Him, I forget about everything. And I want to scream with happiness. And hold His hand...
Suddenly, His cheeks, covered with prickly stubble, pause near my navel. And then He blows hard on my stomach. And I laugh loudly. He looks at me with a sly smile and tickles my sides. I burst out laughing. He laughs too...
And it's amazing. Before, I always thought laughter was not erotic, not at all arousing, and generally incompatible with sex. A smile—that was still okay.
I was firmly convinced that sex was something shameful, dirty, depraved. Laughter, on the other hand, belonged more to the realm of sublime, pure, and sincere feelings and emotions. (Erotic stories) A completely narrow-minded view of things, as I now understand. With Him, I laugh constantly. He knows how to choose such words, gestures, grimaces that I can't help myself. And He can't look at me without a smile. Sometimes I tell Him this. Then He turns away, tries to put on a serious expression, but as soon as He looks at me, He immediately breaks into a smile.
However, even we sometimes get sad. We don't talk about it, but we both feel it. Like a thunderstorm brewing in a cloudless sky, like a water-filled balloon about to burst, like an inevitable, unavoidable tragedy. We know that soon we will have to part—in two weeks, my contract ends, and I will have to return to Italy. And He will stay here. We both understand that He is unlikely to be able to come to me. And I cannot stay—I have my diploma defense soon, and then another two years of master's studies...
I stop laughing and involuntarily sigh. He looks at me with understanding and a sadness akin to mine. And then He plunges into a kiss with my lips. He doesn't need to say or explain anything—His kiss is more eloquent than words.
I sob loudly, gasp on an inhale, scratch His back, and convulsively squeeze His legs with mine. He speeds up a little, then slows down, giving me a chance to catch my breath. Then He speeds up again. I'm no longer sobbing but crying out loud. My ears are pounding, there's a sweet pulsation below, and the word He called me the day before, when introducing me to some acquaintance, rings like a bell in my head: "Wife."
He slows down again. He doesn't like to finish before I reach my peak. I relax, and then with renewed strength, I grip Him inside and out. His back becomes covered in goosebumps, the cross around His neck rhythmically taps against my collarbone, and large drops of sweat appear on His forehead. He shakes them off, trying not to get them on my face, but it's in vain—His salty taste is already on my lips. I smile, and my nails sink even deeper into His shoulders.
"My turn?" His quiet exhale breaks through the veil of pleasure.
I can't answer. I nod. I know He can't see—His eyes are closed, as are mine. But He feels it.
Our heavy breathing merges into one, our hearts pound as if trying to break out of our chests and unite just as our bodies are united, to merge into each other with every cell, even though a moment ago it seemed impossible to be any closer.
But then He arches His back and freezes. Following Him, I lift my torso, pressing my whole body against Him. He doesn't growl, doesn't moan like a wounded animal. He just breathes heavily into my shoulder and gently kisses my cheek and neck. I feel His flesh slowly relaxing and contracting, pulsating, inside me.
"I love you," I exhale into His ear.
"Likewise," He replies with a smile.
And for a few more minutes, we lie embracing, listening as our hearts gradually calm and our breathing evens out.
Yes, we have one heart for the two of us. That's why we cannot part. That's why it hurts and saddens us that I will leave soon. And that's why we are both sure—no matter how many kilometers lie between us, no matter how many rivers and mountains separate us, we will be together. Simply because otherwise, we cannot...