London

London smells different than any other city. The fumes of the cars, the sea—just at reach to recognize that distinct smell of seaweed and rotten fish—and that ever-present stench of beer, and fish and chips give the city its unique odor.
It's busy. Even in the middle of the night, headlights of the black cabs zigzag the spidery-like tapestry of streets, and the buzz of the globetrotters never winds down. Melissa listens to the sounds and stares at the looming, futuristic pyramids of pristine glass and steel.
The skyscrapers she sees from her bed herald a future with long opening hours, boutique shops, and crammed mornings in the Tube. Brushing elbows with strangers while avoiding their eyes, too afraid that someone would notice her.
See her.
That is the weakness here. In this city. In this apartment.
Maybe it's the city that keeps her awake. She tosses, turns, and tenses at the sound of the lock turning. Almost angry at herself, she throws herself to her feet.
The door creaks open and reveals a lithe figure wearing a dark trench coat, a carry-on clonking behind him: Marcus has arrived. A flash of recognition passes his sunken eyes as he sees Melissa and stops. A sterile fluorescence corridor light illuminates his sleek dark hair.
It’s almost midnight already, she wants to say. “You’re back already?”
She cringes when that smug smile spreads over his face, easing the tense muscles and the sharpness of the jawbone. Sometimes she hates that smile. It appears to know too much and be conscious of its knowing. Still, it sends her heart aflutter.
“Mousy… did you miss me?”
“Maybe,” Melissa answers warily and thinks how they departed—exchanging icy glares, barely speaking at each other. “Did you?”
“Oh, Mousy! So touchy today!” he tut-tuts and closes the door, and hems of his coat swoosh in the air. “I don’t even get a peck on the cheek?” He smiles again, this time more inviting. She finds herself crossing the distance between them. The wooden parquet is cold against her bare feet. His jacket smells of cologne, and a wisp of alcohol lingers in his breath.
She lets it pass.
“Are you hungry?” She follows him and his bulky carry-on luggage to the bedroom.
“Why Mousy, you’re getting sloppy! No dinner ready yet?” He cocks his brow, and a tingle of heat flushes her cheeks.
“I wasn’t hungry,” she protests.
Ignoring her, he waves a finger. “Tsk, tsk, Mousy. See how much you need me—without me, you couldn’t take care of yourself.”
The words hurt, but she tries to ignore the feeling.
“I can make some chicken soup,” she proposes, “if you are hungry?”
Marcus puckers his lips and nods approvingly. “I’ll eat after my shower.”
He embraces her when she is about to turn away. His coat feels cool on her bare arms, and she closes her eyes. A faint cloud of his cologne, the wine in his breath enfolds her. The hope of warmth sways inside her.
Just as quickly as the hug has started, it is over, and he begins to unpack. She hesitates but finally leaves the bedroom.
Melissa takes out the black iron kettle and yesterday’s rotisserie chicken. While the water bubbles and fogs the kitchen cabinet above the stove, she pulls out the pale flesh, staring to the distance, and listens to the hissing shower.
When he emerges from the bathroom, dark hair still wet and curling on his forehead, Marcus walks to the pot and sniffs. He nods and sits, waiting for Melissa to fill his plate, and starts talking about his trip. He’d been to Moscow, that much she knows. Although she’s tempted to ask more, she stays quiet.
Maybe that’s what prompts him to talk. She notes it down—hoping—it would be the key.
“You know, Mousy; my colleagues are such terrible people.” As if to demonstrate the words, he jiggles a Matryoshka doll he’s set on the table—the bright red and gold paint gleam in the ceiling light. “On the last day, after the meetings, I went out for shopping gifts.”
“Did you bring something that to me? Oh, that’s-”
“Mousy. Of course not! This is for my mom; she loves such banal things. I wouldn’t bring this to you. Then I’d have to watch it in our home!”
She swallows her angry retort. He’s in such a good mood after all.
“And you don’t like this kind of a trifle. It’s so tasteless. Isn’t that right, Mousy?”
He looks at her over his plate and slurps another spoonful.
“But my colleague—after coming back at the hotel, he asks what I’ve done. So, I show him my doll. You never guess what he replies, Mousy! Guess!”
“Umm, he bought the same?”
“Ah, Mousy! So unimaginative, as usual. Of course not! I already told you how terrible my peers are. So mundane! He says to me—” Marcus lowers his voice and looks at her across the table like a conspirator. “Matryoshka! Ah, Marcus, you should have tried the real ones.”
He nods his head in apparent pleasure as the message sinks in.
“What did you say?”
A smile quivers on his lips as he lifts his spoon. “Oh, Mousy! That’s none of your business.”
After their lovemaking, as unexpected as it is quick, she lies still and listens to the steady breathing of the stranger next to her. The distant lights glisten outside, reaching through the gossamer clouds, to the future.