LONE WOLVES by Anna Pele
There you lie, lifeless on your back, plastic eyes staring, smile stitched between felt beard and moustache…it’s not awkward; it’s a perfect morning after.I've missed wrapping my arm around another body in bed. Hugging my hot water bottle from October to March, holding its slop-slop to my chest, while soothing, makes a lonely picture. It’s like hugging water: you can’t hug love. It slips past your fingers, steals pieces of yourself as it trickles or rushes away. I’ve learned to hold myself. But when Christmas clutters city streets and people’s minds, when the nights grow long and deep, that’s when I crave the warmth of someone wanting to be with me, long for a beating heart in bed with me. You’re the perfect Julklapp gift for us. Mhm, I figured you out at sunrise; the way you said, sleep tight. Your voice—that rumble lipping my neck—it ghosts into the wound Finn left in the back of my chest. Fills it, rubs it warm, smooths the tension between my shoulder blades—Does hugging you make me more or less pathetic?Last night at the restaurant, I laughed so hard when I unpacked you, saw black boots, no trousers: blue boxer shorts with bright yellow stars. I swore to throw you away. Someone, Levik surely, tied the jute bag you came in to the straps of my handbag.And now, here you lie, red faux coat over a rotund bulge—I like that you have a belly when you turn man. Your velvety hat’s torn askew from where I clung to you as you set off an avalanche with your tongue and fingers. You promised more of this every night of the season. If I kept you. Ugh, look at this bruise—ah, you can’t see. Not until sunset? You could’ve arrived sooner, you know…could’ve prevented my somersault in front of the restaurant, placed Levik close enough to catch me. I could’ve landed on you, not an icy patch of snowy pavement. Might’ve softened the blow; back-planting before the entire office, agh.Levik’s voice was first to register after my viewpoint flipped. There’s something about that voice. The rumbling of an approaching storm—not the dangerous kind—I mean there is something foreboding about the sound of his words rolling up his chest, but then it softens, turns liquid, travels down my spine, like warm water…that temperature that’s just right for a bath? A bath, that’ll help the soreness from my fall. And our night. Meh, too cold outside of bed. The bath can wait. Besides, it’s Sunday, first Advent—Families at breakfast tables, kids reciting “Advent, Advent, ein Lichtlein brennt,” parents guiding tentative fingers to light the first candle—might as well stay in bed. Cuddle you. Christmas season goes from 1st Advent til January 6th, but you said that’s not true. A stereotypical Santa—one without trousers, that is—saying Christmas magic has nothing to do with Santa or even Christmas. You deepened your voice to say: My magic is older than the peregrination and coalescence of myths and customs; it’s the Sun’s magic in its Winter expression. A recitation, surely. Then you declared: I will warm you as the sun slips from the days until she reshapes them with her ever-brightening light. Grr, give me dates! Your voice rumbled like a growl when I kept asking. Then it rippled, laved my ear, my neck. And that was that. But really, how long will we have these nights? I’ve promised myself to singlehood, but sometimes it absolutely sucks. I thought one-night stands would patch the void, but they’re too troublesome. Either they demand more than was agreed—desperate to be wanted more than they want themselves—or it turns out they’re cheating. But sex isn’t the only void. Last night, after thudding the pavement and confusing the street’s fairy lights with myriad stars, after registering Levik’s, “You OK?” and someone’s “Have another Glühwein!”, the thing my eyes focused on were sneakers. Levik always wears them—black or brown. Never other shoes, not even to court. I think it’s because he moves so much. Whenever his lean figure, shirt sleeves rolled up, prowls the corridors, I know he’s on a tough case, and it’s time for a mutual lunch or dinner. I wonder what my tell is.I swear you just leered. So we enjoy each other’s counsel, a few times a week. Nothing hedonistic about discussing cases over food and a glass of wine. It’s not dating. He’s brilliant, but dating in the office?Once, I’d have rolled my eyes at someone transferring after a breakup, but that July night when Levik told me why he left the Stockholm office, I understood. We were celebrating our first win, playing round after round of Mensch ärgere Dich nicht, our pawns jumping over or kicking the other’s pawns out, neither willing to end the night in defeat. My response was: “Coupledom makes us needy and gormless,” and then I spoke about Finn. I’m not sure why…it was an unusually warm night.Your eyes didn’t leave my lips—you were biting your bottom lip, revealing the most enticing row of teeth. I wanted to run the tip of my tongue over them, nip that plump lip. “We’re lone wolves,” you said. Then you raised your glass, red liquid sloshing halfway up one side, and said, “To our pack of two”. I clinked with my white. “Let’s not shit where we eat,” I said. You sipped and nodded.Lone wolves. And you, little Santa? Let the office believe you’re a gag gift to the office’s Christmas grouch. We know you’re a doorway for water to flow through unpossessed. You’re the comfort of a filled bathtub, outside the rumbling approach of thunder, but knowing I’m safely grounded…Who cares if I’m being sappy; I can’t wait for his voice to trickle from your lips, pebble my skin, submerge me in hot…steaming…bathwater.