The Aquarium

Mary wanted to dance that night at all costs! Even if she had to swallow her pride and ask some poor leader!

Mary regularly went to the Aquarium, but only from April to October. After that, it got too cold, especially after sunset. In autumn, the wind picked up and blew those damn leaves into piles, and she had to keep sweeping them aside with the toe of her shoe. She hated wearing down the fine leather soles of her expensive, custom-made shoes like that.

Fortunately, it was only mid-July, and the weather wasn’t giving her any trouble yet.

The day had started well. She had gone to the gym in the morning and worked up a serious sweat—the best indication that she had exercised properly. She had tossed her clothes into the washing machine but hadn’t turned it on; she had a rule inherited from her family—no laundry on Sundays. Although she wasn’t religious, she had long ago found it a convenient excuse for postponing something she didn’t particularly enjoy. Sunday was much better suited to dancing and everything that went with it—clothes, rituals, cosmetics. In short, she wanted to feel like a woman, and nothing more.

––

Jim looked at himself in the mirror—he didn’t need to suck in his stomach because there was nothing to suck in. He was as lean as a leopard before swallowing a gazelle, thank God for MyFitnessPal.

Then he opened his wardrobe and surveyed the shirts lined up and sorted by color—or rather, by shades of only two colors: light blue and beige. He quickly decided to donate the shirts two sizes larger that no longer fit him; he refused even to consider the possibility that he might gain weight again. He chose a white shirt he had ironed just yesterday, then a pair of navy Bermuda shorts, and laid them on the bed with infinite care. On the perfectly smooth bedspread.

He studied the faint shadow of one-day stubble on his cheek and thought, Damn it, I need to shave. I’ll look thirty again. Still, looking ten years younger is a good thing, isn’t it? Helps attract the right kind of girls: young, healthy, with long hair blowing in the wind.

––

The Aquarium had filled up: couples were already occasionally bumping into one another when their spins got out of control. The leaders were either absorbed in the dance or in their partners—some buried their faces in the women’s long hair, others gazed into their eyes and exchanged pleasantries, while still others patrolled the edges in search of their next “victim.”

Mary sat on the sidelines, tapping the beat with her right foot, which simply refused to stay still, and feeling sorry for herself. At her age, she often felt invisible. Her long hair had lost its shine years ago and she had cut it off; now she wore that universal pixie cut and suffered the frustrations that came with it: when dancing, she couldn’t toss her hair into the leaders’ faces the way those young women did... much younger women.

She was surprised and delighted when the slender young leader approached and held out his hand—she accepted immediately: every minute spent dancing was a minute gained.

Her body knew what to do, except... this time something felt different. Maybe it was the contrast between his seemingly fragile build and the strength with which he lifted her into the air or deliberately tipped her off balance? Maybe it was his large dark eyes staring straight into hers? Maybe his broad, easy smile? Or perhaps the accent in which he delivered his sparkling jokes, making her laugh?

The three minutes passed in a flash. Then the colorful fish in the Aquarium resumed their searching, testing, approaching, and rejecting, each with the day’s agenda carefully hidden away.

––

Hmm, interesting. She’s nowhere near what’s on my radar... and yet... I’m incredibly attracted to her... what the hell is happening to me?

I like blondes with long hair—hers is short and gray, with the dyed ends still showing... I like young, slim girls; she’s clearly well past even her second youth, and she’s got some respectable love handles... good thing I work out, otherwise lifting her might have been difficult... And yet she’s impressively agile and flexible, with an excellent sense of rhythm. But what I like most is the way she laughs when I say something stupid. And I really like the way she smells: of algae, seashells, and matcha. I’ll let another three songs go by, then I’ll ask her again. Let’s see how she handles a deep dip.

Jim continued navigating through the Aquarium and stopped to ask a slim, long-haired blonde who looked a little shy, judging by the way she kept her hands folded in her lap and her legs pressed tightly together.

He tried to make conversation, but the girl kept her lips just as tightly closed. She danced well, but something was missing: that imperfect spark he had just discovered and couldn’t forget.

When he escorted her back to her seat, his eyes darted for a moment toward the place where Gray-Hair had been sitting. Unfortunately, she was gone.

––

After several weekends of increasingly heated dances, Mary surveyed her wardrobe—this time she had a clear purpose—she wanted Leopard to notice her, admire her and, above all, choose her. For the first time in a long while, she felt desired and wanted to feel it again.

She chose a blouse of heavy silk, the kind you never tire of touching and stroking, wide cream trousers, and a discreet pearl necklace. A few sprays of Herba Fresca, a little lip gloss, and a touch of sienna shadow at the corners of her eyes.

When she arrived at the Aquarium, the couples were already flushed from dancing and the sweltering July heat. Beads of sweat glistened on their faces, and everywhere fans fluttered in an attempt to stir up a breeze. She sat down on the bench to the right, in her usual place, and took full advantage of her neighbor’s fan.

Jim noticed her immediately. He would ask her for the very next dance. He was disappointed when another man beat him to it by a whisker. Better stay right here at the edge, near her spot, so I don’t miss her again.

He asked her before she even had time to sit down or cool off a little. They plunged into the whirl, he—happy to have caught her, she—delighted that her efforts had not gone unnoticed. By the end of the dance, the tension between them had become unbearable. Jim made a sudden decision:

“Can I text you? On WhatsApp? I’m Jim.”

“I’m Mary. Nice to meet you.”

“There are several Marys, but I’ll find you!”

“How are you going to find me?”

“Easy. Process of elimination!” Jim laughed, flashing his white teeth.

That evening, Mary made the effort to change her WhatsApp profile picture to a clear, recent photograph showing her from the front, with her back reflected in a mirror.

Fate needs a little help, doesn’t it?

––

Jim looked at himself in the mirror, pressed both hands to his temples, and tried to calm the throbbing pain. He had sent her the message inviting her over—it had been easy to recognize her profile—and then a whirlwind of emotions overwhelmed him. He didn’t know which was worse: fear of failure or fear of success? They both felt the same, and the ambiguity was killing him.

After taking several deep breaths, as his therapist had taught him long ago, his programmer’s logical mind took control of his emotions. He decided it was simply a matter of logic: If... Then... Else... All he had to do was write the two procedures and prepare himself. He soon calmed down.

He got dressed and left the apartment. At the supermarket, he bought three large tubs of chocolate ice cream; at the pharmacy, three boxes of XXL condoms.

He decided to keep his phone on mute, face down, until six.

He opened his computer and played frantically until he forgot about reality.

––

At exactly the time she had said she would arrive—she had a highly developed sense of time—Mary pressed the intercom button. She waited a few moments, then the door opened. She had the feeling she was entering another dimension. It smelled old—of cat urine, of damp, mildewed walls. Her nose wrinkled, but she suppressed her disgust.

The elevator swayed endlessly on its way upstairs. She knocked softly on the door, assuming he was there and had unlocked it, knowing she was about to arrive.

She heard the lock turn three times, then creak.

The face she knew from the Aquarium peeked through the half-open door, while his eyes swept the hallway as though he expected someone to be spying on him. He stepped aside to let her into the apartment’s tiny entrance hall. He was serious.

She took off her shoes, was given a pair of purple plastic slippers, and then they went into the living room. One corner was crammed with technology, arranged on a desk that took up a third of the room. Apart from that, there was a small sofa and an old-fashioned wall unit with a wardrobe, a model from twenty years ago, with more empty spaces than books.

Jim drew the curtains, just in case the neighbors in the apartment blocks across the way decided to settle in at their windows with binoculars and popcorn. He opened his computer and chose the newest song in the style they danced at the Aquarium.

They began to dance, increasingly sensual, until Mary suddenly said:

“Can you turn off the light? Do you have anything to drink?”

Jim obliged. There was an unopened bottle of white wine in the refrigerator. He switched off the ceiling light, leaving the light from the hallway to filter discreetly into the room.

Mary drank eagerly. She was hot and thirsty and frightened all at once. Jim merely wet his lips. He didn’t want to lose control.

Mary did.

They continued dancing, growing increasingly uninhibited, until Jim began to undress her. Mary helped him.

The wine had done its job.

––

The bedroom was dark, with only a small salt lamp casting a few shadows on the walls.

Mary was already drowsy, a little confused, but calm. She knew first sexual encounters were rarely the best ones, but she had faith in his potential. The two minutes had passed very quickly, and her tension was nowhere near released. The shower afterward had lasted much longer, and Jim had tried again in the shower, but had failed to achieve the desired effect, no matter how much he pleaded with his own body.

Now he was lying beside her, talking about something administrative that didn’t interest her. Still, she made an effort to contribute a few words now and then so it wouldn’t seem as though she were leaving him to talk to himself.

After a while—too long, as far as she was concerned—she said, leaving no room for argument:

“Now we sleep!”

He wrapped his arms around her, and they fell asleep entwined, two bodies recognizing, accepting, and surrendering to one another, safe.

The next day, they looked at each other like two people with no shared ritual, trying to discover what still connected them.

“My love, do you have coffee?”

“Lover...”

“What did you say?”

“Well, I’m not your love. I’m your lover...”

Mary couldn’t stop the tears that began flowing of their own accord.

“Our world is already so small, and you’re ruining it!”

Jim took her in his arms and held her tight.

“I don’t want to lie to you. We’re only here for sex.”

Mary cried even harder. She knew it too; they both did. The time between them made everything impossible. But somehow, once you hear it said aloud, it becomes even harder to bear.

Jim pulled her back onto the bed in the bedroom. They held each other and cried together for a long time. She felt his emotion and said, wanting to repair something that seemed to have broken:

“It was wonderful. I felt amazing. I experienced things I’ve never experienced before.”

“So did I. I experienced many things for the first time with you.”

Mary felt understood and calmed down. She was the first to wipe away her tears.

“Thank you for making me feel better about myself, for making me feel younger!”

“And thank you for making me a better man...”

Mary tried to leave, against her own wishes. Jim kept her there a while longer, trying to prolong the moment of parting.

“See you Sunday, at the dance?”

“Absolutely.”

The following Sunday, Jim asked her to dance again—just like any other woman. She loved the sensation of his stubble lightly prickling her cheek, but the dance felt different.

There was no longer tension. There was tenderness.

––

Every weekend that followed, Jim invited her over. They made love—for longer and longer each time, thankfully—talked, cried. Then they went into the kitchen.

“You peel the potatoes, I’ll cut them.”

“Do you have a potato peeler?”

“Here!”

...

“What’s this bit of peel doing here? They need to be peeled properly!”

“Oh, come on. Nobody ever died from a little potato peel!”

“Actually, a Polish man died because of a potato peel. It had E. coli!”

“God!”

...

Then one day, without any warning, Jim told her:

“You were the first woman in my life, and I’m glad it was you. But I need to get on with my life. I want a family, I want children... You, in a way, already have your life... In an ideal world, everything would have been different...”

“What??? The first time, I thought you meant something else...”

“I know. I just couldn’t bring myself to make it clear then...”

“My lips are sealed. Your secret is safe with me...”

Then Mary turned her back to him and cried silently.

The following Sunday, Jim asked her to dance again, and the dance felt different to Mary.

There was no longer tenderness. There was sadness.

––

Their WhatsApp messages grew less frequent. The invitations stopped. Sometimes Mary wondered: had Jim found his true love?

She was glad when she saw him again at the dance, in the diagonally opposite corner of the Aquarium. She had deliberately chosen a different place to sit, perhaps to avoid something that might hurt.

After a while, he stood up and slowly made his way toward her with the steps of a leopard. She rose, ran her hand through her coarse, crew-cut hair in a slightly ridiculous attempt to rebelliously erase every trace of femininity from herself, and smiled broadly when she saw his boyish, freshly shaven face.

They moved toward each other and began to dance. She recognized his slim, firm, masculine body and lightly wrapped herself around his waist. He pressed his forehead to hers and led her through all the crazy figures he had accustomed her to long ago.

This dance, too, was different.

There was tension again, but a different kind.

Gilded with a touch of gratitude.