Artwork by Helene Delmaire

The waitress turns around to reach for a glass high up on the counter shelf and her shirt does that movement too, slightly twisting and curling up, so I manage to get a glimpse of what’s underneath the shirt, that naked line between jeans and a top. For a glimpse of an eye I can see her tanned Mediterranean skin; thin white stretch lines almost all girls have, but which you will never see in any glamour magazine. I see a small tattoo the waitress has there hidden, in a faded blue ink. This tattoo reminds me of another tattoo, and another girl, and another moment of my life.

Girls are tough, did you know? Girls are tough, and girls are drama. They change their mind every other day, but they also have very soft lips and tongues, and fine kisses, and in reality they are not afraid all the time.

Or am I not afraid all the time with girls?

It was a big shock to me in the beginning. I couldn’t believe myself, how could I not have noticed it all this time? How couldn’t I have noticed that I like girls?

Me, coming from Latvia, it was barely visible to me, seemed like a big taboo. All the upbringing, all the jokes at the family dinners. And I myself, I love men actually. I love their best qualities: I like how brave they are supposed to be, and how clever they are supposed to be, and protecting, and caring. But I haven’t seen men like this lately. Girls though, yes.

It is very liberating too, by the way. You don’t think of girls as rivals any more, you can now fully enjoy their beauty and not be ashamed that something moves in you when you see a nice mouth and a couple of breasts.

And then I met her. Maybe this all was just to meet her, a subtle preparation, a tryout, so that later I know not to let go.

She is really stunning – large deer eyes, and curly short hair, and a subtle grace, but with a masculine touch.

My mom keeps asking me every week in Whatsapp – how is my private life. I said I am seeing this architect guy, who I went on a date with when she was here. “How old?” “What does he do for living?” “What’s his name?” I really hate it.

I know I am overreacting but I can’t stop feeling that she does it to hurt me. I know she doesn’t. It’s just me who gets hurt. But what the fuck does it matter what he does for a living, I want to answer. You know, in capital letters and with a lot of question mark signs and some stupid smileys perhaps.

Luckily or unfortunately, my relationship with my mother mostly exists in chat these days, but I still manage to get upset.

I am getting divorced soon, and the separation has been quite hard on me. I told my mom some time ago: “I hope you can accept such a failure daughter” and she said: “I can accept everything, as long it’s not a black person, a lesbian, or a sequence of Random Encounters”.

I guess that’s a lot of things she will never accept in me then. I don’t know why she didn’t mention a drug addict or an alcoholic..? Could it be it’s better to date a heroin addict than a girl?

I remember we saw my friend N. once, when we were together, and walking and holding hands. When I saw N. from distance, I felt like my heart froze. I got embarrassment heat waves all through my body while we walked passed. What are they going to think??

Now some time has passed and I am not that terrified any more. Most of the times I just don’t remember she is a girl – intimacy easily helps you forget there are others on this planet, so it’s just sometimes, when I raise my eyes after looking at her, that I notice a stare here and other. People stare a lot. Its funny to find myself on the other side. And it’s funny not to feel anything else to the fact than a slight amusement, and even some satisfaction.

When you finally come to terms with yourself and with your sexuality, it’s very liberating.

It’s like there is no more filter on your eyes; and when it’s down, they are actually people, and it doesn’t matter what gender they are; and what concerns sex, well it can be very different too. Intimate moments are intimate moments, and does it matter whom with? Isn’t being home more important?

I still have fears though. A fear that my idea of what a family should be like would destroy this seemingly genuine feeling, a feeling of sweet belonging and being home.

But so far:

I don’t know what it is but it fills me.

It fills me so densely that I feel it inside my stomach

This filling gooey mass, it feels good

It is dripping somewhere where my navel ends

Dropping thick pieces of what I don’t need and

What I can’t wither myself

And there is enough for everyone

So come join the party.

—

Alina Cvetkova is a writer who, after having tried several European countries, has finally settled in Barcelona. Alina works as a designer and takes care of several artistic projects, as well as writes. She self-published her first book, “Cyan and other stories”, this summer, and thinks that music is sometimes the only thing which helps one survive.

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