Every day, I watched her graceful movements from my watch repair shop window. I dreamed of the subtle constriction of her pupils and what her figure looked like, as she always wore overly loose clothing, and I was convinced that, in reality, she was much smaller. I lived for almost a year with such thoughts and dreams. I knew where she lived and was already accustomed to her daily routine. It seemed likely that she enjoyed sleeping in, as she always passed me by later on weekends, appearing somewhat sleepy. She would go to the nearby store for plum wine and cat food. Sometimes, her wine consumption on Saturdays scared me, but I didn’t know anything in detail. I only speculated, imagined, dreamed . . . It always felt like the moment had arrived when I was meant to approach her, but I didn’t dare.
“My watch broke. Could you please fix it?” or “My grandma’s watch is acting up; if you could do something about it . . . I said I’d buy her a new one, but she wants this particular one. Old people . . . ” she would say, and shyly smile.
I didn’t know if her voice was pleasant or not because I liked her so much that everything about her seemed beautiful.
It was morning when she approached me for the first time before dashing off somewhere. She was wearing a long peach dress with stretched sleeves. She was standing in line behind a man, attempting to tie her hair into something resembling a ponytail, but one strand still hung loose that she didn’t bother fixing because it was her turn to speak.
The worst part was that she addressed me as if I were just a worker paid for a service. She spoke as one would with a salesperson or a pastry chef ordering a cake for a celebration, although I was convinced that ordering a cake was much more pleasant than fixing a watch. She simply handed over the watch and asked when to pick it up. I was calm and composed, as this very state was my ultimate state of hysteria. I just knew that she would come someday. I never noticed her wearing a watch, but sometimes I imagined it, and it was not at all like this one. I always thought it should be very small, with tiny stones around the dial. It turned out to be incredibly large, maybe even bigger than her palm, without stones, but with strange black and white stripes. I had never seen such a watch. I realized I was being too clichéd, picturing her wearing a more conventionally styled woman’s watch.
She was much more refined than I could have imagined. I got used to loving her. I sniffed the watch strap for a long time, but it didn’t smell at all—even new watches have some scent, but this one had none, as if it were worn not by a person but by the wind. I didn’t repair it in the workshop. Instead, I took it home and, spreading out a new bedsheet, disassembled it in bed as if undressing a woman. I’m not some maniac, but as I did this, my whole body longed to lie down with someone—anyone but her. She was so delicate that I doubted I could ever unfold those thin petals and discover the unknown sensations within. God knows what it would have been like inside her if she wore such a watch.
I was afraid of her. Afraid and in love. I had to love myself. Some drops fell on her already repaired watch, and I interpreted it as a beautiful sign that her heartbeat would warm me, immortalized in the leather strap. Perhaps, one day, she would see me not just as a watch repairman.
The next day, she came wearing an enormous navy blue sweater with a huge collar and no sleeves. It was beautiful because I could see her arms. They were too thin. Then I tried the watch on her, and the same thing happened as the previous evening. But I quickly regained control. I could have gazed into her pupils, but I decided to save that pleasure for our next meeting.
She asked how much she should pay. I reduced the fee threefold, to which she replied, “So expensive?” She reluctantly handed over the required amount, thanked me solemnly, and left. She walked away, and I smiled because I knew that I would soon start pulsating with her.
I was incredibly anxious when she didn’t pass by me in the morning or evening—I prayed for her not to get sick, and every day, I tormented myself, thinking that she might have left forever and I wouldn’t even have time to say how deeply I loved her. I didn’t care if she had a lover, was in love with someone else, was a lesbian, a sadist, or an asexual. I never saw her in the city, probably because I was rarely anywhere other than at work, and there was no reason to search for her when I knew for sure that she would hurry past me at half past nine. Every day.
After she got upset about the payment, I was worried that she wouldn’t come to me again with a request to fix any more watches. God, I wouldn’t have taken any money from her at all, but it would have probably looked suspicious, and I was afraid. Calmness was the greatest madness that prevented me from embracing her hands. I hoped that in every room, in the kitchen, in the hallway, and even in the bathroom, she had a small mechanism with hands that would stop someday, and she would come closer. I begged God that if He were so kind as to bring her to me again, I would definitely make her understand how much and for how long I’d loved her. I would tell her everything while holding her hand or caressing her shoulder, attaching a note to the watch, perhaps even recording a confession on a cassette and giving it to her.
My pleas didn’t last too long—she eventually came again. It was autumn. She probably came from the hair salon because in the morning her hair had been the color of wet cinnamon, and some white strands had been visible. I didn’t care. Beautiful as always, in a way only she could be.
It was her grandmother’s watch. I immediately saw that it was too old for her, that it was time to throw it away. However, it would have been disadvantageous for me to say so because she would simply turn around and leave, and I wanted to hear more from her . . . She walked away from me, and all my kisses rolled after her. The work was challenging, so I told her to come back in a few days. Of course, I could have lied to her and kept delaying each time. But no. I took the watch home again, but this time, everything went normally—I spent all night repairing it and knew that I had to finish by dawn to get at least some sleep because otherwise I would look tired and pathetic, which she wouldn’t find attractive.
The next morning, she hurried past me and didn’t even turn around to inquire if I had completed what I was supposed to, as I had instructed her to return in a few days.
I was eagerly waiting, and this anticipation hastened her arrival. When I saw her again, she seemed taller, but I noticed that she wasn’t wearing heels for the first time. I handed her the watch. She asked, “How much?” and I replied that I wouldn’t take any money because this watch was unique, and I’d learned a lot by repairing it, so I could even pay her. She said nothing and left. However, after half an hour, she returned with a warm pie.
My love increasingly resembled an illness—I especially felt it when the pie started to mold, and I couldn’t look at it or taste it because she’d brought it to me whole. This time, I was even calmer and forgot about the promise I had made to God. I didn’t tell her, and I should have. The only way to find solace for guilt is through confession and avowal.
I never took so long to wake up as on that day. I didn’t want to believe that the day had already started and I would have to face it. I didn’t know how to approach her. I didn’t even know her name. Thank God she wasn’t there that morning. For the first time, I didn’t even care where she was. Fear prevailed. The next day, I knew she would pass by me because it had been raining for several days, and there were warnings of a possible flood. The local news urged people to buy everything they needed because the stores might have to close, as most of them were on the ground floor.
She was walking under an emerald umbrella. I grabbed mine and, like a fool, I ran up to her. She stopped when she noticed me. She looked at me and remained silent for a long time as if sensing something about me. I told her to wait there, ran back to the shop, and grabbed some giant pliers. “This is how much I love you!” I shouted, putting the pliers into my mouth and ripping out my front tooth. Blood poured from my mouth. She looked at me and stayed silent, but it was evident that she felt unwell—she turned pale and broke out in a fine sweat.
“This is me. I don’t know how to tell you and prove that I love you!” The blood kept flowing. I could barely speak. She reached out, took my tooth in her hand, then lifted her gaze and asked:
“Why didn’t you come?”
I didn’t know where I was supposed to have gone, so I remained silent.
“I wrote to you,” she said in an even quieter voice, squeezing the tooth in her hand.
“Where?”
“In my letter.”
“What letter?” I felt increasingly worse from not understanding all of this and from the pain in my mouth.
“Didn’t you find the letter in the pie?” she asked incredulously.
“I ate it” was the only thing that came to my mind at that moment.
“Together with the package it was in . . .? ” she continued with an ironic smile.
I didn’t know what to say. This rain, her anger, and these thick splashes of blood were taking away my understanding of reality. Suddenly, pressing harder against the umbrella handle, she shouted:
“Why did you pull out your tooth?”
“I already said I don’t know how to prove who you are to me,” I replied, turning around to spit so she wouldn’t see.
I looked into her eyes, and it seemed to me that she was starting to understand.
She put the tooth in the pocket of her coat, took a sheet of paper and a pen from her bag, and, holding the umbrella with her shoulder, began to write something. I didn’t help her because I was afraid of smudging the paper. She wrote down her address and said through tears:
“I’m waiting for you. God, how I’m waiting for you . . . ”
She left. The rain didn’t stop. I took a taxi and went to the doctor because the blood wouldn’t clot. It didn’t clot even in the hospital. They stitched up the hole so that I wouldn’t die from blood loss.
There was an ongoing evacuation in the city. They said something extraordinarily frightening had begun. I went home with a premonition for the next day, eager to see her as quickly as possible. However, the rain didn’t stop—it poured as if all the world’s taps had been turned on over our city. By morning, the water had risen to the third floor, prompting neighbors from lower floors to seek higher ground. I couldn’t look out the window for long: trees, cars, animals, people . . . everything was floating. I prayed and held onto the belief that she lived one floor below—we’d simply never crossed paths. My hope was that she would call, seeking shelter when the water reached her floor. In the following days, the water rose by one floor daily. The disaster did not stop. The rain did not cease. On the fourth day, exhausted from the fear of dying and not seeing her, I began to gray and feel such pain in the gap where my tooth used to be, as if something new was emerging. I could already see that everything submerged would soon reach me. My sole desire was to survive for both of us.
Now, I sit on the roof of a nine-story building. People are being swallowed by the black water. The screams and tears deny me any peace, yet I gaze at other rooftops, hoping that somewhere she might be sitting and waiting. And we will survive this! Even if the water rises to the sky. Because if this is the second great flood, then it means God has still had time to pair everyone up.
