by Alef Tav
The heat embraced us as we got out of the air-conditioned building, but it was not muggy and sticky as earlier in the day, but as smooth and friendly as the darkness which wrapped itself around every object, and which the street lights could only pierce the tiniest small holes in. This was what I had wanted to show her most of all - the darkness, the sounds, and the smells; a jazz trumpet mixing with the laughter from Elisabeth Street, the chipmunks zigzagging across the footpath through the park, the soft feeling of the evening breeze on the skin. I love the white Scandinavian summer nights, but perhaps I love the hot, soft, and dark summer nights here even more.
I took her hand and pulled her slowly in the direction of the main library. It was Friday night, and I thought I recognized familiar sounds from afar - the Greek folk musicians used to meet with the dancers in the lighted area outside the library on Fridays, and although they were probably not particularly good, the trembling sounds and the dancers weaving in and out of the rows, picking up new partners and letting them go, always created a haunting and enchanted atmosphere. We stood and watched them for a few minutes, and I felt her grip of my hand tighten.
"You've got to taste the ice cream," I said and pulled her around the corner and up the stairs. She stared helplessly at the menu.
"What should I pick?" she finally asked.
"Butterscotch Marble is probably my favorite," I replied, "but tonight I want Apple Strudel as they don't have it that often."
"Perhaps I also should choose ... that apple thing?"
"Why don't we take one of each? Then you can taste both." She looked sternly at me - she's funny that way; she has no problem spending the afternoon with her tongue halfway down your throat, but the thought of eating from the same ice cream as you makes her shiver. It's probably what the they call being well brought up. "I promise not to kiss you for a week," I said. She tried to slap my butt, but I was too fast. We bought one of each, and she ate all of my Apple Strudel.
"Let's take a look at Elisabeth Street," I suggested. I had been looking forward to this for a long time, to show her the city where I had spent a magical year as an exchange student. There might have been other places more appropriate for my doctoral studies, but I wanted to return here, to come back and bring her with me. Fortunately, we had found a program that fitted perfectly into her plans.
When I met her, I was a teaching assistant and she was taking my class. At first I thought she was just another of these pretty West End girls with their blond ponytails and discrete make-up.
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