Short Stories, continued

“Don’t You See What You Mean to Me?”

My first love was my first boyfriend, who became my first fiancé.

Y[. . .] and I had met during our first semester in college. Having many interests in common on academic, social and intellectual levels but also through our special fondness for world literature and classical Western music, we soon became inseparable friends. There was hardly any cultural event that we would be willingly miss. Films, yes, we saw several. When it came to classical music concerts or theatre plays, however, we would make a list of our joint preferences and make sure to experience them all. In our own homes, then, we would write a review of those events and read them to one another, discussing them in great detail in-between classes.

Our friendship took a different direction pretty quickly. It happened on the night of my first folkloric dance performance. He had asked me if he could take me to the place of the event, wait until I was done and bring me back home. With my acceptance of his offer, that night marked our first togetherness outside the university grounds.

The group of which I was a member had been formed by the university administration. So, the director and the event organizers were reliable, trustable people, with common sense, I had assumed. When we auditioned at the semester-beginning, we were told specifically that we would appear in front of college-related organizations and communities. That first time, however, we were not nearly close to dancing for a scholarly audience.

Y[. . .] picked me up from home, carrying my bag filled with my costume, headwear, accessories and shoes. We left for our destination. Where on earth did we arrive? In a night club! I had never been to one, and had no intentions whatsoever to go to such establishments; not only at the age of 18 but as in never in my life. Well, there was no turning back, as I had a responsibility to fulfill. Y[. . .] accompanied me through narrow steps into a hallway. Upstairs, we had been told that the dressing rooms were down there. I still have no idea what the men’s dressing room had in store for the unsuspecting eye, but the women’s version confronted me with half-nakedness all around. And stares galore!

Our group completed several dances. A Caucasian routine had three lead performers, one male and two females. I was one of them. It is practically a mini-theater about a love story, jealousy and the male’s final decision for a bride. Each time we had rehearsed at the university, I was the bride. Here I was again the chosen female. I must have played my part very realistically, as the audience applauded me enthusiastically. After our performance, we tried to walk out of the stage, back to the dressing rooms to change. The women of the late night entertainment were waiting behind the curtains, shoulder to shoulder. We had to literally break our way in. Again, under stares. Not at all friendly.

I practically dived into my regular clothes and met with Y[. . .] as planned, in what seemed to be a sorry excuse for a lobby. He was thrilled with my roles throughout, but uneasy about where we had ended up.

There were no public transportation stops in that area. With our student budgets, we were most certainly not going to take a cab. We started walking toward our bus station. It was a chilly night, but I felt cozy having him by my side. I thanked him multiple times for all his kind attention to me and for accompanying me to and from the event. After my last words of thanks, he stopped, held my hand and looked me in the eye with so much affection that I knew ours wasn’t a standard friendship for him. “Hülya, don’t you see what you mean to me? You are not just my best friend. I love you. I am in love with you!”

My feelings for Y[. . .] had also been running deeper than in a mere friendship for a while. When he asked me where my heart stood, I admitted to him that his love was not unrequited.    

*From my upcoming book of short stories, Once upon a Time in Turkey (For some reason, I have not been able to maintain in this post the original format of my intent.)

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