We Trade Our Night for Someone Else's Day by Ivana Bodrozic (english books to improve english TXT) 📕

dress up a little for the poetry reading. She combed her hair, put on mascara and lipstick, replaced her loose black top with a tighter-fitting one. She felt anxious about parting with her laptop. Everything she had was on it. But she slipped it under the blanket—as if that would be of any help. She put on her coat in the hallway, and on her way out she peeked once more into the restaurant. Ilinčić was still sitting there with one cell phone to his ear and the other in his hand.

6.

She and he and he and I

we’re at the border

and there’s no way back

before (spring 2010)

When it was dark in the stairwell, he lingered by the front door of her apartment, listening for the sounds coming from within. His heart pounded in the dark, and he heard his temples drumming. No one passed that way for ten, fifteen minutes at a time, and in his thoughts he ran through the scenes from several days before on the other side of Kristina’s door, on the kitchen floor and in the hallway. He was focused on the one point in time and space from which his entire life, the reason for his existence, had crystalized. He framed each individual scene, broke them down into second-long segments, and then stretched each one to infinity. The whiteness of her skin, the lock of hair he brushed from her brow, her eyes moving under her lids as he entered her, over and over. That point became his center. Now he needed to push aside everything that was blocking his way to Kristina and the future that lay before them. He’d only seen her once since then, while she was getting out of her car out in front of the building, her hands full of shopping bags, fumbling with the belt of her coat. Their eyes met, and just at that moment Ante got out on the other side of the car. They didn’t greet each other, but he knew that this was because she wasn’t alone; he hadn’t lost hope. Yet. She was still on sick leave; he was worried that she’d never come back to teach him: the school year was almost over. At school he was at least able to see her every day, openly, soak in her every word and gesture, and nobody would think it strange. After all, that was why he was there in class, to see her and hear her. Now he was working to get to know the regular rhythm of Ante’s departures and arrivals. The sequence changed from day to day, but Ante never spent much time at the apartment. Most evenings he was out; he’d come back at different times, sometimes at midnight and sometimes at five in the morning. Dejan longed to visit her again, but he worried about endangering her; he assumed she was already in deep over her head with problems, especially thanks to his mother. The infamous Thompson concert was on that very evening, commemorating the founding of the First Brigade, which had started all of this. But, again, if it hadn’t been for him mustering the courage to visit her in her apartment, knowing she’d be alone, maybe none of this would have happened, maybe he never would have dared. Three floors above her he smoked by his window, and from his bedroom he watched the parking lot, expecting to see them come out of the door together at some point, get into their car, and leave for the concert. After a time, instead, he noticed a figure limping toward the car: Ante. He was alone; he got in and, without waiting for anybody, he drove off toward town. Dejan assumed he wouldn’t be back soon. He didn’t stop to think; he flew out into the hallway, grabbed his jacket for appearances’ sake. From the dining room, he heard:

“Where are you off to now?”

“Out,” he barked.

“Where are you going, Dejan?”

“Off for a walk, okay? Want to come along and hold my hand?” he snapped at his mother, although this wasn’t like him.

“Fine, son, no need to shout; do as you like! Just relax.”

Dejan was already out the door, skipped down to the ground floor, went out through the main entrance, and looked up. Olivera was in his room, in the same pose at the window where he’d been just minutes before. He knew. He circled around the building and came back in the door on the other side, climbing up the fire escape to the second floor. He didn’t turn on the light, but didn’t stand long in the dark this time. He knocked softly on the door, hoping she’d hear, maybe more feel than hear, and open the door before someone came along. He couldn’t hear anything from inside, but just as he raised his hand to knock once more, the door opened. He was allowed to enter without resistance. The apartment was a mess. Chairs were tipped over; he could feel shards of glass under his tennis shoes, the reek of alcohol from the rug and sofa. Kristina was sitting, curled up on an armchair, hugging her knees, her chin tucked behind them. The only light in the living room shone from the muted television, so her figure in the corner seemed tiny and childlike, her hair loose; of her face all he could see were her eyes peeking out over her knees. Shocked by the sight, Dejan sank slowly onto the sofa, fingering the wet stains, and didn’t dare come closer.

“What happened here?” he asked softly, after he’d mustered the courage to take her in with a look.

“I didn’t want to go to the concert,” she said calmly.

“So he trashed the apartment.”

“He’d have trashed it anyway,” she said with a bitter smile.

“Did he touch you—”

“No,” she said.

“You can’t go on like this.”

“Why did you come?” she asked him coldly. She stared past him, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She loathed herself