Cristina woke up shivering. Despite being well-covered, her nose, sticking out from under the blanket, felt as cold as a tiny ice cube when she touched it. She looked towards the window and saw a leaden autumn sky. It was incredible how swiftly the transition from summer to cold had happened. She hated the cold, especially the dampness of autumn, that well-infiltrated spy of winter. She stretched in bed and when her feet slipped out from under the blanket, she quickly pulled them back as if scorched by frost. The dorm room was unheated and her roommate had left the electric heater off when she left for her morning classes. Cristina toyed with the idea of staying in pajamas all day and skipping all her classes. Anyway, Mondays had the most boring lectures. It was better to stay in the room, make herself some coffee and toast with butter and honey, maybe later a linden tea, read the remaining pages of Houellebecq’s latest book, and perhaps even watch an episode of Prison Break. Or maybe two. She abandoned this tempting plan when the thought of Petru suddenly raised her pulse. No, she couldn’t stay home, she had to go to college and see Petru. She adored that dark-haired boy, with always rebellious hair, deep black eyes, and that rogue smile that made her stomach flutter every time. They had gone out a few times and it seemed that the relationship was getting more serious.
She sat up and reached for her phone on the charger. But she stopped mid-air. She had imposed a rule on herself a few days ago to check notifications only twice a day, after reading an article in Scientific American about the harmful effects of social media. The truth was she felt better since she had mainly been using it just to call or be called. Initially, she fought the habit like a hero fighting the dragons from the stories her grandmother read to her when she was little. She hadn’t completely conquered it, but she stood up with a regal air, pressed the button to turn on the heater, bypassed the nightstand, and entered the bathroom with the clear feeling that her phone was watching her sulkily. She had glimpsed the swarm of messages and notifications but felt a particular satisfaction thinking that she would read them on the bus. She had recently discovered a profound pleasure in this procrastination.
She indulged in a long, hot shower, as if she wanted to wash away any traces of sleep and cold. She then carefully applied her makeup, ate something quickly, threw her phone in her backpack along with headphones, pens, a notebook, keys, a small mirror, lipstick, and a pack of chewing gum. She left the room smiling and hurriedly descended the stairs two at a time. On the ground floor, she greeted the guard who, as usual, was completing a crossword while sipping coffee, and with quick steps, she soon arrived at the bus stop. She was still smiling when she opened her phone to check how long until the bus arrived, but her smile faded like mascara in the rain when she saw a message from Petru. It began with: “Hi, Cristina, I’m sorry…” It continued like a knife in her side with “Cristina, I appreciate you a lot, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately and I don’t see a future in our relationship. It’s become too serious and I’m not ready for a long-term relationship. It’s my fault, not yours. I’ve really enjoyed going out, I think we got along quite well, but I don’t feel like I want more right now. I’d like to remain friends. Do you think we can?”
Cristina stood frozen, phone in hand, shocked, re-reading the message dozens of times as if that would make it disappear or become something else. A cold fury gripped her, and she felt the need for air. She began pacing back and forth, seemingly ready to hit someone. She looked around briefly, but no one was looking at her, people were busy with their own lives. Who would care about the drama of a breakup via text? Via text! What a jerk! How could he do that? It was clear she had misjudged him; he was a coward and a phony who hadn’t even had the courage to say anything to her face. If you have something to say, at least call, don’t send a lousy text. And listen to him, it wasn’t her fault, but his, blah blah blah. She had never broken up with anyone this way, through a message. She felt like a character in a bad comedy. The thought of replying with an aggressive message crossed her mind, but she stopped just as the bus, which had arrived in the meantime, opened its doors with a hiss in front of her. She boarded like a sleepwalker of lost love and sat in an empty seat.
The bus was nearly empty, and Cristina stared aimlessly, seeing but not comprehending. It started to drizzle outside, and the gray city seemed to be rushing towards nowhere, indifferent. She fretted more than her mother’s Easter cake dough. What should she reply? She opened the messenger conversation dozens of times, typed and erased hundreds of characters, nothing seemed right. She was overwhelmed by a rare sense of weariness. Call him? That would be foolish. No way. In the end, she didn’t write anything. Slowly, she selected the menu in the messenger that led to security settings and pressed the block option as if watching reality in slow motion. She then proceeded similarly and methodically with all possible means of communication with Petru. When she finished, she felt better, as if a weight she didn’t know she was carrying had been lifted from her soul.
She raised her eyes from the phone and looked outside. There were still a few stops left until she reached college. Suddenly, a wave of sadness hit her, feeling like a tsunami of tears. She felt frustrated, angry, insulted, yes, insulted, even humiliated. All these feelings suddenly overflowed and trickled down her cheeks. She searched for a tissue, dabbed her face and eyes, probably looking ridiculous with smudged mascara. She took a deep breath and looked at the people around, but no one seemed to notice her, except for a little boy about four years old, sitting two rows ahead with his mother. The child was turned towards her, knees on the seat, and looked at her with big, blue eyes, as clear as a mountain lake reflecting the summer sky. An innocent and slightly worried gaze. Cristina tried to hold his gaze. She smiled. Suddenly, the boy climbed down from his seat and, swaying to keep his balance on the moving bus floor, approached her. With a serious, yet childlike voice, he asked, “Are you crying?”
With no chance of holding back, Cristina’s eyes filled with tears again and she blinked desperately to keep them in check. She nodded. The child examined her seriously, then reached out a chubby hand and gently patted her hair, saying, “Don’ cwy, don’ cwy! So what if you fat? Bad peopohs say dat.”
Ink And Reason 