Wild Horses (4 page)

“I’m sorry, for taking things too far,
online,” I told her with genuine regret. “You were right to block
me. I’m sorry I put you in that position.”

The waiter appeared alongside us.

“What will you have?” I asked her.

“Wine. White.”

He nodded, and turned in the direction of the
restaurant interior.

“This is a beautiful city,” I said dreamily.
“You told me it was, and it is.”

“It's not all cobblestone squares and old
buildings,” she said stiffly. “The part where I live is not very
much like this at all. Lots of concrete and glass and asphalt.”

“Thank You for coming. To meet me. I can't
thank you enough for doing this.”

“You came all this way, to Prague, to meet
me?” she said. It sounded like a question. I thought it was. I
nodded vigorously.

“Absolutely.” I added, knowingly – “wild
horses couldn't keep me away.”

She drew a sheet of paper from the yellow
purse she was nursing on her lap. She read from it.

“I meant every word I said to you. Not one
thing was a lie. Nothing. When I said to you, as I say to you now,
just one drink, one time, one chance. No pressure, nothing. No
expectations. I meant that too.”

She was reading from my message, sent just
two days ago, from my hotel room on Kampa Island.

“It got a bit mushy and very corny,” I
admitted. “But it was all true.”

“What does this mean, mushy and corny.”

It was hard to translate – “well, let's just
say, the sort of things you might say to someone, when you are
really, head over heels, crazy about them.”

She considered this in silence
momentarily.

“I think I know what you mean,” she offered
eventually.

“Well. I meant it,” I reiterated.

“Did you mean it too?” she was asking, “when
you said to me, online, I’m in love with you?”

At that moment the waiter reappeared, and
placed her glass of wine on the table.

“Do you want something to eat?” I asked
quickly.

“Yes, okay,” she agreed. “Maybe the same as
you.” She told the waiter what she wanted in Czech.

“Yes I meant it, of course I meant it.”

“But you are the married man. You told
me.”

“My marriage is over. It was over years
ago.”

“But you don't know me, at all, not
really.”

“Yes I do,” I told her firmly. “I feel like I
know you better than some people I have known for years. Just
talking, the way we did. You are beautiful, and very clever, and
lots of fun. I know you. The only thing I don't really know is your
name.”

“It's Svetla,” she said instantly.

“Your real name?”

“It’s Svetla.”

This time she laughed. That familiar, girlish
giggle, with the head slightly tilted back.

“Never before, have I ever told anyone my
name, my real name, not online.”

“Why me?”

“I think, after maybe some weeks, I saw that
you were different. I think it was that time, when I said to you,
shall I take all my clothes off, and you said no. It was at that
time, I realize, you really do like me. Me. Not just my body.”

“I meant it,” I told her with conviction.
“Like I said in my mushy note. I meant everything I said.”

“Mushy,” she repeated, smiling at the word.
“I will not get use to this word.”

“You will, if you spend any more time around
me,” I warned.

Her bratwurst arrived. She thanked the waiter
in Czech.

“How do you say that?” I asked. “How do you
day ‘thank you’ in your language.”

“Mockrát dekuji,” Svetla said slowly. “It
means ‘thank you very much’.”

I tried to say it.

“I will have to learn this,” I decided. “If
I’m going to spend any time at all in Prague.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Two days.”

She finished chewing a piece of sausage,
reached for the wine, took a sip, and then said sweetly, smiling
broadly at the end of it – “perhaps you need someone to show you
around?”

The only awkward moments came at times like
these. Most of my friends, of what had been “our friends,” knew
bits of the story. We had met, whilst I was overseas, and fallen
for each other. Most of them had known about Paula’s affair too, a
good year before the knowledge was shared with me. But I had never
told anyone how, or where, Svetla and I had met, nor that it had in
fact been prior to my leaving for Europe on that trip. Some time
prior, and online. The work functions were the most awkward, and
the most tedious.

“Now you must be Svetla,” Jefferson said,
gripping the hand she extended, and surveying her only mildly
adventurous cleavage as he did so.

“Pleased to meet you,” she replied
courteously.

“Isn't she marvelous,” he gushed, looking at
me as he spoke. “How on earth did you meet a gorgeous woman like
this?”

“Long story,” I answered, smiling weakly. I
was looking for an escape route. Jefferson was a bore, and he had a
reputation for groping.

“Well, I want to hear all about it,” he was
saying loudly. “Maybe one day I will be as lucky as Ryan here, and
meet a gorgeous young thing like you. Can you give me a hint?”

I thought it, but the words, of course,
didn't leave my lips – “Yes Jefferson, you jerk, here’s a hint, try
www.livegirls.com.”

“As he said,” Svetla was responding, her
voice animated, playful. “It's a long story.”

“I’m all ears,” Jefferson assured her,
opening his arms in front of him.

“Svetla thought about this for a moment, then
she said crisply – “You wouldn't believe me if I told you. It
involves the internet, the old town square in Prague, and the
Rolling Stones singing ‘Wild Horses’.”

I saw my chance, and moved her gently in the
direction of our table, as Jefferson looked on confused. When we
were seated, I asked her – “what can I get you sweetgirl? “And she
looked up at me, smiling. That smile. I would never get sick of it.
I never wanted to.

“Just some wine please,” she said, adding in
a hoarse whisper, the name by which she had first known me –
“randydaddy.”

For further works by Dominique de Forest

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/dominiquedeforest