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[ivemetyouathousandways]

Pandora was an ass-crack of a shit hole but it had its charms, in some regards, but I wasn't here to admire the landscape. I was here to gather Intel and prepare a comeback for the Atlas corporation. They specialized in rebuilding wrecks into state of the art beauty of human tech and architecture.

More importantly, I was here because it got complicated on Promethea. Not that many were in the known of the subtly crucial details. In my contact's eyes, it was a simple question of sending a good agent to the next location to prepare the terrain. COV still infested the Borderlands, and as if those zealot bandits were not enough, Maliwan coveted the frigging galaxy due to some egomaniac trip the next in line thought was in the best for the company, after their CEO Katagawa Jr. had tragically passed away - a few bullets in the head, courtesy of a Vault Hunter.

So here I was, enjoying local fauna and flora. Can't say I enjoyed the local cuisine, living off skag meat and whatever I could conjure up when cleaning COV ghettos. I could have settled in a bigger location, like their previous Holy Broadcast Center but that would have been slacking on the job. I needed to be on the road, making notes, assessing weak and strong points of valleys, mountains, rocky formations, bug infestations - of which I had my fair share of cleanup!

I was atop of those treacherous false amalgamation of soft dirt circling formations, looking for cacti fruits, having emptied a few bullets on skag headshots - was worth having a few tongue whiplashes for a clear single bullet brain splattering moment and spare some ammunition. I could find spare here and there in previously left behind corporate souvenirs ammo buckets, or go back to Marcus' vending machine but if I wanted to cover max terrain superficy, I needed to ration the bullets and shoot wisely.

And as much as skags and bugs were on the easier side of aim and shoot, the raaks on the other hand, were a bloody nightmare and I found myself painfully running out of swear words in my infuriated misery to rid the Pandorian skies of them flying bastards! I was also slowly but surely running out of ammo as these sons of wankers kept on flying and required to shoot in the predicted direction and not at the precise location where they were at when the bullet exited the gun's mouth. From the vicious attacks right back at me, to the missed shots which, I, by some miracle, managed to keep in the lower percentile. But I was running out of the gold of the trade : ammunition, and there was the Mother Monster, spiraling around me, taunting me, darting her spikey tail at me so swiftly I couldn't always miss it. Let's just say that she was undeniably running the round and I was managing my best from not being speared. I aimed, counted, prayed the guardian of the Great Vault, shot a bullet. Missed the expected brain splatter but I managed quite handsomely to blind her!

"Ha! Take that, you flying bloody shit wanker!"

Like I mentioned previously, I was running out of decent creative swearing. Being alone and deprived of conversation wasn't helping either.

Lorelei kept me updated with the Maliwan situation on Promethea but it's not like we were having coffee and chit chatting about the latest boy drama, of which, on my end, I absolutely couldn't open heartedly share. I mean, I wasn't bedding Katagawa, but it wasn't better in terms of not being a complicated situation.

But back to the present at hand. The Mother Monster flying in stationary in front of me, one eye bleeding, with appreciable consistency and profusion from my perspective, one eye burning with rage - less appreciable from my perspective. I checked my gun : one bullet in the chamber. My last bullet. I was quite fucked. Unless I made a dash and slide under her and hoped for the best, a spikey end tail spear in my spine in the worse case scenario. I wondered for a second which of the two was the worse : being killed by a faceless Maliwanker - my pet name for them - or being brochetted by a flying dinosaur bird.

Glorious prospects.

Mother Monster had her good eye locked on me.

What if I shoot her other eye out?

What if you go bang the Vault Monster and ask him you're to his liking?

My chances were short of a miracle and miracles weren't Pandora's main currency.

I aimed and waited, my finger on the trigger, studying her every wing flap , every reptilian blink of her good eye. Tension was building up between us. Whose life was about to rejoin the stars in the sky?

I swallowed. I had to blink. I had consciously kept my eyes open as long as I could. I needed to blink. My eyes were dry.

Blessed second of refreshing darkness against the blinding clarity. Cursed welcome instant of darkness. Pain screamed and burned my left shoulder. I felt the soft viscous oozing of blood. I felt light headed. I wanted to keep the darkness a moment longer. I was dead anyway, might as well embrace the black horizon.

My finger pressed the trigger. I wasn't aiming. It wasn't about trying to get a killing blow, though I knew that my gun was pretty good at it, even when I, the owner, failed by a few millimeters, Maggie had my back, front and center.

A second shrieking wave in my left shoulder made my knees weak. I growled a muted protest against the burning pain. I swallowed dry. No more bullets. I was done for.

But I wouldn't let the beast get a free meal that easily. I blindly threw a grenade and at the sound of the fireworks exploding, let myself slip off the edge of the rocky cliff.

Normally, I would have muttered, under my breath, "not today", but today, I had found solace in the end of my journey and I was happy not dying by the gun of a Maliwanker but rather by a primal beast of the prehistoric age of an ass crack of a planet.

The fall was smooth, considering the situation. The wind caressed my cheeks, pressed oddly against my body, messed up my hair. Why was I thinking abouty hair? Ah! Right. My uncle had always completed me on my beautiful hair. Au-revoir uncle Wainwright. Keep on fighting!

I had thought for my mother. If it was true that we met our deceased family upon our death, I was dying happy, finally being able to hug and embrace my mother. Maybe I could finally ask her who my father was.

I landed.

Nicely. Softly.

In open arms.

The pain in my shoulder electrocuted me with pain. I grimaced and a tear escaped my eye.

"You alright, lass?"

A dry boulder rolled down the dry gorge of my throat.

I attempted to croak out a positive incentive but all I could conjure up was "Let me touch the soil please."

A moment of silence passed. The wind howled softly. A raak shrieked somewhere in the distance. A skag's growl echoed in the plains.

I was gently let down, something hard made contact with the ground and sand crackled softly. I let my left hand fall down, tearing out another tear of pain from my eye, and my heart leaped and bounced in mixed emotions. It was it. The harsh sandy dirt soil of Pandora; gritty with shards, but melting away in your hand like beach sand, scorching burning hot, (étouffant même au toucher). I grabber a handful, hugged in tight in my palm, let it elegantly flow free between my fingers, rejoining it's wholeness underneath us.

Who ever the voice was.

"So, I'm not dead." I assessed the situation.

"Not today!" The voice answered joyously.

I opened my eyes. He was against the sun and because of this had a sort of en aura around him. How uncanny.

"Name's Zane. Zane Flynt."

He answered before I asked.

"Ma..." I paused "Maggie."

"You're in a pretty bloody mess, Maggie."

The pain reminded me of its undeniable presence in my shoulder. I grimaced again and another tear escaped me.

"You were hunting raks?"

Was cleaning territory called a hunting party?

I breathed in the harsh, scorching dry hot air, letting it replenish me and burn my lungs dry.

I caressed the coarse soil once more, finding an ambiguous comfort in being still alive. I was so ready to move on to the next step - what ever it was.

"Thank you for saving my life."

He squeezed my side.

"Don't mention it."

I wanted to savour this moment a little while longer; it was comforting and comfortable being in this stranger's arms. I wanted to record his grip, his brace, his strength, but I knew better to get back on my feet. For starters I needed to scoot (look for) medical supplies in the nearest COV ghetto, hope they'd have left some behind. I dreamed of water too. I could have killed for a shower.

I groaned, croaked and cried as I managed to fall on my knees. Zane immediately wrapped an arm around me and helped me stand up.

"My vehicle is not too far away if you can walk, if you can't, I'll just hop you over me shoulder and carry you there."

I appreciated the weight of my body on my two feet.

"I can walk, thank you" I smiled "It's just my shoulder..."

As I mentioned the rascal screamed in silent fury, making me wince with a wave of burning pain.

[ivemetyouathousandways]

"Oh no, there I go, startin' up a fire"

It was rainy season, and around here, on Eden-6 it meant heavy downpours for days on end with a hope of maybe not drowning in a puddle during a calm down after a 48 hours straight of T-Rex shitting deluges. You'd think I'm exaggerating but between an army taking a pissing contest and what was falling from the skies, I'd hardly see a difference, maybe subtle variations in the coloring of the waters blessing our crops and lands and swamps.

Anyway. We're not here to talk about the rain. Though, it was a nice introduction, wasn't it?

We're here to talk about the stranger who entered the saloon, miraculously not drenched, but still wet. A six-footer for sure, taller if we take into consideration his statement of a hairdo, spiky, stubbornly pointing to the skies. He was sporting a red and black plaid short coat with a big black spider in the back, a heavy riffle that could about explode a house and a smaller revolver on the hip.

"A pint, girl!" He demanded, sitting down at the bar.

"I don't... work here..." I said shy, almost regretting both facts, that I didn't work and that I had voiced it.

"Where's the barman?" he asked looking around.

"Dueling a patron outside in the backyard."

The man looked at me with a smile.

"Been gone for long?"

"A couple of minutes."

He leaned against the bar, elbows on the counter.

"And you are?"

"Here for the music."

I was about to change the disk on the vynil player when he made his entrance.

He looked at me funny.

"My player is broken."

He nodded.

I placed the record and pushed a button ; the player automatically directed the head and the tongue made contact with the first lines.

Gritty silence filled the small saloon.

And then it exploded : a warm assertive sax set the tone and opened the curtains to a warm young female voice who soon filled the place.

I closed my eyes and my body swayed softly to the rhythm. It was catchy, hard to resist the contagious happy swing melody.

I felt a rugged hand take mine and pulling ms to the center of the old wooden floor.

"I didn't ask but I'm sure you'd have said yes anyway."

I loved his foreigner accent. What world was he from?

My hand was so small, pale and soft in his big, rugged, gloved hand. What a contrast. The left one magically appeared behind my back, pulling me to him and he started the first steps.

" Oh no, there you go, making me a liar Got me begging you for more Oh no, there I go, startin' up a fire Oh no, no (oh no) Oh no, there you go, you're making me a liar I kinda like it though Oh no, there I go, startin' up a fire Oh no, no (ooh)

I said I won't lose control, I don't want it (ooh) I said I won't get too close, but I can't stop it Oh no, there you go, making me a liar"

The stranger had a natural rhythm, pulling me close to him, pushing me away as we danced away to the song. I could trust his steps with eyes closed.

"Oh no, there I go, startin' up a fire"

I liked how his hands gripped mine to pull me closer when we were at that step of the dance.

"Oh no, there you go, making me a liar Hot me begging for more"

I liked his scent of the wild unknown, his shirt smelled of earthly tones... Where do you come from, Stranger?

He pulled me harder to him and made me spin and I laughed. When had so much fun with someone?

The song ended and I was almost heart broken. No! It ended too soon...

The magic settled down in the silence between two songs, like the sand settles at the bottom of the pond after it been disturbed by an intruder's feet, and it was too late, the moment had died.

The back door opened, the barman and Clay came in, chatting loud, laughing harder between tears of hilarity.

Well, that went well.

The stranger's hands didn't let go of me just yet and I appreciated; I was starting to feel comfortable here. I was kinda liking it, though.

"Which one of you is Clay?" He asked in his delicious foreigner's accent.

Clay stepped forward and frowned.

"I'm the liaison. Wainwright sent me." He extended a hand. "Mind... Euh..." He pointed at the record player "Mind putting that first track back on?" he smiled and offered his hand for mine to slip right back in. "Not finished business here just quite yet." He winked at me.

"He'd also like a pinte afterwards." I smiled at the barman.

Clay burst out laughing and obliged, to my greater happiness.

Lyrics by Camilla Cabello, Liar.

[ivemetyouathousandways]

Meeting Zane Flynt

A bed time tory

The action? A silver haired man scooting every nook and cranny for money and ammunition.

The location? The borderlands, among which, specifically, planet Pandora, and on Pandora, a spot wearing the ever so charming name of The Droughts. It was primarily a desertic environment with old scraps conglomerates mimicking human inhabited safe zones, though, one couldn't guarantee the whole safety angle.

The turning point? That's where we catch you up, reader. The silver haired man is a Vault Hunter from a spicy background ; hitman for hire, double agent, exterminator, plumber, you name it, he done it. Name's Zane Flynt. Third brother and last survivor of the Flynt family of which you surely know Baron Flynt.

Well, then, the Vault Hunter was happily rampaging through a deserted area - let me make a precision here - an area he wiped clean with an arsenal of guns and cyber claws on his left-hand. A man of his background and profession had the means to equip themselves with top notch mele tech. I had seen him clean Children of the Vault as if they were mere insects. A moment, I imagined him shooting a single bullet in the head of a skag to roast iron open fire in the deserts outside any human made agglomeration.

Maybe they were. They wore the glorified title of bandits, adorning themselves with false vapid glory not otherwise deserved or substantiated.

As for me? Well, I'm survivor. That's what I do best. But that's for story for later. Let's go back to Zane Flynt, Vault Hunter, swooping my soon to be former home clean of any residual cash and ammunition.

I heard footsteps, out of breath grunting and boom! There he was, gun raised, barrel aiming straight at my forehead. But I was also welcoming him with a gun aimed straight at him. Or rather his family jewels. You never knew, around here, so I usually aimed at the sensitive spot to make them kneel before me and then a bullet in the head to finish them off.

Tension was palpable. I didn't understand why I wasn't dead yet, with a bullet between the eyes and he probably wondered why he wasn't kneeling yet.

I swallowed hard and moved my free hand closer in in front of my own crotch and signaled him to come closer. He didn't move.

"Come. Closer!" I lip synced with a very low whisper, hoping it was barely audible.

He finally obeyed, stepping slowly closer, gun stubbornly aimed at my forehead.

"Make a noise - reload - anything." I articulated again.

He stood still.

"Trust. Me."

He was close enough to hide my small framed body sitting on the floor of a rusting cargo container. My private quarters.

He finally mimicked reloading his gun, which was the small opening I needed to shoot a single shot in the knee of a COV who has snuck in behind him. He turned around like the wind and a bullet in the intruder's head later, swiftly turned back around to find me, still sitting, gun resting flat on the metal flooring, under my hand.

"Thanks for that!"

"Welcome."

A silence lingered. I had my finger on the trigger, ready. He lowered his weapon and extended the other arm. I accepted end he pulled me up to my knees.

"Why?"

"I'm not a fucking loser COV bandit. I'm a survivor."

He nodded and grinned.

"Wanna help me clean the place and hit the road?"

I smiled.

"Finders keepers?"

"Oy!"

I loved his accent and his attitude.

[ivemetyouathousandways]

Let the rain wash it all away

Kvennesviga - Skålevik - Norway - Saturday 12:00 pm 

The sky was still relatively clear when a deafening explosion made me near jump out of my skin. Agent Brager had a small jump in his seat but kept his cool, hands firm on the steer wheel, foot on the pedal, everything under control. Sven slipped an arm around me and pulled me to him, not giving a damn that we were in fact in the back of a patrol vehicle, and not a taxi, and just about as I was signing the oh so beneficial “let’s not burst straight out of my chest” peace treaty with my heart, the skies opened as if the conglomerate of currently available, and ready to take your queries, gods, all decided to flush some heavenly toilets in some sort of Olympic synchronized grandiose spectacle, letting the Holy Mother of all downpours descend upon us like a wondrous cataclysmic waterfall. All of a sudden, the windshield was a beautiful liquid curtain, in the very literal sense of the poetic expression, a moving 3-D special effect in the absolute practicality. Agent Brager quickly put the wipers to maximum capacity but the poor mechanics were  barely delivering a second of clarity per stroke. 

Time seemed to have almost stopped and trapped us in some sort of odd intemporality, captured in the heavy, furious, raindrops clapping hard against the roof, their thick isolating liquid veil blinding us from all sides, the wipers struggling against the flooded windshield. On one front, I could literally feel Agent Brager behind the wheel, tense, on edge. On the  complete opposite end of the spectrum, on the backseat, Sven, his arm around me, was about the human manifestation of a warm snug blanket and pillow in which i was gladly sinking in. I vaguely wondered at which point I adopted his nonchalant perspective on our situation and stopped caring that we were in a patrol vehicle and not a cab. 

“Home sweet home!” Agent Brager declared joyously from the driver’s seat. 

I pulled away from Sven, instantly missing his warmth. The rain had lost about a whooping ten to twenty percent of it’s original intensity, still roaring proudly, still a deluge. I looked at the water curtain on the back passenger' window and hugged my purse tight to myself. I had left the house in my turtle neck alone, Sven had grabbed a light jacket coat at the last moment, and we were now equally soaked; me hugging my small bohemian purse in a vain attempt to protect my deck of cards and my passport from the wet beast from the skies, Sven struggling a little with the key and lock. 

“At least the rain washed the blood off.” He smiled back at me, holding the door open.

I shyly stepped in, minimizing the dripping zone as much as possible. 

“Come, come, you’ll catch death if you stand there!” And again a gentle arm behind my shoulders invited me to step in.

I awkwardly stepped in the space between the kitchen and the living room and stood in a very concise spot, dripping away in an Illy puddle. 

Sven rushed back with a blanket and stopped in front of me. Yes, a blanket would keep me warm but, the underlying problem was still very undeniably wet and cold against my skin, making me tremble from shivers.

“Would you like to take a warmth bath?”

I nodded. 

“Can you check in my purse if my deck is okay?” I asked after Sven filled the bathtub with near boiling hot water to my request. “And my passport.” Because, accessorily, my passport was also important, but my cards, they were special to me.

He nodded and left me to my bath. 

From one water to another - from freezing cold downpour to a burning hot comforting bath. From one man to another - from cold and distant King of Swords, to a warm and welcoming King of Cups. From the unbearable stress of being on the same social media at the same moment to the - 

To the soft knock on the door.

“I brought you clothes.”

“You can come in, Sven.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mmhm.”

I had my eyes closed but I imagined him carefully putting down a small pile of clothes on the closed lid of the toilet, stopping, surprised, maybe a little unease - was my nakedness too soon? - one more step, kneeling down by the tub. I felt hot water been squeezed out of a sponge hit and run down my shoulder. A simple gesture filled with care and tenderness. The soft caress of the sponge on my neck and under my chin, plunging in the water to pick up some more to be soon squeezed out on the my opposite shoulder. 

“I’m sorry for all of this mess.” He apologized, a little tired. “I never meant to drag you in this mess.”

“Then, what good do I serve in your life, if I can’t take any of the load off your shoulders?” I asked, and I wondered if we weren’t going too fast, too deep.

“Your cards are alright” I felt his finger on my cheek “they are dry.”

Dry. Wet. Water. 

Water. We are constituted from 70% of water, we need water to continue living, I mean, sure oxygen is the biggest non-negotiable dependable element to our operational state of being, but water was unquestionably the second most important. Water soothes. Water heals. Water cleans and cleanses. The sound of water relaxes - rain, ocean, bath water’s gentle tingle and dripple.

“How do you say water in Norwegian?”

He soaked the sponge and squeezed it out on the back of my neck.

“Vann”

One last run.

“I’ll let you finish up.”

“Thanks for everything, Sven.”

“It’s nothing.”

My heart melted when I saw that the clothes he was lending me were his own. A black hoodie cut in the shape of t-shirt with white sleeves and the mention “cult leader” on the chest, a pair of dark grey sweatpants with a cord to adjust the waist, and a nondescript pair of new, clean, pair of undies. Aww! Thank you Sven! For a second I thought of sporting only the panties and hoodie and go down like that but it could be too much. Too much, too fast. My mind ran in the hypothetical alternate reality and my heart raced a little. His hand slipping under the hoodie, freeing me from the whooping five minutes it had been in service. My tongue swirling around his. Would it be long, slow strokes or would be caught by fire and rushing it a little? A hand was bound to rid me of the undies, a finger or two would soon press against Satan’s doorbell… Unless it had another appellation when someone else maneuvered the rosebud?

I drained the bath water, trying to cool my thoughts. It would be a mistake…

You mean another one on your extensive list of?

You’ll have to agree he’d be one hell of a hot mistake though.

We are trying to heal from the last one. Snap out of it!

I pulled my tongue at my other self in my head. Party pooper!

Was I that desperate or that weak? Now, this is a question to be dissected later on, with a proper cooled down head, back at the B&B. Apparently, it was suggested that rape victims get back into the swing of things and have sexual experiences fairly shortly after their traumatic encounter, but was that method samely valid for broken hearts?

I dried my hands and went down to find Sven sitting on the floor of the living room, like we were on our first morning, cards laid out on the coffee table before him. He picked up one, studied the illustration and put it back, carefully, with the upmost respect, as if some ancient, unknown, powerful fairy would suddenly jump out straight at his jugular.

“They don’t bite, you know.”

He looked up, caught red handed. Why was he so goddamn adorable and charming and… Sven, you weren’t meant to… Oh, wait, I never had the power to decide how others would make me feel by simply existing and tumbling in my life.

Space was tight but I snuck in between the table and him, sitting between his legs. Is the message clear enough, Sir? I was happy, though, that he couldn’t see my flushing face because my attitude was causing a serious cheek burn!

“What were you asking them?” I asked, leaning back against him, making myself comfortable.

Right on cue, his arm comfortably rounded itself around me, blessing my prosperous attitude with the answer I was hoping for.

“The first row, I asked if a girl I been seeing recently, has any mutually shared interest and feelings.”

Ace of Wands, Ace of Cups, Lovers.

“How is said girl?”

“Hard to pinpoint.” He kissed the back of my head. “Only known her for the past three days.”

I snort giggled. Well, then, the cards have spoken and blatantly betrayed me.

“The Ace of Wands can be a young passionate person, a lovable rogue, they like action and are fiery. Could be an astrological sign ruled by fire. They like action, travels, diversified experiences, expanding knowledge, philosophy.”

“I am fairly certain she likes to travel, yes. Sadly don’t know her astrological sign nor if she likes philosophy.”

I swallowed my saliva as discreetly as I could and combated stress induced stiffness.

“She’s a Leo and she loves poking the mind’s terra incognita.”

Sven dropped a kiss behind my ear.

“Favorite intellectual or philosopher?”

Cornered.

“I don’t really know. I often drop Nietzsche’s name but it’s mainly because of that one nugget of gold he had left us.”

“Det som ikke dreper oss, gjør oss sterkere.”

“I’ll have to trust you on that.” I picked up the Ace of Cups. “New romance, new feelings, elation, a sense of conquering the world. Heart is overflowing with bounty, happiness. And the Lovers is the nail nailing the coffin shut. Especially in a love and romance reading, it’s one of the best omens you could hope for.”

Second row had the King of Cups surrounded by the five of cups to the left, the past, and the eight of wands to the right, the future. 

“What was your question here?”

“How does she - you - perceive me?”

“You are the king of Cups" I started.

“Do I feel that old to you?” He cut me off, picking up the card where a long,shaggy, silver white haired king held a cup and looked at the horizon. 

The king of Cups had one of those very strong, thin, sharp, conquering style noses that added even more severity to his already serious face where forehead wrinkles accentuated the sharp attentive eyes under which tired eye bags were added, as if the crows’s feet weren’t enough to show the long lived tiredness of the King. He wasn’t per se frowning, but he wasn’t smiling either. 

Among the Court carts, in the Dark Mansion Tarot deck, the King of Cups was undeniably the eldest king, as if Emotions were the first kingdom from which the fire of the wands, the mental stealth of the swords and the earthly bounties of the pentacles all flowed from. The original fountain of eternal life, the core essence of all human matters : emotions. 

“An emotionally mature man” I reprised, like a teacher subtly scolding a misbehaving pupil, “who is in full control of their emotions. He, the King of Cups, is calm and caring, diplomatic, affectionate, romantic, charming.You are surrounded by grief, and sadness, mourning, a heart break, but that is in your past; the Five of Cups. Ahead of you, or what you may be hoping for, you want to move away from the pain and hurt, is the Eight of Wands; movement, action, being swept off your feet, infatuation, strong positive forward energies.”

Next row had the Six of Cups framed by the the three of Swords to the left and the queen of Pentacles to the right.

“You miss your previous life with your wife and daughter. You were happy and fulfilled. You can’t quite stop reminiscing about the past, it brings you comfort but also heartache.”

“I didn’t tell you what my question was.”

But the sadness in his voice, even though subtle, was loud and clear enough. A muted cry of despair, silenced by his own strength.

“What was your question?” I whispered solemnly, as if I was talking with the dead.

He let his head rest on my shoulder.

“I don’t need to repeat it, you and the cards can see through all too well.”

“What happened with your wife?” I wanted to regret my question but i didn’t find it in me to do so.

“She was bored.” A whisper, a cry out to who wanted to hear his side. “I had accustomed her to fancy parties and cocktails, varnishes and somewhat big shots, celebrities. I groomed a monster.”

I didn’t move and fought myself violently to not drop judgmental bombs.

“I’m a sculptor, an artist.” He thought good to give me context. “You known how those things go, you must have seen some in movies. It’s exactly like that; fancy gowns and dresses, tailored suits, expensive jewelry, whispered secrets, enough compliments to drunken Satan himself, luxury left, right and center, connections. So and So is the proprietor of this or that estate in the mountains or near a lake, would love to have us over for brunch and discuss a custom piece. And it’s a beautiful illusion that hides unforgiving, merciless sharp teeth.”

I could just about taste and swallow the sour regret, the sharp burn as I was hearing out his long held truth.

“She had made herself a diamond river necklace of wealthy influential friends. And soon enough I was relegated to the influence the shadow of my name had to open even more influential doors. She wanted a bigger house to show off our wealth and prestige. A loft or a condominium in the capital. I didn’t share her views. I wanted our daughter to grow up in a healthy environment, rocked by the sounds of the ocean, eat healthy foods, be grounded.”

He sighed.

“Enough rambling of things long gone and past.”

“I guess, but, I have learned that keeping stuff inside is not exactly efficient or helpful.” I nudged and awaited his contratempo, realizing I been holding things back myself.

“Like you not fully letting your pain out to be examined and healed.”

What did I say!

“We have nothing in common.” I mumbled. “He’s secretive, not much of his personal life is out there to be looked at. I, on the other hand, I am too open, apparently I open my soul and heart. He speaks with his voice, I speak with the silence of my written words.”

Can you get any less… I dunno, vague?

Yeah, sure! Gimme a sec.

“Oh and he’s a YouTuber and I’m a fan, so, already there, it starts off all sorts of wrong.”

“Why?” He asked, dumbfounded as if it otherwise wouldn’t have any substantial impact.

“Because it has the same dynamic as a regular fan has for a celebrity, with all the potential” I waved and rolled my hand “the potential to ... You know how it can be. The only thing I demand and require from any man who has sparked fires in my heart is help in my sleeping process and inspiration for my writing.”

He hugged me tight and dropped a few more kisses on my neck. Sven, I swear, if you continue like that, we’ll be, sooner than later, end very naked and very entangled on the floor… And I’m not entirely against the potential of that, to be completely honest.

The very last row had five cards spread out and I wondered why or what had been happened in his thought process.

“What was your last question and why five cards?”

A hand finally snuck under the hoodie. I thought he’d never have the nerve to, but he remained a perfect gentleman, only gently brushing my side.

“What do the cards tell, overall?” He whispered in my ear and the warmth of his breath made me wish I was under some heavy duvet with him. I wanted his skin, his damp breath, his energy, his warmth against me, in me.

Is this a trick question?

The Devil was surrounded by The Fool at the far left extremity, then the Knight of Wands and the Hierophant to the far right and the Emperor right next to it.

“Well, what ever you asked, it’s… Very mixed.” I interpreted the overall theme, not wanting to project my own desires in the cards.

“The central card, the Devil is about addiction, seduction, superficiality, sexuality, taboo practices. It’s a very material, physical card. It’s usually the lower instincts of mankind.The Fool, on the far far left is about new beginnings, taking a leap of faith, being open minded to new things, an innocent view on the world, he’s just ready to experience the Grand Everything without fear or tainted thoughts.” I loved the fool, he was the innocence the world has lost. “Give me a clue, Sven. Is this card representing the past? A person?”

“Not the past.” He picked up the Fool. “Maybe the girl - or an aspect of the girl - who this reading concerns.“

"So then, let’s say that the left of the Devil is me, and cards to the right of the Devil is you.”

“Let me guess, left, the feminine, right the masculine.”

I nodded.

“Would it make sense?” His warm breath in my ear caressed my senses, sparking electric discharges. 

“Yes. The emperor is a mature, family man, he likes structure and he’s protective, he likes stability." I showed him the card in question, another long bearded crowned figure, expecting, awaiting a snazzy comment that didn’t come. “And you see this Hierophant, he stands for traditional values, conventional and conform ideas and practices, whereas the Knight of Wands is hasty, adventurous, rebellious, daring, a bit of a hot head who likes to make their own beaten dirt paths. 

I looked over at the cards, not convinced, not sold. 

“You sure you don’t want to tell me what your question was?” I asked pouting a little, hoping to pull some emotional strings.

“Ja."

I wanted to pull my tongue at him, but I wasn’t physically in a position where it would advantage my desired intention. I shuffled the cards, asking what he had asked about, what his intentions were, but the cards only offered conspiratory giggles back at me. The moon and Temperance.

“I asked what you meant, in that last question, but the Cards seemed to have sided with you.” I pouted. “The moon is something hidden and Temperance is patience and balance, a chemistry of opposing forces, alchemy, in sorts.” 

Hm.... that should bring an interesting light, eventually when inspiration and insight would hit and tingle my brain. I sighed and gently started assembling my crew to put them away in their box.

“What ate your plans for this afternoon?” He asked holding me tight to him.

“I don’t know… Wait for the rain to calm down and head home.” I was also starting to feel a little hungry. “Unless you have a better offer.”

“You are already home.” He corrected. “And we could upgrade our position for the sofa. Netflix and chill, as you younglings say.”

[ivemetyouathousandways]

Water

Water. We are constituted from 70% of water, we need water to continue living, I mean, sure oxygen is the biggest non-negotiable dependable element to our operational state of being, but water was unquestionably the second most important. Water soothes. Water heals. Water cleans and cleanses. The sound of water relaxes - rain, ocean, bath water's gentle tingle and dripple.

"How do you say water in Norwegian?"

He soaked the sponge and squeezed it out on the back of my neck.

"..."

One last run.

"I'll let you finish up."

"Thanks for everything, Sven."

"It's nothing."

My heart melted when I saw that the clothes he was lending me were his own. A black hoodie cut in the shape of t-shirt with white sleeves and the mention "cult leader" on the chest, a pair of dark grey sweatpants with a cord to adjust the waist, and a nondescript pair of new, clean, pair of undies. Aww! Thank you Sven! For a second I thought of sporting only the panties and hoodie and go down like that but it could be too much. Too much, too fast. My mind ran in the hypothetical alternate reality and my heart raced a little. His hand slipping under the hoodie, freeing me from the whooping five minutes it had been in service. My tongue swirling around his. Would it be long, slow strokes or would be caught by fire and rushing it a little? A hand was bound to rid me of the undies, a finger or two would soon press against Satan's doorbell... Unless it had another appellation when someone else maneuvered the rosebud?

I drained the bath water, trying to cool my thoughts. It would be mistake...

You mean another one on your extensive list of?

You'll have to agree he'd be one hell of a hot mistake though.

We are trying to heal from the last one. Snap out of it!

I pulled my tongue at my other self iny head. Party pooper!

Was I that desperate or that weak? Now, this is a question to be dissected later on, with a proper cooled down head, back at the B&B. Apparently, it was suggested that rape victims get back in an active sexual encounter or experience, but was that method samely valid for broken hearts?

I dried my hands and went down to find Sven sitting on the floor of the living room, like we were on our first morning, cards laid out on the coffee table before him. He picked up one, studied the illustration and put it back, carefully, with the upmost respect, as if some ancient, unknown to him, powerful fairy would suddenly jump out straight to his jugular.

"They don't bite, you know."

He looked up, caught red handed. Why was he so adorable and charming and... Sven, you weren't meant to... Oh, wait, I never had the power to decide how others would makeme feel by simply existing and tumbling in my life.

Space was tight but I snuck in between the table and him, sitting between his legs. Is the message clear enough, Sir? 8 was happy, though, that he couldn't see my flushing face because my attitude was causing a serious cheek burn!

"What were you asking them?" I asked, leaning back against him, making myself comfortable.

Right on cue, his arm comfortably rounded itself around me, blessing my prosperous attitude with the answer I was hoping for.

"The first row, I asked if a girl I been seeing recently, had any mutually shared interest and feelings."

Ace of Wands, Ace of Cups, Lovers.

"How is said girl?"

"Hard to pinpoint." He kissed the back of my head. "Only known her for three days."

I snort giggled. Well, then, the cards have spoken and blatantly betrayed me.

"The Ace of Wands can be a young passionate person, a lovable rogue, they like action and are fiery. Could be an astrological sign ruled by fire. They like action, travels, diversified experiences, expanding knowledge, philosophy."

"I am fairly certain she likes to travel, yes. Sadly don't knkw her astrology nor if she likes phylosphy."

I swallowed my saliva as discreetly as I could and combatted stress induced stiffness.

"She's a Leo and she loves poking the mind's terra incognita."

Sven dropped a kiss behind my ear.

"Favorite intellectual or phylosopher?"

Cornered.

"I don't really know. I often drop Nietzsche's name but it's mainly because of that one nugget of gold he had left us."

"What doesn't kill us makes us stronger." (in Norwegian)

"I'll have to trust you on this one." I picked up the Ace of Cups. "New romance, new feelings, elation, a sense of conquering the world. Heart is overflowing with bounty, happiness. And the Lovers is the nail nailing the coffin shut. Especially in a love and romance reading, it's one of the best omens you could hope for."

Second row had the King of Cups surrounded by the Eight of Wands and the 6 of swords. (4 /5 of Cups)

"What was your question here?"

"How does she - you - perceive me?"

"You are the king of Cups, an emotionally mature man who is in full control of their feelings so you can help others. You are caring and (...). You are surrounded by grief (...) but that was your past, see how it's to the left of the King? And you are moving away from the pain and hurt."

Next row had the (reminiscing about the past, daydreaming) the three of Swords and the queen of Pentacles. (10 of Cups)

"You miss your previous life with your wife and daughter. You were happy and fulfilled. You can't quite stop reminiscing of the past, it brings you comfort."

"I didn't tell you what my question was."

But the sadness in his voice, even though subtle, was loud and clear. A muted cry of despair, silenced by his own strength.

"What was your question?"

He let his head rest on my shoulder.

"I don't need to repeat it, you and the cards can see through."

"What happened, with your wife?" I wanted to regret my question but i didn't find it in me to.

"She was bored." A whisper, a cry out to who waned to hear his side. "I had used her to fancy parties and cocktails, varnishes and somewhat big shots, celebrities. I created a monster."

I didn't move and fought myself violently to not drop judgmental bombs.

"I'm a sculptor, an artist." He thought good to give me context. "You known how those things go, you must have seen some in movies. It's exactly like that. Fancy gowns and dresses, tailored suits, expensive jewelry, whispered secrets, enough compliments to drunken Satan himself, luxury left, right and center, connections. So and So is the proprietor of this or that estate in the mountains or near a lake, would love to have us over for brunch and discuss a custom piece. And it's a beautiful illusion that hides unforgiving, merciless sharp teeth."

I could just about taste and swallow the sour regret, the sharp burn as I was heaeinf out his long held truth.

"She had made herself a diamond river necklace of wealthy influencial friends. And soon enough I was relegated to the position of mere key to open even more influencial doors. She wanted a bigger house to show off our wealth and prestige. A loft in the capital. I didn't share her views. I wanted our daughter to grow up in a healthy environment, rocked by ocean sounds, eat healthy local foods, be grounded."

He sighed.

"Enough rambling of things long gone and past."

"I guess, but, I have learned that keeping stuff inside is not more efficient or helpful." I nudged and awaited the (sword movement back) realizing I been holding things back myself.

"Like you not fully letting your pain out to be examined and healed."

What did I say!

"We have nothing in common. He's secretive, not much of his personal life is out there to be looked at. I, on the other hand, I am too open, apparently I open my soul and heart. He speaks with his voice, I speak with the silence of written words."

Can you get any more... I dunno, vague?

Yeah, sure! Gimme a sec.

"Oh ans he's a YouTuber and I'm a fan, so, already there it starts off all sorts of wrong."

"Why?" He asked, dumbfounded as if it otherwise wouldn't have any substantial impact.

"Because it comes off as me leeching off his success or wanting somerhing of the sort. And I never had any interest in that. The only thing I demand and require of men whom has sparked fires in my heart is help in my sleeping process and inspiration for my writing."

He hugged me tight and dropped a few more kisses on my neck. Sven, I swear, if you continue like that, we'll be sooner than later entangled naked and on the floor... And I'm not entirely against the potential of that.

The very last row had five cards spread out and I wondered why or what had been happened in his thought process.

"What was your last question and why five cards?"

A hand finally sneaked under the hoodie. I thought he'd never have the nerve to, but he remained a perfect gentleman, only gently brushing my side.

"What do the cards tell, overall?" He whispered in my ear and the warmth of his breath made me wish I was naked under some heavy duvet with him. I wanted his skin, his breath, his energy, his warmth against mine, in me.

Is this a trick question?

The Devil was surrounded by (sex cards)

"Well, what ever you asked, it's... Very mixed." I interpreted the overall theme, not wanting to project my own intentions in the cards.

"The central card, the Devil is about (...) the (...) on the left... Give me a clue, Sven. Is this card representing the past? A person?"

"Not the past." He picked up the (...) Maybe the girl who this reading concerns."

"So then the card to the right would be you?"

"Would it make sense?"

"Yes. The emperor is a mature, family man. And you see this Hierophant, he stands for traditional values, whereas the (...) on her or my side is about walking on the dirt paths, bringing new energies and practices or non standard things to what ever your question was. Overall, a healthy mix of standard practices sprinkled with some more playful.. " I wanted to say naughty, but only a suspicion was my guarantee.

"What ate your plans for this afternoon?" He asked as I was stacking my cards ready for a random shuffle.

"I don't know... Wait for the rain to calm down and head home unless you have a better offer."

"You are already home." He corrected. "And we could upgrade our position for the sofa. Netflix and chill, as you younglings say."

[ivemetyouathousandways]

Bloody Saturday

Kvennesviga - Skålevik - Norway - Saturday 8:30 am

Sven dove in his part of the breakfast with much gusto, completely unfazed by the new decorum of his front door. I was a little more affected, oddly, and it fascinated me.  I had thought I was a horror junkie, an enthusiastic connoisseur of the splatter and gore, but confronted with real blood, in this foreign land, in this otherwise quaint and peaceful bit of the world, it felt odd, unsavory, and I had to admit, more than the blood, the unjustified hatred and act of useless violence towards the inhabitant and proprietor of the place was what was really getting to me. I didn’t know the man - barely knew his name and age - but he didn’t strike me as one deserving any sort of ill intended retribution of any sort. 

“You’re not eating yours?” He inquired, his plate empty, safe for two grapes.

I gladly offered him my plate. 

“How can you eat with such appetite?”

“Because it’s delicious!” He managed to answer between two bites and some chewing, making me snicker.

I leaned back on my chair and just watch him stuff himself, smiling, bemused, swayed, fascinated by own blossoming feelings, wondering if all of this was illusory or something more. I was too used to be the Queen of Swords, strong, independent, unapologetically single. Fascinating man. But, like with all other men, the moment I felt their interest in me, I automatically start raising my shields, retreat in my fortress and almost shake and tremble in fear. 

“Are you okay?” He asked finishing the second bread slice with cheesy scrambled eggs.

“Mmhm!” I tried to be uplifting but I knew it came across fake.

“I can walk you back to your lodging if you don’t feel safe.” 

And I could just about feel his concern and a hint of sadness or disappointment in his voice.

“But I’m fairly sure the police would like to have your deposition too.’ He added a bit coldly, just stating the facts.

“It’s really nothing, I swear. I’m okay.”

But I wasn’t okay. I was catching feels and I was afraid. I smiled and got up to collect the dishes to wash them. 

“I have only small ... not a complaint... really... you forgot the sugar in my coffee.” He pout-smiled joining me at the sink. 

Since when did men, who consumed their coffee blacker than the deepest pits of hell, put sugar in it? That was answered when I got gently pinned against the counter, one of his arms around my waist, a hand on my jawline, meaninglessly struggling to steal a moment to stop smiling stupidly, trying to regain enough composure to pay attention to his quite enthusiastic appreciation of my amendment for the lack of sugar in his coffee. 

And obviously, because Life being itself, rolls by none of the usual cinematic bullshit rules, and clearly and bluntly refuses to give a helping hand when you’d wish for the saving grace of a ringing bell, will shamelessly knock on the front door just when you have settled down to appreciate and fully savor local flavors, asking for a little more, joyfully indulging in reasonable passion. 

“That must be the police.” He whispered pulling back and I was already missing his warmth. 

I snuck a hand in his and tagged along to greet the lucky officers whose day was blessed with pig blood painted insult on an otherwise nondescript villager’s front door. 

I nearly had a heart attack when my eyes landed on the male officer. 

“We shared a table a couple days ago in a restaurant downtown!” He smiled widely at us.

“Yes.” I nodded. 

Downtown being a loose appellation for the bulkier populated center lot of the mainland. 

“Officer Blunt. Samuel Blunt.”

We shook hands and I dropped my name. 

“I will need official ID for the records.”

“Sure. Right.” I went to fetch my passport while Sven invited the older female agent, probably the only detective in a few miles around, to sit in the living room. 

“What is your relation to Mr. Iskaar and in what capacity are you visiting Norway?”

My relation ... euhm... you mean the enjoyable exchange of salivary bacteria you so charmingly interrupted? And in what capacity I am visiting ... euhm... trying to heal a broken heart, does it count? I thought the cooler winds of Norway would appease the hurt, but, in the process of this much needed cooling off, I found myself catching feels for one of your locals. Is that good for you, Officer?

“I met Mr. Iskaar Thursday morning at the Lion’s Den, I was watching the football game and he ended up paying for my breakfast and a beer.” I observed the agent write down key words. “We met, randomly the next morning, on the rocks on the edge of the island and this morning on my way to the Oksøy Lighthouse.”

“So you two are dating?” He held his pen mid air, waiting for my confirmation.

I don’t know... are we?

“I’m sorry. That was unprofessional. I apologize.” He blurted out noticing my unease and uncertainty. “In what capacity are you in Norway?” 

“Vacation. I needed a week or two off and away my real life.” 

“I will need the both of you at the precinct for an official witness report, and photocopy of your passport along with your deposition.” 

I nodded, peeking over at Sven who was extensively listing something in Norwegian. That would explain why he wasn’t especially affected this morning. 

Vågsbygd police station - Kristiansand, NorwayNorway - Saturday 10:00   

The police station was a tall, imposing, light silver grey, concrete building towering a whooping eight floors by thirteen sections running the length of it, making me wonder if Norway’s crime was reaching such impressively extensive levels as to justify the need for such an imposing building and staff resource. 

After a myriad of corridors, we were each comfortably set up in separate interrogation rooms, my passport was quickly taken care of and given back to me before an even younger agent came in, later followed by the female agent who was assigned the case. 

“This is agent Brager, he’s here to assist me.” She said in a cold matter of fact tone. I nodded. “I’m detective Erdahl, assigned to this case.”

“Nice to meet you Detective” I didn’t take the risk to mispronounce her family name. I wasn’t yet confident in my skills of putting the right weight on the right vowels or this or that end of the word. “And agent... officer...” I smile at the youngling setting up the recording camera on the table.

“Miss Maté” Detective Erdahl adressed me after the usual attributed case file number, location, date, hour “Please clarify your relationship with Mister Iskaar, for the records.”

I repeated the facts. Thursday morning. The pub. The breakfast. I had every intention of paying for my meal myself, but he was apparently swayed by a foreigner wearing the local team’s colors, and felt inclined to show appreciation for my my own enthusiastic appreciation of his country’s professional soccer team. We ended up watching the game together after which we had walked around, sat down for a coffee, after which we parted ways, only to find each other, coincidentally, the next morning, on the rocks on the edge of the island. Our odd adventure added a third chance encounter this very morning on my way to the lighthouse.

“How well do you know Mister Iskaar ?” Agent Brager asked.

“I know his name, his age and his civic address.” Obviously, having had breakfast at his place twice by now. 

“Since when are you in Norway and in Skålevik?” Cold fact Detective Erdahl back in action

“Since Sunday. I got here last week. And I’m here for two more weeks.” 

Angent Brager scribbled that down.

“How many people do you personally know, here in  Skålevik?” 

“Magnus and Vilde Haaland, I am lodging at their Bread and Breakfast Inn. I could recognize the barman from Løvehulen and I had shared a dinner table for the time of a meal with agent Blunt Wednesday. The restaurant was jam packed and he had courteously asked if I wouldn’t mind sharing my table. I didn’t know who he was or what his profession was.” 

Agent Brager scribbled more notes. 

“So you do not know Mister Iskaar’s profession, reputation, background history - no intimate detail of his persona.” Detective Erdahl poked. 

Apart from he fact that his cologne is intoxicating and I’m developing an undeniable appreciation of his kissing skills - oh - and the scary realization of me potentially - definitely - catching feels for the said Mister Iskaar, no, I do no know any relevant detail pertaining to his persona. 

“Nope.” I shook my head. 

“Thank you Miss Maté.” Cold, mater of fact from breath to exhale. 

Can I get the fuck out and go home now?

And then it hit me. How do we get home?

Agent Brager walked me back through a myriad of corridors to the front reception area where Sven was casually waiting for me, hands in pockets, studying a random informative poster on the wall. 

“I’ll be driving you two home.” He smiled courteously and relief washed over me.

[ivemetyouathousandways]

Scrambled eggs, like scrambled feelings

Oksøy Lighthouse - Oksøy Fyr - Norway - Saturday 7:30 am

“The boat is in the opposite direction.” He protested as I dragged him to the side of the lighthouse.

"I know. But that side is ...I mean look at it!”

I expected a snazzy remark along the lines of “Yes, I know, I happen to live here. In fact, I was born here. I even grew up here! Imagine that! Some forty-five odd years around the neighborhood!.” But Sven was above those petty levels and simply followed me. 

The wind had calmed down, even on this coastal island edge, the swashing and lapping of the waves against the rocky shores was the most soothing sensation and for a moment I completely spaced out, vaguely being conscious of Sven’s warm hand holding mine, maybe imagining the slow shift of his body behind mine, the pulling back hug, his hands still on mine. The sky was of a magnificent alleviating blue, the ocean, a marvelous rich, nurturing, perfect deep blue. I wanted to drown in the healing blue, caressed and rocked and carried away by the wind.  

“Why are you really in Norway?”

His voice, a warm whisper in my ear, was like a therapist’ voice, reassuring, inviting to truly open up. 

“I’m trying to mend a stupid ass broken heart.” I whispered in one go, suddenly out of breath, wondering if I had answered his question or if I was confessing to the roaring ocean.

“Heart aches and heartbreaks are never stupid.” His hug tightened and I felt a kiss on the back of my head. “They are hard, the wounds sting bad, but they also teach us. Did you know that the Japanese value broken vases and bowls which they repair with gold? Wounds and scars paint a beautiful unique portrait of the soul.”

I let my head rest against his shoulder and fully savored the moment; his arms around me, his body keeping mine warm, the refreshing wind keeping a reality check on me. I wanted to burst into tears and sob a little, the magnificence of this moment would, sooner or later, end, and I didn’t want to face that eventuality, not even the thought of. I rolled the memory of his kiss on my tongue, the warmth, the passion, the hunger. My answer wasn’t any lesser than his demands. It had been sweet and scary at the same time. I didn’t want to catch feelings, I didn’t want to hurt him, but I was already comfortably snug cocooning in this infatuation. 

Thank you, Sven, for this magnificent moment.

I gladly let him operate the small motored  boat on the way back to mainland, my ego had been satisfied on the way here, more or less successfully proving him that I could, in fact, maneuver the damned thing on my own. And I had enjoyed every single of peek I had at his face, both dubious and relieved that I didn’t cause a double drown in freezing cold waters. 

“We just passed a coffee shop.” I mentioned as we did in fact elongated the distance between us and a gorgeous cozy little shop I was excited to try out.

“I know.” He smiled smug back at me.

“I guess you have a favorite spot?”

I should have thought of that. 

“You can say it like that - yes.” He smiled again. 

I wanted to play a game, but I felt childish and silly and very stupid. Back in my college years, whenever I went out with a friend, and mind you, this was downtown Montreal, with cars and traffic lights and a myriad of by-passers in the heat of the noon hour when everyone around downtown was out and about for lunch and leisure, I randomly closed my eyes, as he was holding my hand, and I let him guide me around the streets to wherever he was taking me for lunch at. 

I tripped on something and felt Sven’s arm suddenly slide around my shoulders to catch me.

“What are you doing?” He snapped, worried.

“Playing a game.” I made an effort not to open my eyes. “I close my eyes and see how far I can trust you.”

“You often play this game?”

“Only with whom I deem worthy of a shot.”

He tightened his grip a notch. My heart accelerated. How to kill a flame; be a stupid rogue on not even official date. 

“Watch your step.”

I poked my toe against a small concrete elevation. I couldn’t tell just how long we had walked. I had selfishly enjoyed it. Sounds of the village. Sounds of our steps on the dirt paths or concrete streets. Random chitter-chatter from people passing us by. The chirping or birds. The wind. The distant roar of the ocean fading but ever present, a distant echo reminding us that were on an island still. Cars rolling past us. His silence, beautiful, comforting. 

He put both hands on my shoulders and I could feel his warm breath against my ear once more.

“You can open your eyes now.”

I had a bit of a shock when I recognized his kitchen counter and coffee machine neatly aligned in front of me.

“You impressed with that boat earlier this morning. Safe to assume I can trust you with this piece of machinery.”

Real funny, Sven.

“When we were at the lighthouse, I wanted to say “let’s go home and you can make me coffee” but I think it would have been too soon.”

My heart squeezed delightfully in my chest. Let’s go home - not: let’s go back to my place and i’ll let you maneuver the coffee machine.Oh! Miniature Illy avatar was swooning all over the place.

“So - euhm - you tell me where you store the ingredients or do I roam free in your cabinets?”

“You managed to go around by yourself in a country with a non Latin based writing system, I think you can handle roaming around my cabinets and cupboards.”

Miniature Illy was about floating in sparkly glittery popping hearts. I tried not to smile stupidly like a lost enamored high school girl. 

Sven then casually sat down at the kitchen table and opened the newspaper laying there. Was it last night’s evening paper or even older or this morning’s paper? Did an actual paper boy deliver it before the crack of dawn?

“Can I ...” I started and suddenly felt intimated by my bold inspiration.

“Can you...” He repeated, giving me his full attention.

“Can I make you breakfast?” I spurted out with half a grimace.

He then froze in a a near perfect still shot, morphed into incredulous bewilderment, and exploded in a fit of laughter. 

“Yes!” He said between two fits of laughter “Yes, you may make me breakfast.” He picked up the newspaper “Matter of fact, I’ll even give you carte blanche.” 

I cracked my fingers and took a deep breath. Time to have a goddamned plan! And hopefully not break his coffee machine...

The sound of a quiet morning in a random kitchen in Norway. Someone turning the pages of a printed newspaper. Someone’s soft peaceful breathing. The dripping drop by drop of a coffee machine brewing coffee, cracking eggs, beating them in a bowl. A car passing by in the distance. The roaring ocean nearer - just outside the window - a few steps in the backyard. A tourist lost and found in a small village at the other end of the world. I loved villages at the end of the world. I came from one, I felt home in them. My secret hide out, safe places. Harasztkerék, Targu Mures, Romania. Doolin, County Clare, Ireland. Skålevik, Vest-Agder county, Norway. Someone turning a few pages of a printed newspaper. A loud thump against the front door.

My heart skipped a beat, then decided to race furiously in my chest. I was happily surveying the delicate mix of cheese with scrambled eggs over a hot gas stove. They were near perfect ready. Bread was patiently laying on a plate, ready to welcome a luxurious coat of thick rich scrambled eggs with bits of ham and a heavy load of gooey melted cheese. 

Sven calmly put the paper down and smiled reassuringly, but I noted concern on his face.

“Stay here. It’s okay. Nothing to worry about.”

The weariness of his tone informed me he was no stranger to whatever situation was unfolding outside. But I worried. Human nature - you can’t escape that shit. I tried to muster as much self control as I could to garnish the bread slices with the thick rich mix of scrambled eggs and melted cheese, sprinkled a few more bits of ham on top, instagram dropped a few tomato slices and, at fault of having proper baby pickles - I would have to touch a word about this to him - dropped in a small string of grapes. 

The proper thing would have been to patiently wait for his return, enthuse about the breakfast and play as if nothing had disrupted the otherwise perfect little morning, but I never qualified as a proper lady following the proper course of actions. I was the lovable rogue who did what pleased her; take it or leave it. After having neatly laid the plates on the table and poured coffee in two mugs, I decided that I was dead curious to see what had caused the incidental ruckus outside and found Sven taking photos of a bloody crime scene. 

“Can you fetch me a few Q-tips?” His tone was monotone, matter of fact, instructor giving directives to an apprentice. “Bathroom is on the second floor, first door on your left. Medicine cabinet mirror.” He continued. “And a Ziploc bag from the kitchen on your way out. Takk!*” He smiled briefly, but I could see the lassitude on his face. 

I rushed in the house like horror movie victim running for her sweet life, sped up the stairs two steps by two, busted in the bathroom out of breath and opened the mirrored medical cabinet to find a cute little glass square box of said Q-tips of which i snatched few, cussing myself out midway down that I should have fetched them using a piece of toilet paper - but it was too late now, my finger prints were on them, or partial finger prints at least. I found the box of plastic sandwich bags in the pantry and allowed zero concerns this time, a trip at the local police precinct would be an adventure on it’s own!

Sven was on the phone when I carefully stepped out, trying not to touch the outside of the door. Big bloody red letters spelled out HORE and something in the forefront of my mind told me that the Norwegian spelling was about just a letter missing from it’s English equivalent, but I failed to understand the context and how or why the word was painted on this man’s front door. 

‘Takk, takk. Jeg venter” He hung up the call. 

“The precinct will send an officer over shortly.” He informed me.

“Is that... real blood?”

“Pig's blood. Yes.”

The odd realization of the fact froze me in place. 

“Why...”

“My daughter’s ex boyfriend didn’t take it too well that she moved away; went to live in England with her mother and her new husband.”

Just how much can one morning hold and not break the fragile thread being weave between two people ?

Takk = Thanks!

jeg venter = i’ll be waiting

[ivemetyouathousandways]

Second chance at the top of the world

Saturday morning - 6: 15 am -  Skibbuveien 32-36

Wind was chilly this morning but to my sour disappointment, it failed miserably to whisper some enchanting soothing remedy to the misery of my burning heart. I had left Sven with a friendly hug yesterday morning, his soft cologne haunting me throughout the day, which I had spent under the heavy duvet in my room at the guest house, plagued with the unavoidable pain of me fucking up. I had thought of going back to the rocks and from there to his house, I had remembered the easy path we had taken. I remembered the house number. But it would have been awkward and silly and stupid and... Would it, though?

"Hva er det med deg? Begravet du mannen din?”

“He’s asking what’s wrong with you - have you buried your husband?” The wife translated. 

I tried to smile. Maybe? But... Was there even something to justify all this emotional bullshit bigotry or was it all in my head?

"I'm fine." I assured them. "Sometimes, I enjoy peace and quiet." I forked a juicy piece of meat. "I don't understand those tourists who spend all day outside. My body may be young but my mind is at least ninety years old and needs peace and quiet."

Magnus laughed and commented that it was nonsense. I should be out there enjoying local youth and wild adventures to be told later at dinner parties, not inside with two old nondescript oldies going over stamp collections and old photos.

“And sheep head. You and your soul need sheep head.” He added.

But I loved my time with my hosts. I loved their adorable couple life, their old style home from the previous century full of odd trinkets, their ways, their chitter-chatter in Norwegian, completely forgetting that I was there, on the couch of their living room, snug like a bug in a heavy warm blanket watching the evening news of which I didn’t understand much but the main gist of.

The woman, Vilde, did inquire more intimately later that night, when we found ourselves alone in front of the dying fire, what was really up with me and I briefly summed up the encounter with Sven. I guess, there is nothing like an Empress to inspire a young Queen of Swords to actually open up and set afoot on the the teary shores of an emotional relief.

"I'm dumb. That's the root of the problem." I mumbled.

"You have been hurt one too many time so now you run away before you even know the color of their socks."

I snort laughed at her expression. But she was right.

"But in the process of my stupid thick shield, I have hurt him, and I just feel so bad about it. He didn't need that, right now."

Vilde hugged me tight.

I finally managed to fall asleep around two in the morning, after an extended "quick chat" with Magnus about his own father's love tribulations. Olav was the light house keeper from the tender age of nineteen to his death. A role and duty he held to sacred heights, somewhat disregarding an otherwise devoted loving wife and kids. Love tribulations which were of incendiary repercussions when it was let to be known that he had more than a few love interests and mistresses around the next villages and islands over. His wife had kept a cool face to save the family name but she died of broken heart.

"Not even humiliation” Magnus insisted, like a fairy tale troll cautioning the wandering hero “broken heart.” He paused to let that sink in. “If you like that poor bastard, go back to his house, take him to his bed and settle things down!"

I mean, yeah, sure,that's an easy way to go about it.

Vilde laughed, shook her head and made me promise not to follow her husband's directives. I escaped the discussion by asking if I could visit said lighthouse, to which, after a bit of an back and forth in Norwegian, to spare my touristy ears of colloquial slang, I was promised to be granted the set of keys and directions first thing in the morning, which normally would have meant around 8 am, but I pleaded my touristy case and epic sunrise photos to be taken, moment to be lived, and I got both instructions and keys before we all called it a night.

And so here I was, on this cool Septemberian Saturday morning, walking in the dusky darkness en route to Oksøy Lighthouse. 

And there he appeared, smack in front of me, his shoes touching my sneakers. I could have seen him but I have had the brilliant selfish indulgence of being touristically absorbed in my phone screen, journaling as much as I could of the previous nights events in minute details, capturing and framing fleeting emotions.

“God morgen Illy”

“Jó reggelt Sven.”

I smiled. So we had a thing now, with our respective mother tongues.

"Where are you headed to?"

"The lighthouse over at Oksøy."

"It's an abandoned location. And you need a ferry to get there. Or a boat."

I snickered and fetched the ring of keys from my pocket.

He looked at me with a blank face.

"I'm renting a room over at Flekkeroy Inn and it so appears that the owner is the youngest son of the previous lighthouse keeper."

I pocketed the keys and looked at his boots. Had he gone to the rocks?

"Want to tag along?"

If I could of, I would have smacked myself behind the head. Way to go Illy!

Please accept. Please don't say no. Please say yes.

“Do you know how to operate a motorboat ?” He asked concerned.

“No... but Magnus explained me...”

“And you’ll end up in China.” 

“Is that all the faith you have in my abilities?” I asked a little offended.

“Yes.” He smiled proud and smug.

And on that note, and just like that, his arm found it’s way around my shoulders and his steps joined mine. 

6:44 am

If it was chilly on land, it was bloody freezing up here on top of the world and the warm layered outfit I had planned was no match against the biting cold. And then there was the deafening constant roar of the waves breaking against the rocky shores. And there was Sven, who for the better part of an excruciating wait for the sun to deign peek through the dark clouds lazily loitering on the horizon line, had gallantly imposed his barricading warmth against aforementioned cold and wind, his mutton doubled leather jacket opened and both arms solidly cloaked around me. 

“What is your obsession with sunrises ?” He asked just as the sun finally shot his first ray, coloring the sky from a dark vine purple to a slightly warmer red stained eggplant to finally lightening up to boysenberry and settling for vibrant violet purples where the first shy hints of watermelon and punch pinks would shyly peek through. 

“Isn’t this absolutely ... magnificent though?” I whispered in awe “Isn’t this magic?”

I let the sky change faces, slowly, like a painter adding layers of color; salmon pink fading to lemonade, the farther corners from navy berry blue to azure, to lapis and softly settling for pale sky. The sun’s first reflections on the ocean of deep crimson cherry slowly warming up to rusty amber, to fiery tiger, before setting for the day’s river of sparkling diamonds. 

“Sven...” I called him and my heart choked in my chest.

“Mhm?”

“About yesterday morning” I continued and felt his body tense up, ready to separate from mine “I’m sorry I coped out.”

“Hmm?”

I turned around to face him.

“I should have kissed you. When you were so close.”

He didn’t answer for a long moment and I felt completely stupid. Yup. I was wrong. I had imagined all that. There was nothing there. 

“You could have.” He finally spoke and I about felt faint. “You could have, instead of should have.” He corrected me.

I swallowed my fears and my doubts.

I loved the way the wakening light blushed his cheeks of taffy punch and crowned him in an aura of honey butterscotch. And more than anything, I loved the warm glimmer in his silver eyes, that faint smug smile he tried so hard to contain. and the fuzzy peace coated happiness blooming in my heart. 

“I was hoping to somehow stumble on you, this morning.” He commented, locking his hands behind my back. “You are not aware of this, I fairly certain you haven’t noticed, but we were at the same restaurant Wednesday evening. You were at that small two seats table by the last window in the back. I was having a business dinner at the other end of the place. You ended up sharing your table with a complete stranger, I believe.”

I stood there shocked. 

“Was your business dinner that boring?” I laughed.

“Theo is a good man, but Lord have mercy on all our souls, he cannot shut up once he opens his mouth.”

I flat out burst out laughing and hid my face in his chest. 

Hey, Sven, I wanted to kiss you, but you are derailing the situation! And I love your cologne. I took a deep breathe of his scent and tried to not make it look creepy as it actually was. And this is silly. I came here to forget a silly heartbreak, not to develop an equally silly crush on a local. 

“I believe you promised me a coffee.” 

Yes, indeed, I did. 

I quickly toed myself to his height and stole what I naively believed to be a swift inconsequential kiss, already planning the next move in the forefront of my mind, but Sven, the good male protagonist of this improvised romance telenovela or soap opera or what ever they called it here in Norway, sneakily locked me in his arms and demanded more. My cheeks burned but I more than gladly gave in. 

[ivemetyouathousandways]

Iskaar Family tree

Because i got hella carried away 

[ivemetyouathousandways]

Missed occasion

Friday - 7:20 AM

The living room was in the same duality as the kitchen; wide immense windows letting daylight flood in, biblical epic style, not the latest style furniture, but not antique either, modern electronics, but not overbearing and insulting to the established mood of a middle aged man who had a respectful taste for the past. I naturally established my quarters between the couch and the coffee table, feeling comfortable and needing the intimacy of the grounding carpeted floor. Gently laying my deck on said coffee table, taking a small moment to greet and establishing a contact with them, which in odd days - especially in the presence of strangers, made me feel a notch weird. I normally identified as Heathen, Atheist, Cheerful Nihilist, and I wondered how, if at all, any of it made sense. I believed in the quantum magic of the cards and they had proven be to indisputably right in multiple occasions, yet, I would betray their sacred mystique and my need for some higher up un-scientific beliefs to be accounted for in the camp of the rational, logical, fact based side of existence.

Sven came in just about when I was done with my small greeting ritual and I blushed at the thought of a classic trope of life where he'd been just standing in the entrance of the living room, the wooden tray holding the teapot and cups in hands, bemused and charmed by the quirkiness of this strange tourist sitting on his floor, eyes closed, a hand on a deck of cards, in a somewhat light elusive meditation. I enclosed behind a an accomplice smile a burst of silliness, thinking how I should pitch in something about crystals, incense and good vibrations. He didn't seem to notice, or, perhaps he was that polite, understanding sort of a man who didn't judge on such trivialities, choosing to simply carry on, putting the tray on the table and pouring tea in our two cups. What I did not expect of him was the sitting spot which he chose right next to me, to my left, an arm stretched out behind my back, a hand by my hip.

“You always carry your cards with you?"

"Not when I go out grocery shopping."

He chuckled and put a coaster and cup in front of me.

"I was hoping to get you to talk about your travels.” 

“Shuffle.” I bossed him, gently pushing the deck to him. “You need peace.” He took the deck and I almost instantly regretted the absence of his arm behind my back. “You shuffle and I will talk.”

“It won’t disrupt the cards?” He asked, starting the motion.

“I did a reading yesterday during a football match.” I smiled back.

For a moment I got lost in the motion of his hands gently and expertly shuffling the deck, the soothing pianist fingers’ hypnotic dance. And somehow, I opened up, as if I was talking to myself, a silently voiced conversation with that other self living somewhere in a corner of my mind. The insane first year, the draining, emotional, intellectual, physical. The almost unconscious booking, going through the motions of finding a good priced, well located guest house, plane ticket, not being excited about the prospect of the escape. Going through the motions at the airport like a zombie. And then, the almost holy sense of relief that is being in the undefined space and time that is the time and space that is beautifully specific to an aircraft crossing time zones. I could have rambled about that for an eternity and a half but Sven had gently put the deck in front of me.

I placed the first three cards face up and took a sip of my tea. The Devil, the Eight of Swords and the Ten of Swords.

“You are trapping yourself in a vicious cycle of illusory torment ... it’s just thoughts, it’s just in your head, but it feels so real and you feel like there is no escape.”

I flipped the next three cards: the Three of Pentacles, the Ten of Wands and the Seven of Wands.

“It started off as a a bright new hope, working together, maybe starting off a new branch of your craftsmanship that could have financially benefited the both of you but then it became your sole burden and you used that pretext to shield yourself and it became your shield and defense against the world.”

He flipped the next three cards; Six of Swords, Wheel of Fortune and Temperance.

“It’s time to move on, to leave pain behind, or at least the bulk of it, the unhealthy chains that keep you in that dark place where your mind is at. It will take time and a balanced alchemy but the cycle is about to break and something new may be starting in your life.”

Out of curiosity, I flipped three more cards : The Fool, The Chariot and the Four of Wands. 

“Yes, you are ready to move forward, you have that inner strength in you and it will pay handsomely. You will be happy - take a leap of faith, and happiness will shine down upon you.”

He flipped the Two of Cups, the Lovers and the World and I almost choked on my tea. 

“Like I had mentioned; good things are coming your way; happiness, wholesomeness and a potential romance.”

He took a mouthful of his own tea and moved an inch closer. Two scenarios played out in my head like two movies playing simultaneously and my heart started racing. The little imaginary demon sitting on my left shoulder loudly slurped from an equally imaginary bowl of ramen noodle soup and I could just about imagine his sly smug look. Fuck off, mate! It’s not happening!

But it was happening. And I wasn’t ready. And there was no convenient chime of his doorbell, or a heart-attack inducing weird phone ring. There was just him and me and this moment. 

And I wanted but I wasn’t sure. 

I could feel his soft warm breath, the snug silence wrapped around us. I could just turn my head a little and lean over about an inch or even less... I could ... but I didn’t. 

Silence lingered a little,  just enough to morph into something else, to coat the itch with a soft thin layer of helping ointment.

“Where else have you traveled?” He asked, still close, but no matter the warmth and care in his voice, I could feel, or maybe my imagination exaggerated a subtle hurt. 

“South Korea.” I took a long sip of my tea.

“Elaborate?”

“To get my idol’s name tattooed for his twenty fifth birthday without actually telling or showing him.”

“Interesting birthday present for someone you admire.”

“I didn’t want to freak him out.” I grimaced. And it was true. “Though, some years down the lane of time, he was made aware and was shown the tattoo.”

I caressed the cards on the table. I was missing his face, his voice, his ... was he ever actually happy when he had been jovial and smiling or was he the best unaccredited actor Korea had known?

 “I should be going.” I whispered, finishing my tea, not really wanting to go, but not wanting to put myself in a situation where I would hurt him again. “But I insist on owing you a coffee and pastry some day! And you cannot refuse.”

[ivemetyouathousandways]

Frokost på Sven's (Breakfast at Sven’s)

It’s kind of funny how, since the individualization of mankind, we have grown to attach such importance to names to find security in a somewhat clear cut identification. And it’s kind of funny how, I didn’t yet care to know this stranger’s personal identifier, considering that he had paid for my breakfast yesterday, followed by a bear and a coffee. It had somehow not occurred to us, during the span of our time spent together, to exchange the frivolous triviality of names and the likes of such meaningless details. 

And here we were, the next morning, walking down Østerøya,  the village’s main road, to get to his humble place located past the edges of Kvennesviga, which name I wouldn’t even attempt at pronouncing. He had casually slipped an arm around my shoulders and it took me a moment to realize that I appreciated the gesture, fascinated by how comfortable I was with it, normally having had slipped out of such contact or having voiced my discomfort. 

I loved every aspect of the early signs of life animating the place, light washing the quiet streets in a pale golden light, with actual dew on the the grass and plants, two tourists already on their bikes headed out to explore the neighboring landscapes - I imagined - the constant murmur of the North Sea whispering it’s seductive tales carried by the early morning wind. I almost stopped mid step when it hit me that this was just perhaps the Norwegian equivalent of a French Breton place I had fallen in love with called La Hague, magnificently portrayed by Claudie Galley in her book The Breakers. I smiled and bemused to myself; what would be the odds that this stranger was a sculptor too ? And then I remembered his attire of yesterday; a light ashen grey tweed suit jacket over white shirt, complemented by a dark tie with silver accents... fairly early in the day. Perhaps a journalist?

“Watch your step.”

His voice came about at the same time as my foot bumped into the small concrete step at the foot of our destination. 

“Are you okay?” He asked with an amused smile on his lips.

I nodded. Totally fine! Love losing my face in front of strangers I otherwise wouldn’t mind impressing. 

And then I had to refrain myself from not fangirling over the inside of his house - being absolutely authentic vintage European, or in this case, Norwegian; wide open spaces, flooded in the early sunlight, bathing the rich golden caramels and chocolate browns of the woods of the flooring, the table,chairs and counters. Somewhere in the forefront of my mind, I was literally an animated character with heart shaped eyes squealing, shaking my head, overly excited at the exquisite charm of the place. 

“Take a seat - make yourself comfortable.” He said dropping his keys in a dish on an accent table near the door. 

I realized I was standing there frozen in time and space and I suddenly appreciated the soft squeezing weight of his hands on my shoulders nudging me forward in. Midway in, though, he gave a final gentle friendly tap and preceded me to open the fridge and cupboards to set the table. I shyly walked around, looking at the various small decorative items, all more or less sea related; light house sculptures, boat miniatures - those rather expensive and detailed one, hand assembled, probably based off real life ones which had sailed the seven seas at some point in History, complete with real ropes, real linen and real wood or metal bits. And then - there was that one framed photo. I instantly recognized him. His hair was the same, his glasses - the only difference was his smile. He was smiling, a genuine happy smile. There was a rather handsome blond young man next to him, holding a small cherub like toddler, and a beautiful blond woman hugging the young man from behind. 

“This is your son?”

He turned around and an unbearable sadness washed over his face, making me instantly regret my absolute lack of self control and curiosity. I could see his hard gulp, swallowing down his sadness as he walked over to join me. 

“That’s Erik, my nephew.” He said, his warm breath behind my ear. “Also - my apprentice.”

Silence dropped on us like a bomb and I could literally hear my heart thumping and his sadness fill the kitchen. 

“The girl is Hanna and the baby is Jakob.” 

I swallowed dry saliva. I’m so sorry!

“One night he didn’t go home. Instead, he went to the rocks where I found you this morning. He had brought a rich variety of pills, later identified as black market drugs, and a bottle of akvavit.”

His voice was the shadow of a whisper. 

“He was found the next morning by a couple of tourists who wanted instagram photos of the sunrise.”

I could just about hear the sour sorrow in his voice. 

“Is that why you ... you often go there?” I asked trying to hide my own shock.

“Every morning since his death.”

He took a deep breath, a sigh, letting go of the past and I felt his hands on my shoulders again, a gentle pressing squeeze, motioning me to turn around and head to the main area of the kitchen. 

By the time I thought of offering help, I noticed that the table was set for two, with a choice of cold meats, cheese, bread, sliced tomatoes, and grapes. I pouted and slapped myself in the back of my mind. Way to go, Illy! First, sting the man’s memory with an insensitive question, and then just be a typical tourist, not a helping guest. He, on the other hand, kept being an impeccable gentleman, placing slices of sausage, brad and cheese in my plate.

“Mmm - this sausage is to diiiie for!”

He smiled amused and cut a few more slices which quickly ended on my plate.

“I’m sorry for my assumption a moment ago.”

“You couldn’t have known.” He smiled gently and took a piece of cheese. “His father was my younger brother. He was a proud fisherman who wanted to follow the traditional ways of our father and grandfather. Kristian got caught in a real bad storm one trip out - and he didn’t came back. Erik was intensely and very deeply affected by his death. He loved the ocean, he loved and held a great deal of respect for our father. He couldn’t understand how the ocean he has learned to love and revere has had the cruelty of taking the most important figure in his life. He had just met Hanna and it had been a strain on their relationship, but they grew stronger together. And then baby Jacob came along and I thought everything was alright. We were working on a homage piece, to be put on the family tomb.”

He looked at his plate and I could just about understand his sudden lack of appetite.

“I should have asked him to leave the project, to let me finish it alone. I didn’t see his pain, his suffering. He had insisted so passionately. I was the only family remaining, he refused to let me carry all the burden.”

I wanted to lay my hand on his but he was keeping them both to himself and I felt I would have overstayed my welcome had I reached out that extensively. Or perhaps I simply saw the clutter of breakfast as a polite barrier he had set up to keep a certain frame of intimacy. 

“I know your lineage back to your grandfather but I still don’t know your name.” I chimed in to try to lighten up the mood a notch.

He chuckled. 

“Markus.” He smiled as he extended his hand for me to take and shake. “Markus Sven Iskaar.”

Markus Sven Iskaar. MSI. Like my favorite computer brand! I refrained from voicing that odd finding though. 

“Illy Szofiana Máté.” 

MSI in the reverse. I smiled to myself. I was actually pretty proud of this nifty little coincidence and perhaps it quite heavily biased me in my overall preference of the Chinese electronics producer. 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Illy.” He half got up to be more comfortable in kissing the hand he was still holding in his. “I believe you Magyar folks still somewhat abide by this tradition?”

“I guess the older generation - yes. Most people just use the vocal version of it - as a common greeting.”

“And how would that sound like ?” He sat back down and laid a piece of sausage on a slice of bread.

“Kezét csókolom.”

"Velsigne deg!”

I giggled at his joke. I liked seeing him happy and smiling. How odd - a man I knew for less than twenty four full hours and I already cared and wanted to see him solely happy and smiling. 

“You quite surprised me with your cards yesterday.” He commented, finishing off a few grapes. 

I smiled triumphantly, my mind caressing the deck in my purse. 

“Can I at least help with the dishes?” I pleaded as he collected our empty plates.

“Slå deg løs!” He cheered, handing me over the plates and utensils.

I gave myself a mental memo to ask him later what that meant. 

Sven crossed his arms on his chest, shoulder against the refrigerator and stood there watching me wash his dishes as if it was the most entertaining thing he had witnessed in an appreciable while - which made me unreasonably blush. It was odd, being scrutinized by this - wait - let me rephrase that more appropriately; that moment of my life where I washed a Norwegian man’s dishes after breakfast in his kitchen. Talk about living life!

I dried my hands on the cloth hanging under the sink and asked, wondering if I sounded more like a housewife or a sports rookie addressing his coach.

“So - what’s next?”

“Well, we could settle down in the living room and talk.” He offered casually. “You like tea?”

“Green or chaï, if you have...” I sort of asked.

Anything but fruity lies which are sour flavorless disappointments without three spoonfuls of sugar. Also, not a huge fan of Orange Pekoe, not that I want to be a fine mouth but - and please for the love of... whatever or whoever applies - no Earl Grey. I will straight up punch you in the face if you offer that drinkable hot liquid aftershave. I rambled silently at the speed of light. Sven opened a cabinet and presented me a box of Twinning’s Green Tea. 

“Sold!”

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll put the water on.”

(1) Kezét csókolom = I kiss your hand (formal, courteous greeting)

(2) Velsigne deg! = Bless you (after someone would have sneezed)

(3) slå deg løs = Knock yourself out

[ivemetyouathousandways]

Morning on the Rocks

Skålevik - Friday 6:15 AM

“Is this spot taken?”

A familiar voice chimed joyfully behind me. 

“All yours, Fremmed*.”

Sound of footsteps, walking boots against the rock, the ruffle of clothes, an exhale of effort made - I smiled, you are not that old and tired, Stranger! - silence, and the slurp of a drink. I had stopped by a small coffee shop myself to get a cup, which I pointed in mid air, an invitation, which he left hanging. I opened my eyes. He was sitting closer than I expected - or rather - i didn’t pay that much attention to that detail, his own mug very close to mine, in mid air. 

“God morgen.”

“Good morning.”

He clanked his cup with mine.

Silence wrapped us in it’s mystic cloak and it was a beautiful thing. Wind was low, oddly, but ripples still danced on the deep blue surface of the North Sea. 

“You often ... get away... when you’re hurt?”

“Not just when I get hurt.”

I could sense his puzzled look studying me. Wind picked up a notch. Sky was still dark but there were the first whispers of hope on the horizon.

“After my first year of college, and mine was somewhat un-traditional - whereas normally college students have a maximum of five classes, I was blessed with nine, because doing college and a career program all at once - I was so exhausted and brain dead that I just booked a flight to Japan, a two week long stay at a guest house and I took off basically the next morning.”

We lingered in some more silence, the wind and the waves doing their respective things, light at the horizon growing stronger. Soon, in a few minutes, the sun’s crown would be piercing the darkness, arrows of light would paint the sky of soft lavender and creamy peach, princess pink tones, all too soon washed into a monotone daylight. 

“Why Skålevik?” He asked again, sipping on his coffee.

“I opened google maps, wandered around Norway, looking for an exotic name that appealed to me and ... here I am.”

There it was! The horizon line of ashen amber, coloring clouds in bronze marmalade, the sun, glorious marigold shrouded in rich warm honey. The sky above us lightened to a washed pastel concrete blue. For a moment, I forgot I wasn’t alone, sitting on this piece of rock having a foot in the ocean. I forgot where I was. I forgot my worries. I forgot the lingering pain. I was at peace. I put my cup next to me and hugged my knees to myself, savoring, embracing, the odd communion of Existence lacing the fragile thread of hope around me. I wanted this small precise moment to elongate it’s existence, to root itself in stubborn denial of motion and disappearance, to be mine, and mine alone to savor until I was ready to accept defeat and change and get up and get going with my day. 

I hadn’t realized the man had courteously stretched out an arm which he lay around my shoulders, his body somewhat keeping mine warm. The wind has picked up significantly, and it was much colder, all of a sudden. 

“What pain were you really walking away from?”

reality was a cold slap  across the face. The warmth of him, the wind in my face, the sting of the question.

Yesterday, after the game at the pub, we had walked around town, until he walked me back to my Bed and Breakfast. We had talked, like strangers talk, about the small iniquities of life, about the unavoidable fates that sucker punch us one way or another, about the pains we carry like unhealing wounds which become burdens or the secret bleeding scars we scratch to keep open, drowning in a masochistic pleasure of suffering.

He had asked for another read, so we sat at another café, outside, and I had asked the cards, on his behalf, if that death could have been avoided. The cards told him the same thing I would have told him; the death of his apprentice was an unavoidable fate. The Devil showed addiction,depression, violence, the Eight and Ten of Swords combined showed self imprisonment, reinforcing the self-inflicted pain. The Death and the Tower cards hammering the last nail in. I felt bad for him, my lingering pain suddenly reduced to a silly little scratch. I wanted to ask who his apprentice was - had they had a romantic relationship? Was it why it hurt him so deeply? But the question felt out of place. None of my business. 

“Erik had bright future. I cannot wrap my head around his inner turmoils.” He had said, holding the Page of Cups in his hand.

I wanted to say something deeply meaningful, but nothing came to mind. My own idol had fooled us all, his family, his band members, his millions of fans. We doubted his acting skills and how well he hid his pain and distress. We misunderstood the cryptic signs he had given us. We all thought we were so clever in figuring him out - his lyrics, his poetic genius. He was three steps ahead of us.

The sun was fully up and settled in the morning sky, the night’s mystery was washed aside.

“I had mistakenly fallen in love with a man with whom I shouldn’t have fallen in love with.” I said, after a long silence.

I felt him squeeze my shoulder.

“We can never decide nor predict whom our heart chooses for us. You cannot call it a mistake. When you think back on it, what good things has that man brought to you?”

Every man that I had loved had in fact revealed an interesting aspect of me, my personality, that previous love interests failed to kindle or awaken. This one had unknowingly dug perhaps too deep. 

“But we can decide if we want to catch a cold or not - and I think I would rather not catch one.” I diverted the conversation, picking up my empty cup, ready to get up. 

“May I offer you breakfast - at my humble residence ? And home made coffee?”

And this is how tourists disappear and their bodies are never found, I thought, mentally rolling eyes at the paranoid murder mystery lane in which my mind went. Relax Columbo. 

* fremmed = Stranger

[ivemetyouathousandways]

Serendipitys måte (A chance encounter)

Thursday - 11 AM 

Løvehulen, or Lion’s Den, had the quaint charm of a small village’s authentic pub just enhanced for what was needed for a modern clientele with modern tech and comfort. 

I was sitting at the bar, my eyes locked on the screen on the wall, waiting for teh dragging news, of which I understood absolutely nothing, to end so that we could dive into today’s most awaited game; England versus Norway. 

I was proudly sporting the team’s jersey, shorts, socks and scarf, and for the longest moment, I felt at peace and happy, the only client in this adorable and desolate little pub, in the quaint silence of this Thursday morning. 

“Hva serverer jeg deg unge frøken?”

“Oh - I’m so sorry, I don’t speak Norwegian...” 

I felt suddenly bad and out of place but the barman gently laid a bear’s paw on my hand and smiled.

“What do I serve you young Miss ?” 

“Do you serve a traditional breakfast ?”

He listed me a few options, suggesting the scrambled eggs with smoked salmon complemented by a strong black coffee, to which I gladly agreed. 

Midway through my meal, a group of loud hooligans unceremoniously barged in and overtook all available seats, invading and assaulting my cozy bubble at the bar. By their accents, it was undeniably clear, they were with the enemy. 

I was finishing my plate and was about to ask for a refill when the barman leaned over.

“The gentleman at the table behind you would like to courteously pay for your breakfast.”

“Why?”

“Go sit with him and ask yourself.”

“You know, this is exactly how a murder mystery begins.” I added, sipping my coffee, suddenly a little tense and defensive.

“I won’t let you leave with him.” He smiled, reassuring.

“Thank you.” I smiled. 

I could always repay the gentleman. 

With my mug in hand, I gladly left the noisy English hooligans at the bar and headed to the table. 

He had the morning paper in hands, in Norwegian, obviously, and took his unbothered time finishing whatever he was reading. I sipped my coffee and waited patiently, trying to invest some sort of interest in the pre-game’s analysis chit chat about player’s scores and team scores and a bunch of stats which didn’t mean much to me. I just wanted the action, the thrill, the intensity.

“You are a little outnumbered, aren’t you, now?” He finally said, closing and folding the paper.

“I was here here first.” I answered coldly. “I’m wearing the local team’s colors, in a pub in their own country. The invaders are at fault here. But I can’t chase them out - they are paying customers after all.”

“But you are sour about the situation.”

“Wouldn’t you be ?”

He smiled, his eyes glimmering.

“It’s adorable how one foreigner is offended at the presence of another in a place that normally brings people together.” He commented, amused.

“They are wearing the wrong colors.” I muttered.

“So, where are you from and what are you doing here? Miss-I-Am-Wearing-The-Right-Colors?”

That eternal question.

“You want the short and simple or the long and complex answer?”

He took a sip of his own coffee. 

“I was born in Transylvania, but I am of Hungarian descent. I had lived the most of my life in the French bit of a most essential Canada and I’m here because I am searching for myself.”

He had paid for my  breakfast, I thought I owed him the deluxe version.

He raised an eyebrow and somewhat pouted - perhaps impressed.

Henriksen swiftly doubled two Englishmen, ran like a mad man for a hot minute, as we would say in today’s lingo, nearly gave me a heart attack as he passed the ball to a youngling who  nearly lost it before finding an opening to give it back to my favorite who, like a valiant knight, gave his all and tangoed the ball in the English top left corner, completely fooling the goalie. I savored his victory as if it was my own, jumping from my seat, arms in the air, shouting victory.

“Mål! Mål!”

The rest of the pub booed and voiced their disappointment, promising sweet revenge. I smiled triumphantly. We popped the cherry. 

“Why did you pay for my breakfast?” I asked, the concern back on my mind.

“I think you just answered that question yourself.” He smiled. “I appreciate foreigners who root for my country.” He added to my dubious expression. “Remains the last part of my previous question, to be answered, if you so find a likeliness in your heart to oblige.”

“Refresh me?”

[... ] And fuck your short memory. [... ]

Yeah, fuck my short memory.

“You mentioned you were searching for yourself.”

Ah yes - the eternal quest to find oneself. 

“I kind of wanted to try the Camino de Santiago but I’m not much for pre-established paths and having to clear check-in points.”

“Why does such a young person such as yourself feels a need for such a journey?”

“Because I have lost too much in the recent past and ...” I sighed, it was a difficult topic, even with strangers, “I’m the Hermit who has done being the Queen of Swords and wants to be the Page of Wands to start anew.”

He paused his sip midway.

“I beg your pardon - I most definitely did not understand the latter part of your answer.”

Normally I would have felt embarrassed but, the sharp sting in my heart was burning like bubbling lava. 

“Tarot cards.” I answered neutrally. 

He nodded and understood my signal to back off.

And I suddenly felt bad for my coldness. I didn’t meant to be rude, but the pain was yet too violent and alive. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

He gently tapped on my hand on the table, but I felt it clearly - I had broken a little bit of something that had bloomed in him when I had taken my seat next to him.

The English devils scored an illegal equalizing point a few minutes before the end of the first period and I sourly objected, but no one but the silver haired gentleman whose table I was sitting at, and the barman busy tending the bar hooligans, was giving much of a troubled damn about it all. 

“That number sixteen is a bloody snake!” I snarled. 

“Take it easy. It’s only a game. We are early in the quarter finals, we still have time.”

Our coffees were followed by beers and I could literally feel my cheeks reddening with justified passionate anger. The stranger had regained his otherwise cheerful lightness and his intrigued bemusement at my expense.

“Would you be able to predict who would win the match?” He asked, finishing his first beer.

“I guess, but I do no wish to ... somethings are better enjoyed without knowing in advance.” 

He nodded. 

I ordered a shot of whiskey and a second pint of beer. He rose an eyebrow and I clearly saw his judgement of my drinking choice.

“You should try - it just spices up the beer a little.” I said, sliding my pint over for him to take a sip of.

“You’re not squirmish about it ?”

I watched him take a long mouthful, making sure to mark the exact spot from where  he drank to second the motion, putting down the pint with a noticeable tap on the table.

“Nope.” I smiled, perhaps feeling the horizons of Tipsy-Land.

Commentators were dragging on and I was starting to get annoyed at the length which they abused, shoving us cold served stats again.

“Put your hand on the deck and close your eyes.” I asked, putting my deck of cards in front of him.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

He grimaced but followed my instructions. I shuffled the cards, for an appreciable time, enjoying his puzzled expression, trying not to burst out laughing, and laid four cards on the table.

“You are mostly compassionate, calm and caring, easy going even - with others, but you need structure and routine in your core environment. You tend to step back and close yourself in, looking for deeper meanings, and that may give off an image of cold uncaring, harsh man, but you are not. It’s actually quite a healthy mix of contrasting energies.”

He seemed frozen, all of a sudden. I took a triumphant sip of my spiked beer. He moved an automatic hand and took a long gulp of it too. 

I laid four more cards, revealing the res of his story.

“I don’t know how recent this is, but it has to be fairly recent. You have lost something or someone very important to you and you are still dancing with that sorrow in your heart.” I commented, reminiscing of my heart own heartache, hoping that my energy hadn’t clouded the read. “You are reminiscing of the past, but perhaps, it would be time to move forward and away from that which causes you pain.” I suddenly wished I hadn’t turned those four extra cards. It felt all too familiar. 

He took a deep breath and looked at the screen behind the bar where the game had finally resumed the second half. 

“I lost my apprentice last month. Suicide.” He whispered in a dead tone.

“I’m so sorry.”

“He was battling depression and alcohol addiction. He normally would have had such a brilliant future ahead of him, but his past was a demon he couldn’t confront or battle.” He finished my pint of beer. “There is not one day I am walking in the living daylight and not think that I could have done something to prevent his death. I should have locked him in at my place, I should have kept a watch guard over him, but I let myself be fooled by his promises and lies of well being - he was a good actor, I will give him credit for that. He had fooled us all.”

I stretched out a hand to put the cards back in the deck, but he gently put his over mine and we stayed there a long moment, cards on the table, his warm comforting hand over mine.

“So then, tell me, who have you lost?” 

No escape this time. 

“My idol, my best friend, my parents, my life, sight in one eye...” 

He squeezed my hand and held it like that for an ever longer time.

The game eventually ended with a triumphant victory of our team - the Lions and happiness flooded me like the biblical deluge. I jumped from my seat, proudly waving my scarf, regretting not having a flag at hand, dancing around like a kid in a toy store during holidays, all my own personal sorrows and pains annihilated by a blissful moment of sheer happiness. 

The English fans booed once more, grunted their sour disappointment, which half of me understood,  but the other half royally dismissed. Screw you, you overrated fucks! I tackle hugged my table mate and danced joyously, without a single care in the world. 

“Where are you headed, after this glorious moment?” He asked, smiling with genuine happiness.

“I don’t know...” The reality of the happy moment gripping me, holding me, pushing uncertainty away. “Maybe just walk around and enjoy locals celebrating a well deserved victory.”

“May I burden you with my unrequited presence, in your random wanderings?”

If we were in any other dimension but this boring bland which was ours, I would have melted at how adorable his proposal was!

“Of course you may! But you have to reassure the barman first - I had promised him I wouldn’t go about wandering off with strangers who paid for my food.” I teased and he chuckled in surprised amusement.

I sat the bar, once the place cleared out of the English invaders, ordered a bottle of water for the road, and listening to the two men banter like old friends, in their mother tongue, obviously leaving me out of the conversation. 

“Do I have your permission to leave with the paying gentleman ?” I asked the barman, realizing it sounded like prostitute asking her pimp his holy permission to go bang a client. “I’m sorry - that sounded awful.”

Both men laughed and the silver haired gentleman gently tapped my shoulder, like a comforting, understanding man. 

The barman smiled and nodded; I had his holy permission. I looked at the door and the thought of these two actually be in connivance hit me like a baseball bat behind the head. Yeah, maybe, except it’s one in the afternoon, in broad daylight. What could actually happen ?

[ivemetyouathousandways]

The Fool, The Magician and the Knight of Cups

It started innocuously enough, as it’s bound to start whenever I sit down to shuffle the magic cards; tonight’s chosen deck: the Dark Mansion Tarot, my special familiar of the divinatory arts - one with Burtonesque lines framing colorful tall tales of secrets to be unfold as I would later lay them down to peek into the secrets they would whisper to me.

It snowed outside and it this early winter cheered my soul with delight. Big immaculate fluffy flakes tumbled down in a graceful ballet, twirling gently, ever more thicker and stronger in number, rapidly whitening the landscape past my window.

My minds leaped and danced with the flakes, lost in wander. My hands shuffled, lost in hypnotic motion. So then, my dear little fairy of multiple wonders, what should I expect and be cautious of today? I asked almost mindlessly - my cards knew all to well, this first shuffle was the light courteous greeting, the friendly visit to the neighbor with biscuits and warm drink. 

The Magician, Strength and The Fool sat at the table, my welcoming committee. Oh - Intriguing, I thought, how interesting - that Fool to frame and seal the well well established duo. I frowned and grimaced. What are you doing, Fool, what are you meaning to tell me ? I took a sip of my coffee and pulled three more cards to define the Magician. The Hermit and the King of Swords followed. Okay then. A creative, authoritarian, cool and emotionally detached, bit of a recluse or truth seeker. I placed the Strength underneath the Magician and the Fool under the Strength. Let’s see what you are telling me, you three rascals. The Queen of Swords soon rejoined Strength, the Knight of Cups following her. The message was undeniably a portrait of me. My heart pinched a little. I could see the court cards looking straight at me with smirking faces. The Fool opened the dance to the two of cups and the Lovers. 

I rose an eyebrow as if the cards were real people sitting at my table, having breakfast with me. Are you guys for real ? Because - nuh-uh no way in hell mate! Yet, I looked at the cards, line by line, each individually, as a whole and sighed. The Queen of Swords was surrounded though - a strong male figure on top of her, a new romance, a new relationship below her. Between the Magician and the Lovers, The Fool and the King of Swords - I was cornered. I bit my lip and drank more coffee. So be it, if that is what you are telling me. I put these mischievous pixies aside and pulled a few more cards, masochistically hoping for a sign of temporality, anything to tell me it would be a short lived little distraction of a flame. The Four of Wands was next. Traitor - I whispered. I pushed myself back and closed my eyes. Maybe if I stayed cozily home, I would reduce the chances of silly romance happening. Yes. that was the plan. More coffee. Maybe cake baking. And good old YouTube. 

My Home page served the usual entertaining beauty gurus drama as reported by the drama, tea-spilling and commentary channels. Palette this, collaboration that, shading here, scamming there. The usual run of the mill mindless inconsequential trivialities; comforting, entertaining, safe, since my passion for makeup products was as hot as the ninth circle of hell. 

Somehow, the Noon hour came like a punch and I protested, to no avail, at the time irrevocably gone, but having left me with insipid, vapid, silliness that these people went through over the past twenty four hours. My friends - or anyone for that matter - could legitimately critic my cold hardheartedness in the mater of not feeling pity for these matters, but if they decided to monetize their heart breaks, I couldn’t legitimately feel bad for taking at the same entertainment value as a big budget Hollywood production … minus the big budget. 

A second mug of coffee was made. A rapid sandwich and a serving of crunchy baby carrots welcomed a refresh of the home page. And time froze for an indiscernible amalgamation of moments. Third thumbnail from the left: a middle aged man with silver hair, mustache and beard sporting a black hoodie and a vintage cyber punk styled rocker leather jacket looked straight at the viewer with a quizzical look - interrogating - inviting to sit down and listen. 

Seafaring Warrior. 

Interesting name. 

The Knight of Cups.The Two of cups. The King of Swords.

I should have not clicked. I should have refreshed and hoped that the suggestion would have gone away but I decided against my better judgement, because in the lukewarm heat of the moment, his face was appealing like a night light was a fateful inescapable attraction to any nocturnal insect. 

“The storm was brewing like a mad demon’s ungodly stank of a breath, suffocating me, choking me, gripping and stealing my last gasp of air and I stood there, frozen in motion, incapable of moving forward or stepping back.” My heart stopped. My mind froze with him. My attention was in distress. My stomach had forgotten about the hunger striking it. My coffee was getting cold. “The monster was approaching, closing in, and escape wore the cloak of futility and the face of irrevocable judgement of misfortune, it’s roar was a deafening murmur of death.” 

I swallowed a hard gulp.

“It’s shadow soon towered over me, a tall darkness leaning down on the miserable puny spec of existence that was myself, a moment ago, defiant, heart burning with rage, now silenced in dread.” 

So was I!

“Air was a cold void. My soul was burning from the lack of oxygen. My heart had about the livelihood of a withered, shriveled, memory of life past and gone. And yet.”

I held my breath and heart. 

“And yet - there I was ; standing in the eye of the maelstrom, feet solidly anchored on stony path, hands in my coat pockets, eyes fixed on the darkness standing before me, looming down upon my fragile existence, questioning the very defiance of my soul.”

Jaded thoughts poked at my mind; sandwich, coffee, cold. I pushed the  disruptive thoughts away. 

“The Darkness bent over and blinded my gaze. The wind whirled all around me and stole the little breath I still had pocked in my lungs. Was this my sour end? Cold void burning my existence like a parchment paper in Hell’s blackened fires.”

My heart was burning, gripped between unforgiving piercing claws. Air was tight in my own lungs. 

“Time stood still in it’s mute deafness, my breath, my heart equally silent and frozen. The cloak opened, it seemed in a dragged, fragmented fraction of this odd stillness, and what was not my surprise when a blinding pale golden foan gracefully leaped out, like the first rays of daylight breaking the night’s last traces of darkness, glimmering, shimmering showers of rose gold soon followed, piercing the cloak a hundred, no, a thousand arrows tearing it apart from within.” My heart too was showered in warm glimmering golden light.

“Darkness turned to dust and time took a breath, it’s exhale blowing the black ashes past the foan and past me.”

I sat back in my chair - bathing in relief.

The man in the video seemed relieved too, I sensed a barely noticeable shift in his general aura.

“The foan cautiously tip toed around my marbled ghost, stopped in front of me and it’s big dark eyes scrutinized the last hidden cavern wall of my soul.” I dared take a sip of my coffee. 

“Your heart is pure and free” the foan spoke to me “give me your sorrow, let me set you free.” the foan continued.” And I felt faint, dropping to my knees, the stony path welcoming my ragged dull body like the most fluffed fairy tale bed would welcome a most exhausted princess caught unfortunately outside, in a raging storm.”

My heart ached for him. Yes, let the foan set you free. Let the golden light heal your heart, I urged him silently.

“Tears streamed down my face, silent pain oozing out of my heart. The foan approached, breaking the last barrier between, leaving me in muted shock as it’s soft tongue reached out to collect a tear running down my cheek.” I sighed a silent sigh of relief and contentment. 

“Darkness around me faded like morning fog dissipates as daylight embraces the dawn time of every day and I found myself adorned in golden serenity, shrouded in a cloak of majestic peace, the foan no longer a golden foan of light but a girl, of ivory skin and silken sandy hair wrapped in glowing white foggy ethereal gown, smiling gently down upon me.” 

My heart started beating with ease again. The man smiled to the camera. A soft, almost imperceptible piano tune lurked in, somewhere from behind the man, a whisper of a melody and the screen slowly faded to black as the piano tune grew in crescendo and volume. 

I applauded. 

I didn’t know why, I just applauded at my screen as if it had been a live performance. And I found myself silly, but so be it! I was alone in the small dining area of my small apartment, I was free to applaud … The Magician.