Solja by Christoffer Petersen

Author:Christoffer Petersen [Petersen, Christoffer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-06-23T16:00:00+00:00

12

The end of the street became to the station, followed by the end of the line, the mutual if unspoken need for company, the physical need to warm up, and the promise of the best hot chocolate in Copenhagen. Iben invited. Taatsiaq accepted. And the boundaries of what constituted a date were moved as the lonely journalist and the traumatized police officer spent the rest of the evening together.

“I just don’t bring men home, anymore,” Iben said as she apologised for the mess, the sink with unwashed plates and cutlery, the smell in the bathroom that, try as she might, just wouldn’t disappear. She guided Taatsiaq to the couch, told him to stay put, not wander, and then made hot chocolate in two large mugs. There was a can of whipped cream in the refrigerator, and Iben squirted the very last cream onto the hot chocolate. She dusted the cream with more fine chocolate powder, only to apologise for the second time in what felt like as many minutes as the cream melted to form a thin layer of something on the surface of the chocolate and around the lip of the mug.

“I can see why,” Taatsiaq said.

“What?”

Iben stopped halfway to sitting at the other end of the couch, frowning as she tried to catch up. Taatsiaq laughed, and she joined him, suddenly relieved they had made it so far, and after so many small hurdles – the mess, the smell, the old cream – there wasn’t anything left to be embarrassed about.

“Tell me about her,” she said as she slid into the corner of the couch, cupping her mug, and resting it on her knees as she tucked her bare feet under a throw blanket.

“About Siilia?”

“Yes,” Iben said. “What was she like?”

Taatsiaq took a sip of chocolate and settled on the couch before he answered. He took his time, wondering where to start, if he even had the words he needed to describe the woman he knew he wanted to marry, the one, as he supposed he should call her. Iben listened, ignoring her drink, absorbing Taatsiaq’s story as his words touched her heart and the tragedy unfolded.

It took a few minutes for Iben to realise Taatsiaq had stopped talking, but just one sip of chocolate to realise it had gone cold. She put the mug down on the coffee table and slid across the couch to sit closer to Taatsiaq. She reached for his hand, paused at the first electric touch of her skin upon his, and then grasped it suddenly as if plucking a fish out of shallow water. She laughed, apologised, and then realised neither of them had let go.

“I think I needed this,” she whispered. “I needed your story. I mean, I’m so sorry,” she said, pressing one hand to her chest. “It’s so…”

“It’s okay,” Taatsiaq said when Iben’s words failed her. “I think I needed it too.”

“Then you’re not going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Jump into the sea,” Iben said.

Taatsiaq shrugged and said, “Probably not. I can’t swim.

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