“But it is not enough merely to exist,” said the butterfly, “I need freedom, sunshine, and a little flower for a companion.” 

– Hans Christian Andersen –

Across the dining room table, she clutched her phone while he flipped through a stack of old photographs. “Look at this one. I was only five when it was taken and I remember that day perfectly.” Andy slid one of the photographs across the table towards Clara. She studied it, raising only one brow. “Why did they dress you like this and cut your hair so short?” He looked again at the picture. “I don’t really remember caring about the clothes, but I definitely recall hating having my picture taken.” Clara made a soft noise of understanding as she started scrolling on her phone. “So the aversion to participating and following the simplest societal rules started early, huh? Figures.” She looked up, seeking his eyes across the table. He shrugged, glancing down at the photo again. “This journey through old photos, you couldn’t join me, could you? I’m more like a screen for you to project your dreams than McDreamy for you,” he said. Sometimes, his eyes held a sadness that left her uneasy, yet this time, Clara burst into laughter, as their conversation about his photo tapered off and took its place into the tapestry of unfinished conversations they have always had. 

“McDreamy? That’s more my kind of line.” A mocking tone crept into her voice. “What’s got you so riled up this time? Or are you just projecting your own insecurities again, trying to put me down?”

He made no effort to rein in his temper. Part of him wanted to storm out, slamming the door behind him. But something held him back, an inexplicable sense that he owed her something. An explanation? An apology? He’d never been one to leave debts unsettled.

Clara laughed again, tilting her head back in an unforced motion that exposed her long neck and the scar she usually hid with her hair. He did not think she meant any harm, but sometimes questioned her quick reactions. She never fully understood Andy’s desire to keep certain things private – little secrets she allowed him to have. To him, unanswered questions or vague smiles instead of words were not lies, just a pure absence of information rather than a malicious coverup. “If you don’t provide details about something, you’re lying. Trying to conceal the truth is what makes it a lie.” While she found his logic overly simplistic, she never asked him “where,” “why” or “when.”  She did not have questions because she did not want answers or, rather, she did not want him to feel scrutinized.

Clara knew exactly when she upset him, but she didn’t always understand why. “It will pass,” she thought, turning away. The silence stretching between them became almost suffocating, yet neither seemed willing to break it. Clara’s laughter had faded with her mind wandering elsewhere. Andy stared at the ground. “You know, I’m going to grab some wine. Unless we’re not going to Cristiana’s tonight?” He felt his words leaving his mouth without a trace of annoyance, as he consciously tucked her words into that familiar corner of his soul where her insults had accumulated over the years. She answered with a dismissive wave. “Of course, we’ll do whatever you want.”

Andy left without slamming the door, though the temptation lingered. “You can slam the door, break a plate, punch a wall,” he’d once told Clara, “but the pain still remains.” He wanted to shed the pain yet keep the nervous tension, to draw strength and inspiration for his writing from it. 

“Summer evenings in Bucharest carry a scent I’ve never found elsewhere,” he’d often tell his friends. “Whether it’s the hot, melting asphalt or my love for this city taking physical form, I can’t say.” The hum of people and cars drowned out his footfalls. He stopped at a terrace for a beer and spotted a place to sit. He was not alone. He asked two girls sitting at a long table if he could sit down as well. One gave a dismissive wave akin to Clara’s, seeming utterly unbothered. Andy settled at the opposite end, careful not to intrude on their conversation. He drank his beer like a cup of tea while someone at another table played guitar. The whiny timbre of the voice clashed with both the tune and the combat boots.

The waitress’ voice reminded him that his glass was empty. “Can I get you anything else?” She spoke with warm familiarity. Part of him wanted nothing more than to linger, soaking in the light and life. But a sense of duty made him get up and leave. He walked back trying again to hear his footsteps again. The moment he started looking for his keys in front of the door, he realized he’d returned home without the bottle of wine. He let himself in, knowing Clara wouldn’t ask about it.

They left for Cristiana’s without the wine. She did not blame him; she did not say anything, as he expected. She got out of the pantry the bottle of champagne that they wanted to drink at their tenth wedding anniversary. There was still plenty of time before their anniversary, he thought, and champagne knows how to wait. Clara didn’t though. 

They walked behind each other, listening to their footsteps on the black marble. Clara talked to many acquaintances, even those she didn’t usually talk to at other parties. Andy managed to escape to the garden. Cristiana’s garden reminded him of a small cemetery. “I find cemeteries to be some of the most beautiful parks. They are stories. The long walks on sunny winter days among crosses and tombs full of past life are not at all sinister. They remind you that you are alive.”

He took a deep breath, inhaling the thick scent of roses until another aroma overpowered it. A few steps away, a girl smoked. He didn’t know her but noticed her cold, somewhat sensual beauty. “I’m sorry,” she said, “You’re out enjoying the fresh air, and I’m poisoning you.” Andy smiled, “Don’t worry. I’m Andy Carp, an old high school classmate of Cristiana’s.” The girl continued smoking without replying. He accepted the silence, stopping his chatter. The music and voices from the house grew louder. “I’m Ania, Cristiana’s cousin.” So this was Ania. Andy had heard stories but couldn’t recall specifics. As he sat puzzling over Ania’s reputation, she stubbed out her cigarette and headed inside. “Nice to meet you. See you…”

When he went back inside, Clara was looking for him, wanting to go home and trying to explain to the host why. “It’s a migraine that hasn’t left me for days, ever since I taught a business class to former military personnel. I failed to engage them by not using enough analogies from their world. They found nothing familiar to grasp onto and preferred silence over questions. It was a professional challenge I didn’t recognize at first, resulting in this endless migraine.”

They walked home with the same odd, measured steps as soldiers changing guard at the palace.

***********

The phone rang persistently, shattering the late evening silence. “Andy, it’s Cristiana. I have three theater tickets for tonight but can’t go. Are you interested?” Cristiana’s voice boomed with an incredible volume, so loud that Andy had to hold the phone away from his ear, as if afraid of catching a virus. “I’m home alone; Clara may be back late. I don’t want to ruin your plans. But if you don’t have anyone to give the tickets to, I’d come by myself.” Cristiana yelled something else, and they agreed to meet in front of the theater.

Andy arrived early, as usual. With so many people out front, he had to stand at the top of the stairs to spot Cristiana. He heard the gong, but knew she’d likely be late. Scanning the crowd rushing toward the entrance, he stayed focused. “You’re here!” uttered Andy, puzzled by his own statement as the quiet girl with piercing eyes smiled at him. It was Ania, who’d kept him company in Cristiana’s garden. “I am here! I knew you’d expect me.” Her spontaneous reply broke the awkwardness. He noticed that smile again almost tattooed on her lips. “I have the tickets. But are you alone? Cristiana gave me three.” Andy smiled without immediately answering, searching for the right words. “My wife will be home late, so I allowed myself this little outing.” Ticket in hand, Ania reached into his shirt pocket and placed it there. The 180-degree turn followed, and she headed toward the entrance. Andy remembered that same sudden yet graceful turn from a few nights before. They entered with steps sharing the same rhythm, like tiny drums, but different intensity. His steps were shouting from atop the stairs. She walked without looking back, as if someone followed them.

Andy sat staring at the stage for a while before the play began. They acknowledged each other’s presence with occasional glances during the performance. At intermission, she went outside to smoke. He sat reading the program, staring at the empty stage. An incomprehensible feeling of adultery made him avoid the crowded lobby. Blinded by night and thoughts straying beyond his actions, he left before she returned to her seat.

***********

Clara was home when he opened the door, trying to turn the key silently in the lock. “I heard you went to see a play. Great idea! You need to get out more.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm. Andy didn’t understand why she’d make such a sarcastic remark – because he was home late or because he went out without her. She looked relaxed and happy, her eyes twinkling feverishly. “Are you feeling alright? I see you’re sitting under two blankets, and it’s hot in here.” Clara pulled the blankets closer, “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Good night.” She left, dragging one blanket behind her. The other lay on the couch, an unspoken invitation for Andy to sleep there.

He always understood her subtleties and silent cries, respecting them. He sat on the couch, Clara’s lingering scent warning of another sleepless night. Her aroma neither aroused him nor stirred memories – it simply kept sleep at bay, filling him with anxiety. His eyes opened and closed until night became day. When she prepared to leave, he kept his eyes shut, clinging to the couch, with the blanket over his head. He waited until the door closed and then jumped out of bed. He sat in front of the computer, not moving until evening fell. His hands were numb, but an explosive happiness helped him move on. He finished his article about San Francisco.

The article fulfilled a promise to the editor-in-chief of a local lifestyle magazine, an old friend. Andy had mentioned to him that he had a conversation at a party with someone from San Francisco, which sparked so much research in the following days that he felt like he had actually visited, so he documented everything. He walked the streets, listened to musicians and dropped coins in guitar cases, lounged on Golden Gate Park’s grass, and watched seals at Pier 39. This so-called diary was nearly a documentary of what he thought was an inaccessible world for him, written like Stoker’s Dracula through research alone.

The issue was giving it “the tone that sells.” The requirement was clear. “Polish it up, make us look smarter than the Americans, throw in some dollar amounts. Rich people, rich buildings – give me something to sell to my audience,” his friend instructed. Andy didn’t know how to polish it that way. He knew how to labor over the perfect word, express feelings, or lend stories light or darkness. But a forced tone would kill that initial spark. When needing money, he wrote neutral articles requiring little editing. But this was his first about an unvisited foreign land; a story set in Romania’s mountains may have been safer. He craved change though; his travel tales grew too familiar,  set in the same country – beautiful, but far too traveled by his steps and pen.

The challenge wasn’t the location, but finishing the story itself. He struggled gathering his thoughts in complete stories. Clara often reminded him of that. To her, every one of his articles was not viewed as a literary achievement, but as his ability to finish something. The modest income was, to her, success. She needed to view him as accomplished to love him. He thought not of money or fame, but his elusive idea. Sleepless nights spent reading other people’s books and blending their ideas with his thoughts, writing spontaneous novels in his head without reaching paper, while the Idea refused to appear despite sending countless messenger ideas onward.

***********

Most of the time, he didn’t answer the phone. From his perspective, that was the answering machine’s duty. But many people didn’t leave voicemails, preferring dialogue over a monologue that unnerved them slightly. Clara used to get mad whenever she heard people hanging up instead of leaving messages. Andy understood their reaction, though. “The monologue, like a photograph, fails to capture movement and oratorical verve. It accentuates our verbal mistakes like those awkward smiles in pictures.”

He heard the phone ringing but didn’t move from the window. It was one of his favorite “games.” He’d choose a specific person walking down the street and create an entire story around them. Sometimes he tried including Clara in his game. “I don’t know why we need to talk about others, Andy. Don’t you see how much imagination we need to see our own lives in color?” He’d smile, kissing her while trying to appreciate her pragmatic perspective – the one their relationship needed, he thought. She supported him when he fell into the dream world, detaching from reality. Her words sounded supportive then, but some days he wished she could appreciate the poetry he brought to their relationship. Clara often warned, “Your imaginary world is much stronger than the real one. One day, you won’t be able to separate truth from imagination, and then you’ll become dangerous to yourself.”

The phone rang again. He rushed to answer. This time, he wanted to wake up to reality. “Andy!” Clara’s voice trembled slightly. Oh, how she’d hoped for the answering machine! “Good thing you’re home!” For a moment, he thought he was talking to Clara from years ago, calling in the afternoon just to hear his voice. “I haven’t slept all night, Andy. You probably don’t understand because you can’t descend into the world where we all dare to live.” He was silent. Was that an insult? He still held the phone, listening like a seashell as Clara’s roaring voice brought a salty taste to his lips. “I’d like you to leave, Andy. I’m not chasing you, and I don’t want to be the one leaving. Please, because I know it will do us both good. I have no strength left to watch us drifting further and further apart. It’s better to forget each other, at least therapeutically. Maybe later you’ll find a fw words for us from all those words you carry around.”

Andy hung up without answering. He felt nothing and had nothing to say, although he wished he could have defended himself. He didn’t know how because he believed in words and didn’t want to scatter them. “Wasting words is like wasting water in the desert,” he once told Clara. She smiled in disbelief, “That’s not true. You can produce words whenever you want, a bunch that can hurt, love, or fill the silence.” Andy used to cover her mouth with his palm, “Shhh! Words aren’t dead. They take the form of our feelings. Just like time, we can’t bring them back. We are our words. Nothing else shows we’re alive.” She would laugh and push him away, “Our beating hearts and warm bodies kind of do.”

Andy carefully packed a few changes of clothes into his old gym duffel, pausing for a moment as he made a symbolic gesture – sweeping everything he had felt and been a part of in that house beneath the doormat. Taking a few deep breaths, the way his mother used to tell him when he was little to “calm down his nerves,” he made his way out and headed to a hotel where he often put up out-of-town friends, knowing the owner would find him a cheap room.

Once checked in, a flood of happiness washed over him, an inner peace that brought a smile to his face. He spent the day rewriting his article, but eventually fell asleep next to his laptop, only to wake up early the next morning, cold and hungry. The initial happiness had given way to a sense of fear, but Andy quickly pushed it aside, realizing the pure freedom that lay beneath.

Powering on his laptop, he stared at the San Francisco piece, still tormented over the ending. Then, it dawned on him – the imaginary trip didn’t want to end because it was unlived. He turned on the radio. “Tell me if you want to see a world outside your window…”