The blueness of the sky

She liked to think about him when it was raining.

She could not say why then nor when it began exactly. It was probably one of a series of the same, endless October days. It did not matter. The important thing was that at the sound of the first drops hitting dully on the roofs her face brightened up and she felt strangely calm. She could look for hours at this spectacle of water and sometimes light, and it brought her an inspiration she could not find anywhere else. Only when it was raining, and somewhere in the forefront of her mind she kept a fresh memory of M, could she create. Letters, words, sentences flowed from her fingers as if she was reporting a live event.

Hyped up, she would call then M, who was actually waiting for a phone call from her. He was listening with a ghost of a smile on his lips, what idea she came up with that time. She was not describing him in detail the motifs, characters or places – she was focusing more on the images she saw through the eyes of the imagination, on the colors, the sounds.

It always amazed him when he was reading N's stories, how many minor references, comparisons, nuances he would have missed if he had not had an earlier conversation with her. In some way he would have looked at the story in the same way, but he would not have noticed that one thing N wanted to convey.

She used to tell him that in order for him to get the right meaning he should learn to read again. He never knew what N meant at such times, but if he had a chance, he would at least once like to see a string of words she wrote in the way she did it. Would he be able then to see the place where the lame dancer hid her dreams? Or the face of a man who died, not being able to save the world?

N, wrapped in a blanket, was sitting on the floor with a cup of tea in her hands. She was staring at the overcast sky behind the balcony door. The black as the onyx clouds were gliding across it.

The storm was coming.

She was about to reach for a pen lying on the pile of blank pages next to her, but she refrained at the last moment. She took a sip of her favourite raspberry tea and leaned her head against the wall. Even when she heard the first drops striking against the roof, she did not start writing. It thundered several times. With half-closed eyes, she was looking out for lightning.

"I wonder what M is doing now," she whispered, barely audible. A thought crossed through her mind to go for a phone and call M, but the whole body seemed suddenly so heavy that in the end she stayed in her place. She was not restless, but strangely tired and sleepy. It flashed a few times outside. No idea came to N's head.

She was afraid of that day. A day when in the rain she will think of M, and on paper no word will remain. Her lips trembled. She put down a cup of undrunk tea and laid her head on the knees of drawn up legs, staring at the drops slowly dripping down the window.

In one of her first stories, she wrote: "Even if I was born in another country, spoke a different language, liked other things, I would fall in love with the same person again." She did not want to admit it even to herself, but those were her own thoughts. She would fall in love with M again.

Tears involuntarily ran down N's face. She was wiping them at first, mad at herself, but after a moment she let go and let them flow. Like raindrops on the windowpane. She barely could see anything - everything turned into colorful spots similar to those she used to describe to M. It's she who should learn how to write again, not he how to read. She hid herself behind series of sentences, instead of letting them express herself.

During the rain, the blueness of the sky hides behind a curtain of dark clouds. Maybe that's why she liked so much to create then? So that no one would be able to make out her feelings?

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. On the skin, there remained smudged mascara.

A strong wind swayed the treetops. The puddles were getting bigger every second, and the hail started to fall. Chunks of ice hit the roof as if they wanted to puncture it.

N, despite these sounds, fell into a restless sleep.

After the storm, there remained broken branches and large puddles. And also blank white sheets of paper of which she could not take her eyes off.

On the spur of the moment, she stood up, though her whole body ached. She grabbed the phone from a desk and made a call.

"Hello?" she heard a sleepy M's voice.

"I didn't write anything," she said barely audibly, as if she were afraid that because of these three words she would be punished.

"It's nothing wrong I guess?" he asked. N was silent. Thousands of conflicting thoughts crossed her mind. At first she wanted to protest somehow, but she realized that he had no idea how much it meant to her.

He did not know that she was writing in the rain, thinking about him. It's nothing wrong I guess? M's voice buzzed in her head. She looked out the window at the unusual blue sky and, marveling at herself, replied stoically:

"Yes, you are right. I'm sorry I'm bothering you."

She said goodbye immediately and hung up. She put the phone back on the desk, took a cup of undrunk tea to the kitchen. She collected the blank sheets of paper, aligned them and put in a drawer.

A few days later she met with M.

"So you're not going to write anything more?"

N shook her head, smiling slightly.

"It is a pity," he said. "Because, you know, recently I was able to see the face of a man who died, not being able to save the world.

N laughed.

"How did it look?"

"Terrible," he replied, and laughed too. There was an awkward silence.

"And if I were born in another country..." he suddenly began to speak. N's heart skipped a beat for a moment. Although she was looking at M, she could not hear his voice. Nevertheless, she knew what he was saying.

And when he looked at her, she could swear that she saw in his eyes a reflection of the calm blue sky.