emerges from the kiosk and stretches. She took Abby to her home to settle in a couple of hours ago; the poor girl was exhausted.
Vasso’s yawn is interrupted by a last-minute customer wanting cigarettes. His scrabble for change is waved away. The till is cashed up, he can pay tomorrow. She chains the metal shutters to the front of the free-standing drinks fridges, slots home the wooden panels over the windows of her kiosk and calls goodbye to Stella. She turns off her central lights, darkening the whole square. The moon bright in the clear sky, the stars sharp dots in the inky blanket enveloping the village. Her silhouette hurries towards her home, and sleep. She will leave the porch light on when she goes to bed to illuminate Stella’s path to her own house, next door.
Stella levels her hands in front of her, fingers splayed, and stretches with her own, loud, yawn. As her eyes open she rotates her limbs inwards to show the matc hing bruises on the backs of her arms, angry, shocking. A knot forms in her throat and she blinks tears from her eyes.
The lights go off one by one before the metal-framed glass doors clang shut at Theo ’s kafenio. There is a sound of farmers talking, sharing last thoughts before wishing each other goodnight. Theo stacks the chairs that remain in the square, scraping them across to the lamp-post as he chats.
The same scene is played again and again, night after night.
With her thumbs under her jaw bone, Stella rubs the tears from her eyes with the pads of her fingers and sniffs. Over the past seven years, sitting outside her souvlaki shop, she has witnessed this curtain call, the finale to the sequence of events of village life at the close of the day, the continuity of events implying security.
But … She doesn’t feel safe any more. It only took thirty seconds. The smell of jasmine grows momentarily as a gentle breeze stirs the air and lifts the heat from her limbs. She picks at her dress to unstick it from her legs. She wants to lie down, become lost in sleep, but she cannot face her own bed. The process of getting into it will involve too much talk, or worse, heavy silence.
The voices outside the kafenio grow fainter. Theo, an outline, whose bushy hair bobs as he goes round the side of his café and opens a door which leads to his bachelor rooms above the shop, looks around before he steps out of view and, seeing Stella, waves good night. How different life would have been had her brief dates with Theo, all those years ago, become more. The age difference then had seemed unsurpassable. Theo, the same age as Mitsos. How time changes things.
She lifts her hand in acknowledgement, but he is gone and she lets it drop. Everything ’s the same as the evening before but all now unreachable, untouchable. Stella’s focus is on a more compelling, immediate, reality.
She feels a tightening in her chest as questions collide, contending for precedence until one dominates. The foremost question: what if it happens again?
She looks around the square. With both Theo and Vasso gone she is totally alone.
There are no lights left in the centre of the village apart from those behind her in her own takeaway and only one of these remains on, a low-watt glow.
Stavros’ shouting she is used to. Fists thumped on tables, even punches through door panels have been known, chairs flung across rooms, crockery broken, all common-place. The menace is there daily. But now it has overflowed onto her. Even if he never touches her again the trust is gone, the perceived safety shattered. He is no longer the Stavros she loved, although, even after the event, when she caught his eyes twinkling (for Abby), a smile on his lips (again for Abby), she was reminded of the Stavros she had married. The surge of loneliness and overwhelming sadness that rose from her stomach to her chest had taken her by surprise. She had nearly been sick.
Even in her sickness she could not lie to herself. The moment his grip tightened to
Vasso’s yawn is interrupted by a last-minute customer wanting cigarettes. His scrabble for change is waved away. The till is cashed up, he can pay tomorrow. She chains the metal shutters to the front of the free-standing drinks fridges, slots home the wooden panels over the windows of her kiosk and calls goodbye to Stella. She turns off her central lights, darkening the whole square. The moon bright in the clear sky, the stars sharp dots in the inky blanket enveloping the village. Her silhouette hurries towards her home, and sleep. She will leave the porch light on when she goes to bed to illuminate Stella’s path to her own house, next door.
Stella levels her hands in front of her, fingers splayed, and stretches with her own, loud, yawn. As her eyes open she rotates her limbs inwards to show the matc hing bruises on the backs of her arms, angry, shocking. A knot forms in her throat and she blinks tears from her eyes.
The lights go off one by one before the metal-framed glass doors clang shut at Theo ’s kafenio. There is a sound of farmers talking, sharing last thoughts before wishing each other goodnight. Theo stacks the chairs that remain in the square, scraping them across to the lamp-post as he chats.
The same scene is played again and again, night after night.
With her thumbs under her jaw bone, Stella rubs the tears from her eyes with the pads of her fingers and sniffs. Over the past seven years, sitting outside her souvlaki shop, she has witnessed this curtain call, the finale to the sequence of events of village life at the close of the day, the continuity of events implying security.
But … She doesn’t feel safe any more. It only took thirty seconds. The smell of jasmine grows momentarily as a gentle breeze stirs the air and lifts the heat from her limbs. She picks at her dress to unstick it from her legs. She wants to lie down, become lost in sleep, but she cannot face her own bed. The process of getting into it will involve too much talk, or worse, heavy silence.
The voices outside the kafenio grow fainter. Theo, an outline, whose bushy hair bobs as he goes round the side of his café and opens a door which leads to his bachelor rooms above the shop, looks around before he steps out of view and, seeing Stella, waves good night. How different life would have been had her brief dates with Theo, all those years ago, become more. The age difference then had seemed unsurpassable. Theo, the same age as Mitsos. How time changes things.
She lifts her hand in acknowledgement, but he is gone and she lets it drop. Everything ’s the same as the evening before but all now unreachable, untouchable. Stella’s focus is on a more compelling, immediate, reality.
She feels a tightening in her chest as questions collide, contending for precedence until one dominates. The foremost question: what if it happens again?
She looks around the square. With both Theo and Vasso gone she is totally alone.
There are no lights left in the centre of the village apart from those behind her in her own takeaway and only one of these remains on, a low-watt glow.
Stavros’ shouting she is used to. Fists thumped on tables, even punches through door panels have been known, chairs flung across rooms, crockery broken, all common-place. The menace is there daily. But now it has overflowed onto her. Even if he never touches her again the trust is gone, the perceived safety shattered. He is no longer the Stavros she loved, although, even after the event, when she caught his eyes twinkling (for Abby), a smile on his lips (again for Abby), she was reminded of the Stavros she had married. The surge of loneliness and overwhelming sadness that rose from her stomach to her chest had taken her by surprise. She had nearly been sick.
Even in her sickness she could not lie to herself. The moment his grip tightened to
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