Scenery

I forgive him for the little lies. The little fibs that slip away and the broken promises that go
unkept. He always tells the same lies, and sometimes I believe him because the story paints
itself like a vivid oil portrait; first, the figures are painted, then the background, then the
corners, edges, contours, and finally, it becomes as if it were a real scene on the canvas of
life, but only the immensity of human imagination has made what could never be real. It tells
me what I most desire, so I reach for it with all my heart, stretching out my soul's arms to
preserve all his lips whisper and hold it within me for eternity. I love him with all my heart,
but when my reality is keen-eyed, it sometimes smells like the scratch of jagged-edged
infidelities in the dawning light or the wistful night. The cold realization slips into bed
beside me or touches me as I walk.

​

Today we take it into our heads to walk around the riverbank. We get caught in the cool
January breeze, and he starts coughing. I take off my thin pink cotton scarf and wrap it
around his neck with careful movements. He gives me a weak half-smile and walks on. My
chest gets hot, even though my whole body is shivering from the winter's minus temperatures.

​

Sometimes we stop. We look at the broken-legged seagulls on the slippery waterfront stones,
the sloppy sidewalk ahead, and the footprints of giddy pedestrians. He rubs his hand as we
spy on one of the old buildings covered in melted snow. His fingertips are almost purple, so I
tug off my black fabric gloves and slip them on his frosty palms. He thanks me quietly. His silent
words creep into my consciousness like angelically soft notes, wrapping my trembling body
in a gentle embrace.

​

Barely perceptible, the milky-white sky opens, and it drizzles, but we are unperturbed. We sit
on a stinging bench and stare silently at the glistening toes of our wet boots as they tread the
snowy ground before us. Somewhere in the distance, expensive hand-painted plates clink,
light pages of newspapers crinkle in the city breeze, the iron bells of a dilapidated church
jingle, and a delicious golden-skinned duck in a warm oven is being prepared. I feel him
move beside me, and I put my head down. He sways back and forth with folded arms while
tiny particles of dripping snow fall on his knitted flame-red Angora sweater. I slip my thin
arms out of my expensive loden-lined coat and place them on his back. He looks me in the
eye. My tongue curls and confesses at seeing his delicately delineated perfect face. It humbly
admits the truth it has admitted so many times before and hopes. It hopes that, for once, its
love's answer will not be a lie. But once again, he replies, I love you too. I-love-you. He
utters this gracious lie delicately. The first syllable is trust, the second is passion, and the
third is loyalty. He feels none of these, yet he testifies to them. He savours the shape of the
voice. First bitter, then sour, then finally swallowed. After all, it's only one word. But for me,
it's so much more: I put myself in his hands.

​

Maybe that's not how it all happened. I've been sick for a while now; my lungs are weak from
the January freeze. Every time I close my eyes, I try to remember our last story. Embellish it,
add to it, rearrange it, change it. Maybe one day I'll grind it to perfection, and that word won't
ring so false. Or the memory will turn yellow, like old letterhead, and no longer matter. Or
maybe ‘‘I love you’’ will become just another fluffy word to be whispered in the harsh
winter, bored, picked up by the wind, carried far away, across the world, to where it means
nothing.

Far from the eager, greedy arms of my soul.

Blanka Pillár is an eighteen-year-old writer from Budapest, Hungary. She has a never-ending love for creating and an ever-lasting passion for learning. She has won several national competitions and has been an editor-in-chief of her high school’s prestigious newspaper, Eötvös Diák. Today, she is not throwing away her shot.