The alarm clock rang insistently, chopping her dreams. Lydia awoke, slowly remembering: she had to wake up Nikola, to take his brother to the airport for an early plane home. She and Nikola had been married for three months now and this was the first time she ever met his only brother, because he had been in the Navy at the time of their wedding.
Nikola had often talked about his younger brother, though. "Milan is a dreamer, if I ever knew one. We don't have anybody like him in our family." I wish you were a dreamer, too -- Lydia thought but said nothing. "He used to write poetry all the time while we were at school. He'd use any paper he could get hold of, but he never kept those poems, nor cared to publish them. He could've made some money if he had. But, Milan doesn't care about money, either." You, on the other hand -- Lydia thought -- value it more than it deserves. As if hearing her thoughts, Nick went on, "He always was impractical, even when we were children. Always cared for moonshine and fiddlesticks rather than practical, real life.
You'd be astounded how many long poems he knows by heart: Shakespeare and such. But, we will have to see yet how he will earn a living."
"It seems, I should've married him," Lydia snapped. Nikola laughed as if it were the best joke he had ever heard. He even proudly retold it to some friends. Lydia was exasperated: she didn't see what he was proud of. She certainly didn't pay him a compliment.
But, that's him. He never really understood her anyway.
She loved poetry, too, cried in the movies, and was rather careless with money. "Somebody needs to make a living and save for the rainy day," Nikola would usually say in his serious, reasonable way.
And that would be the end of the conversation. But she hated it all, more and more: his serious, boring ways, his rationalization of everything.
When she first saw her brother-in-law at the door, the other day, smiling as if he had a beautiful secret that he may share with the world any minute, something hit her powerfully right in the middle of her chest. He was so attractive, so lovable. She felt comfortable with him right from the start. In fact, she felt closer to him than to the man she had married.
Now, as she was putting on her dressing gown and searching for her slippers under the bed, she watched her husband at that ungodly hour. On his back (he always slept on his back; that's why he always snored, she was sure.) He had that strangely benign expression on his face, even in his sleep, the look of a man with a clean conscience. She hated it. "Boring, dull, predictable," she whispered to herself, still unable to find the slipper.
Finally, she got up dispirited, hit the chair (that he must have stupidly left in the middle of the room) and tiptoed to the guest bedroom. That room, like their bedroom, was lit by the flashing hotel signs across the street, off and on, off and on. For a moment, she watched her brother-in-law's sleeping face lit by the red lights, then darkened, then lit again adding some secret, new expression to his face...
He must have been too warm, because all the sheets and covers were on the floor in a mess, his pajamas unbuttoned, disclosing his hairy chest evenly rising in deep sleep. His curly hair was a mess, giving him an innocent, vulnerable look. She craved to caress him like a lost child, and only dared to touch his hair, gently, very gently. He moved in his sleep, and she blushed deeply, quickly leaving the room, like a thief.
Back in the bedroom, her husband was still asleep, now turned on the side. She shook him vigorously, "Wake up. Didn't you hear the alarm clock?" -- Then she went out to the balcony.
Outside, the night was peaceful and starry. Just an ordinary night. Perhaps, out there, in the far-off horizon, the storm was rising.