Young Writers Society

For Saturn: A Project in Sentimental Prose. Used this as my muse. 

The chilly coastal air bit at Özlem’s nose, cheeks, and fingers as he walked aimlessly down the street. Cars inched along next to him and the taxi drivers hollered at each other, eager to fill their backseats with customers not going far. Akmerkez was lit up in gold and white and the very tops of its buildings scraped the sky, joining the stars and airplanes and satellites that were always in the know. But Özlem was not interested in everything that was going on around him; his eyes were down, hands stuffed in front pockets, and his thin lips were twisted into an uncomfortable frown. The city could have easily been thousands of kilometres away.

Ara troubled him. When he had left America to come spend the break back home, she had joined him at the airport to wish him safe travels, yet there was some underlying reason that the floppy-haired boy could not quite place. Her black eyes had lacked the normal light they contained when she kissed him on both cheeks, ruffled his hair and said Teşekkür ederim for everything, aşkım. My love, she had called him, and yet there was no love in her tone or her grating smile, but a care so bereft of stronger feelings that it was condescending. In a way, he had been happy to escape onto the airplane, where his thoughts were confined for nine hours to an aisle seat next to a fat man. But, of course, his mind whirled back to Ara as soon as he had landed and everything came back to him: that was the place where they had bought pastries before their flight, there he had waited for her as she brushed her hair in the WC, and over that way they had walked hand in hand, two people with not a care in the world except for each other.

(Un)clearly, those days were long gone, at least for Ara. He wished she had spoken the words so he didn’t feel like he was limboing in space. He hadn’t known what to say when Baba picked him up and asked how she was. Really loving New York was what he had said dully as he averted his eyes from his father’s, not wanting to risk any emasculating emotion. He said the same day after day as relatives pried for information. But now it was too much so he politely excused himself from the evening smoking session and decided to go for a walk. Much like the rest of his thoughts, there was no particular direction in mind. He might even unwillingly venture down to the Bosphorus, in spite of the aggressively territorial strays that frequented those parts. He didn’t care anymore. All he wanted was Ara.

He kicked some trash from the sidewalk onto the street and it bumped like a tumbleweed between the taxis. Then suddenly there was Ara, her long brown hair waving in the night breeze, her eyes alight in the street lamps. She smiled her thin smile, allowing only the littlest of white to show between her lips, and held out an olive hand. It was almost as if she whispered, Come. It was hopeless; Özlem was infatuated. He stepped off the curb and into the nomadic space between the sidewalk and the crazy road. Closer. A Volkswagen zipped by, nearly brushing Özlem’s jacket by mere centimetres. He stretched out his own hand, calloused over the years, and let it slip into Ara’s own. Her petite fingers interlocked in his. Everything felt so complete, normal, as it should be, and yet there was still something that resisted in the air between them. It’s okay, don’t worry, breathed Ara. Follow me.

Holding on tightly, they braved the wild traffic lanes. In spite of the fact that they seemed to move in a sort of graceful slow-motion, they dashed between aggressive drivers like articulate figure skaters. The entire time, Ara led them as if she knew best although deep down Özlem knew that he was more intuitive when it came to things like this, but this was not enough to betray reality to him. He followed, sheep-like, the girl that was always so close but really so far.

Soon, they were standing atop the wall along the promenade, looking out over the black, abyssal Bosphorus waters. Ara’s charcoal eyes looked through lashes up at Özlem, almost daring him to do what was both on their minds.

I would swim from Beşiktaş to Yeşilköy just for you, he had murmured in her ear in the wee hours of the morning, when even the moonlight streaming through gauzy curtains made their eyes ache. Her eyelashes had flickered softly against his upper cheekbone and she planted the softest kiss on his lips. And now, a year later, these words were evidently not forgotten, but instead of being laced with love like before, there was a shadow to them now and there was no butterfly kiss waiting from Ara.

Still, he wanted her. He took off his shoes and socks, which he rolled into a ball, and then he folded his leather jacket, placing it on the stone wall. Next, the watch came off and then jeans were stripped down. The hair on Özlem’s legs stood on end as it met with the December air, but that was not enough to stop him from continuing to remove his shirt. Now, he stood nearly nude in black briefs, Ara’s presence prodding him incessantly to go, dive, swim. He looked down into the water, wondering what awaited him there. Maybe there was some sea monster that lived on from Roman times that would swallow him whole? Perhaps a seductive siren would claim his heart and remove him forever to the Maiden’s Tower? Özlem was awash with trepidation and fear in its purest form.

And then, only seconds before plunging into the freezing water below, someone approached. They grabbed Özlem by the waist, hoisting him from the wall, and he fell slowly to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Ara seemed to vanish in wisps into the night, her eyes and mouth wide with shock. He turned to his saviour, looking deeply into melting, brown irises.

“My name is Yakinda.” The eyes creased with genuine concern. “Are you okay?”

Özlem nodded very slowly. “Teşekkür ederim, aşkım. For everything.” And then he closed his eyes because Yakinda’s breath was close, alive, and true.