Kinder Surprise
"Oh, I love these. We used to get them when we were kids."
Unless you allow spontaneity to run your life, your days usually take on unique characteristics. Monday becomes the meeting day, Tuesday is yoga day, and Wednesday is nervous breakdown day. Or something to that effect. While our weekdays will differ considerably depending on our environment and/or work commitments, Sundays have a more universal character. Sundays are for sleep, strolls and now and again, surprises.
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Sundays depend on long walks and wandering conversations. They need it like Friday nights need drinks, music, and laughter. Or Monday mornings need strong coffee, meetings, and a freshly washed shirt.
Some people take their Sunday walks seriously, planning to explore uncharted paths. We aren't an uncharted path pair, but you could call us the adventurous types if adventure only came in two shades of grey.
"Left or right?" She asks once we open the door to the world.
"Right," I say because we walked left last week.
Lush green parks await us in either direction. Going left means walking a little less, maybe six kilometres instead of eight. But the distance is inconsequential. By the time we start our conversation, our steps lose their numeracy. They just become steps, neither counted nor measured. Just another witness along the way, listening to our stories as we pass by. Today has been typical of this part of the world at this time of the year, a patchwork of persistent rain, clouded skies, and summer rays. But they don't like to exist together. Instead, one waits until the other has finished. Rain becomes clouds, and clouds become sunny rays. I’m already unbuttoning the button-up I slipped over my T-shirt.
"It’s so nice now," she says, grabbing my arm and squeezing it like I had a hand in brightening the sky.
"It is," I reply, resting my head on hers. "See, summer here isn't totally miserable."
"Sure, when it's like this. But it did rain all morning," I smile. Has she forgotten our morning listening to the rain descend in straight lines? Nothing is more seductive than that kind of rain. The type that slaps the paved roads and orange roofs, drumming out a beat. Does she not remember the humidity, the pillow under her hips or the kisses along her neck.
"I quite like morning rain," I reply.
"I bet you do," she remembers, I think. The park’s busy when we reach it; a group of kids are playing football, using a pair of trees hundreds of years old as posts and a dad as their keeper. A group of five moves through yoga positions, watched contently by another group moving through cigarettes on a bench a few meters away.
"Far left is hot," she whispers as we step closer. She isn’t wrong. Male or female, she has a good eye for spotting beauty. I wonder if they mind our eyes or those of the smoking bench sitters. I suppose if you don't want people looking at your ass while you're performing downward dog, you’d practice your poses somewhere with four walls.
"The one next to her isn't bad either," I reply, and she glances over her shoulder as we walk past. I’m unsure what I expected from a relationship, but checking out women in the park together wasn't high on the list. Perhaps it’s just us, but I can't imagine we’re that special. An elderly couple is heading towards us. One man is tall, long-necked and bald. The other is shorter and has a beer belly but is dressed immaculately in a linen suit. The shorter one is gripping his tall companion's arm with one hand and a cane in the other. Both glance over our shoulders and whisper to one another with a sense of mischief.
"Afternoon," I say as we step past each other.
"Afternoon," the taller one replies with curled lips.
There’s a shout behind us. One of the kids thinks he has scored. But although the ancient trees make good posts, they leave the crossbar to the imagination. The dad is contesting.
"That was way over the bar," he shouts back. A road splits the park in two. The first installment is a small patch of grass with a few old oaks casting shade for picnics, football, and yoga. But the rest stretches further, following the winding path, snaking parallel to the river. Picnics exist here too, but there’s no space for football and very little for yoga. The bank is steep, and some trees lining it lean aggressively over the river. They're stealing a glimpse of their reflection in the calm water; one light push might be enough to send them in. A steady flow of boats drifts alongside, each offering a different experience.
"One day, when we have money, it would be nice to get a boat."
"Yeah, it would be. Something small but finished well. Leather seats, a fridge, a table in the middle."
"It doesn't even have to be that fancy. If it can fit five or six people comfortably, that's enough. Imagine having people come and visit, and we can take them out on the boat," she says, floating into a daydream.
"We could have dinner parties on it," I suggest.
"Yeah, that would be so nice."
"Do you think you’re allowed to barbecue on a boat?" I ask.
"No idea. I've never seen someone doing it. But surely, if you have the right stuff, there's no reason not to."
"Maybe you have to be moored up?"
"Yeah, probably."
A gust of wind carries the scent of smoke and meat to us, and we’re both quiet, imagining the scene in all its detail. Wine’s flowing, jokes flying, water splashing.
"I think I'd prefer to get a proper sailing boat. Like one of those catamarans."
"But you can't sail, can you? We’d be screwed on the sea," she says, abandoning her imagination.
"Obviously, I’d learn how to sail beforehand. But imagine sailing around the Med or up the Croatian coast with a few friends."
"Yeah, that would be lush too. Way more expensive, though."
"True."
We return to our daydreams. Her hand's in mine and I can tell she’s happy with the vision. It’s lightening her heart, filling her with hope and optimism. We’ve touched upon something she can imagine actually existing. At least one day. I’m trying to feel my adventure the way she is, but I can’t. My catamaran has capsized, dumping me back on the gravel path we’re walking along. On the grass bank between us and the river, a collection of bodies, a group of girls sunbathing with headphones, a couple reading, splitting a few bites, and in front of them, a woman sits alone, trying to read but getting distracted. We’ve twisted left, still following the river and now the scent of smoke and meat has left us, replaced by fresh air and pollen.
"Do you want kids?" She asks out of nowhere. I’m not opposed to the question, even in the early stages of a relationship. But the randomness catches me off guard.
"Eeerr," I start unconvincingly.
"That’s a no, then."
"No, I just didn’t expect you to ask that. I guess I do, but a kid is different from a boat. You don't get to enjoy the good parts and leave the tedious maintenance until you have time."
"Yeah, well, no shit."
"Do you want kids?" I ask, giving myself time to think about a better answer.
"Some days I do, and on others I just want it to rain in the morning."
"I know what you mean. I can never decide if it is me who wants kids or if it is everything around me telling me I should have them."
"You think that! It’s twice as confusing for us. My sister’s thirty-three, and all she hears at family gatherings is, ‘When are you having kids? You know you don’t have that long left?’ If I was her, I would scream after every meal."
"Does she want them?" I ask as a squirrel darts in front of us and scurries up a tree. I follow it until I see its fluffy tail disappear into the leafy canopy.
"She does, but she hasn’t got anyone to have them with. She’s always been one to put her career first."
"But I guess she has more time than she thinks. These days they can do some wild stuff."
"That’s true," she says, then is silent for a few steps. I don't count how many.
"But it’s always in the back of your mind, you know," I don’t. “Every birthday after your twenty-fifth, you start wondering."
"And you?"
"Me what?"
"Are you wondering?"
"Sometimes. But I have a few friends who've already got them, and they look tired. I never see them anymore, and when I do, all they want to do is check in on their babies. It’s almost like you have to decide: Life or baby. No more late-night gym, Sunday mornings listening to the rain, or peaceful walks in the park."
The last words leave her mouth, and a baby starts crying. Maybe he doesn't agree. We turn along another bend and see parents sitting on a bench, trying to calm their newborn. I feel her grip around my arm; she's squeezing again. Look, it says.
"But I guess they’re only babies for a little while," I start once we're out of earshot.
"What I look forward to the most is taking them to football practice or piano lessons. Or having deep chats in the car on our way to their university dorm."
"I know, that’s the part I dream about the most. But for me, it’s teaching them how to bake like my mother taught me. I’d have a wooden stall so she could reach the counter, and I’d let her lick the whisk after we mixed the batter. It’s just so hard to make that decision... you know what I mean."
"I know."
"Like, so many people just pop kids out without thinking about it. I know people that had two before they reached twenty-five. And I get it, I do. In a way, I’d like to do it now and be a young mum. But at the same time, I want to have enough money to never worry. I want to live the life I want to live. Is that selfish?"
"I don’t think so. How can it be selfish if you’re talking about something hypothetical? It only becomes selfish if you have a kid and then decide, ‘Actually, this isn’t for me, I want to live my own life.’"
"I know."
Our words have carried us over halfway. We’ve crossed a bridge and are heading home following the same river but from the other side. The stream of boats is still steady, but now they’re joined by people swimming along the fringes, jumping in from leaning trees and stand-up paddlers with stiff legs and wobbling boards.
"Have you ever tried it?" I ask, nodding at the man now on his knees.
"Once. There’s a lake near my hometown. It’s really pretty, with a forest circling the shore. I’ll take you if you ever come and visit. In the summer, we would go all the time. They have those pedalos with the slides, and in the last few years, they've added paddle boards too. But it’s easy there. The water is almost like a mirror."
"I tried it once in Greece. But that was in the sea. I thought it was a calm day, but the swells get you. I spent more time in the water than I did on the board."
"Maybe we should try it together," she says, and I sense the competitiveness that comes with three brothers and an older sister.
"You think you’ll be better?"
"I have no doubt."
We’re back on the bend with smoke and meat in the air, and my stomach rumbles. This morning was great, romantic and relaxing. But not sustaining, and the steps have only exacerbated my hunger.
"What should we have for lunch?" I ask.
"Lunch? It’s almost five," she replies.
"Okay then, what do you want to eat? I’m starving."
"Same. I don’t know. Let’s stop at the shop on the way home."
We’re both quiet the rest of the way, consumed by the sudden onset of our hunger. Although we share a few observations. 'Oh, that’s a nice boat', or 'Look at those flowers', 'Watch out for the puddle'. Our stomachs growl at each other like a pair of unsociable dogs. We cross the road again and rejoin the small patch of lawn with the footballers and yogis. The latter are no longer posing but drinking tea in a circle. I wonder whether they’re discussing the type of marine craft they want to own or how many kids they want running around. The shop is a few hundred meters from my apartment, but you have to turn left at the door, so we pass under my balcony and carry on down the street. We’re lucky we’ve decided to come now; it’s Sunday, and everything will be closed within the hour. Today fortune doesn’t favour the brave but the frolicking. We pass a couple of rough-looking men with a bag bursting with plastic bottles and step into the welcoming air-conditioning.
"So," I say. "Got any ideas?"
"I have one, it’s easy and quick. Let's order pizza?"
"Not bad. So what do we need from here now?"
"Drinks and dessert?"
"Sure," I say, and we stroll to the bakery. There are two slices of apple pie with an end-of-the-day discount, so we take them. Then we head to the drinks aisle. I take a kombucha, and she picks up a glass bottle of Coca-Cola.
"The glass makes them so much better," she says, and I agree, returning my kombucha for a Coke. The checkouts are all busy, but we pick one with the youngest line, and before you know it, we're next. I’ve always admired whoever decided to place some extra treats right by the tills. You can do all you want to avoid them when you’re walking up and down the aisles. But, right when you think you’ve avoided temptation, here they are, staring at you one last time.
"Oh, I love these. We used to get them when we were kids," she says, picking up a handful of Kinder Eggs.
"Do you like the chocolate?" I ask. From what I remember, the tiny toy waiting inside the egg was always the best part.
"It’s my favourite."
We pay and head home, but we don't make it further than a few meters when she pauses, disappearing behind me. I take a step before I turn around to see what’s happened.
"Would you like one?" She's asking a fragile-looking lady with skin made of leather.
"Oh, lovely, thanks, dear. I knew you had a kind face."
"Thank you, and you’re welcome."
"I love your necklace," the lady says, pointing at her neckline. For as long as I've known her, she's worn this necklace. It’s a simple gold chain with a pretty globe pendant. “I feel sorry for your generation. We fucked it up for you all,” she says, like a lady who lets the failures of others weigh heavy on her mind.
"Oh, you didn’t," she say, and I feel for her. "People like you aren’t to blame," she adds, and the lady’s face brightens a little.
"You’re kind people," she says, “have a good evening.”
"You too," we say and go home to order pizza.
Love, Luke