When we sat down and faced each other, I feel embarrassed to say that in some way, she reminded me of my mother. She had a certain strength about her, a quality of goodness that just instantly reminded me of my mum. But she wasn’t my mum. I was so drawn to her that I didn’t want to look away. The sun was setting over the entire sea, and while I was pretending to look at it, I was looking at her, how the sun was shining on her face, making it glow with a warmth that I could feel in my heart, and the loveliness that seemed to be inside of her was now pouring out of me.
So when we went back to my room, it was like my world became obliterated by what was happening. I couldn’t believe that she, of all women, would be willing to sleep with me. But she did. It was wonderful, animalistically wonderful, sensually wonderful, emotionally, even spiritually wonderful. I never knew sex could be spiritual. We were one, completely one, and the next day when I woke up, I felt like I could die happy. But she wasn’t there next to me. I imagined seeing her beautiful face asleep on the pillow as I turned to see her. But she was gone. My door was open, and my clothes were still thrown about the place. And what was strange, completely unexpected, was that I didn’t feel as if my heart was being pulled apart. I somehow completely accepted that she wasn’t there at that moment. I felt immense, vast, alive and empty all at the same time, not needing her as I thought I would do. Then she walked back in, with some food and drinks for us, and we ate and drank and cuddled and laughed in bed, looking out at the sea through our window.
“You want to know something?” she said to me, after it had been quiet for a while.
I could hear the sea, and some children playing and laughing far away.
“I think I love you,” she said.
“That’s weird.” I said, leaving a bit of a pause. “I think I love you, too.”
And soon, rather recklessly and blindly, we got married. In private. And she came to live with me in England, where everything began to change.