A love trap

A short story; fiction

“Don’t look too deep into those angel eyes”. She knew this ABBA song very well and she agreed with this statement. But she still did it. She looked much too deep into … a married man’s eyes. Into a happily married man’s eyes.

Could a happily married man be classified as an angel? She definitely thought that of him back then. And not only because of his very blue eyes. And in spite of his black mustache not matching his hair.

It happened at a conference. She was alone there, representing her department. And she was bored walking alone around the exhibition hall during a break between the sessions. She saw some interestingly looking diagrams and put some stupid, as it came out, questions to the man at the booth. They both chuckled at her questions, especially as she realized that the answer was written in big letters above the diagrams.

A small talk ignited. Then they happened to sit side by side at lunch. And when another exhibitor suggested driving those to their hotels who hadn’t had a car with them, she found herself sitting with the blue-eyed mustached angel in the same car. They discussed the importance of years spent in research for the quality of the research. He said something. She turned to face him to say that she totally agreed and looked him in the eye. But longer than she should have done. Much, much longer than it would have been safe. For the whole nanosecond longer. Long enough for her heart to make a leap.

It would probably not be that important if he wouldn’t have been trapped by her eyes. They were dangerously green and much too big to escape them.

Unbeknownst to them they started saying everything that could interest the other. They were so genuinely interested in each other, that they didn’t quite noticed how they were getting their hearts entangled in one another.

He told her about his wonderful wife and his five children. She told him where she came from and about her family.

They agreed to meet for breakfast next day in her hotel.

In the morning, she put on her best clothes she had with her and she was almost ten minutes too early when she stepped into the elevator that headed down. She was so pleasantly excited and couldn’t wait to see him. She was picturing him happily smiling at her.

And then she heard a voice. A voice in hear head. “What on earth are you doing? He is married! He has five children! Five! He definitely sounds like a happily married man! And now you meet him alone for breakfast! Why don’t you have breakfast at the conference premises as on the other days? Is it a date? Is it?!”

But it was too late. The elevator’s door opened and there he was. Also too early. Also with a troubled face and pacing there and back in front of the elevator and stopping to look at her as soon as she looked at him.

They went into the breakfast room without exchanging as little as a “hello”.

After having their meals set in front of them and after a few timid sips and bites, he started the heavy talk:

“I talked to my wife yesterday on the phone and told her about my day and about you. I should have sounded quite excited about you because after a while she said: ‘Be careful, you sound like someone falling in love’.” After a little pause, he added: “She is right; you’ve ignited a sparkle of a feeling similar to one when I first started dating my wife.”

She couldn’t say anything. She was shocked. She was overwhelmed. And she was a tiny bit happy. No. She was very happy to have fallen for a man who has fallen for her.

But she shouldn’t have. She knew it. As in confirmation of her thoughts he said: “I love my wife and I will never leave her and my children. You should know that. But after that look yesterday I feel that if we part, then I will betray you.”

She could not look at him. She felt as someone accused of causing irreparable injury. And she knew that she was both innocent and guilty.

Then he said: “Let’s skip the conference today and go into the city”. She nodded. They had a pizza together, chatted away avoiding mentioning in any way him not being free. They held hands.

And then they came back to her hotel. He stepped into the elevator with her and accompanied her to her room. She didn’t stop him when he entered the room. She didn’t stop him when he kissed her. It was a bitter-sweet kiss. And before he said it she knew the exact words: “I want you so much! If you want it, I will sleep with you. This one time.”

But before they were destroyed by this fire, a helpful hand in form of her own voice came and saved them both: “No. That must never happen. Please, go.”

He kissed her again, more gently this time and by that more painfully so. He looked the last time into her eyes and left.

It was still quite early in the afternoon. So she pulled the curtains closed, set on her bed, hugged a pillow, tasted her own lips and remembered the touch of his tongue on hers.

And then she cried for many hours until she has fallen asleep. But it was not a heavy sleep as she expected. In the morning she knew that she has barely escaped a dangerous trap.

0 thoughts on “A love trap

  1. Good story! Who hasn’t walked through dangerous territory? Most of us will relate to this
    tale. You do have the “touch”!
    Thank you for writing, and in return, I will tell you that I am a senior citizen (almost 76) and
    have always loved books, history and the English language. I have always lived in the U.S.
    western area, Calif., Arizona and Oregon.
    May you have sunny days and the time to write!

    1. Thank you very much, Marcy, for your comments, your support and warm words!
      And thank you very much for sharing some details about you. As you said in your comment to a post in this blog: “It’s good to have friends of all ages”. And I have very good friends starting with 2.5 years (my son), then schoolchildren (they are friend’s children, but we do interact separately sometimes), my 23 years old niece who is my best girlfriend along with her mother, my sister who is 8.5 years older than me, and then to my mother-in-law and my father-in-law, my mother, and my grand-parents-in-law who are over 80, and many other friends of many different ages.
      I am glad I found a friend in you. And we have at least the love for books and English language in common. I am not a native speaker, but I love reading and writing in English. I love languages in general and learn several, but English and German (both not being my mother tongue) are the main I read and write in.
      Sunny greetings to you from sunny Aalborg! (Nothern Denmark)
      P.S. I told my husband about you yesterday and said that now I have a friend on the West Coast and he answered: “Oh, this is close by. Just an hour away.” 😉 We live in the middle of Nothern Jutland and the west coast (as well as the east coast) here is about one hour drive away. I loved this joke.

  2. Hello again, from the far away West Coast!
    Today, I attended my weekly writer group session. Each person is given 7 minutes to read a story about their life.
    My German friend is telling about moving to London after WWII, to be a mother’s helper.
    My friend from Hawaii is sharing her island life as a shop owner, dealing with tourists.
    As others read their stories, it sparks memory and I usually come home and write my
    stories.
    I wish we were just an hour away, I would come to your town and we would meet for coffee and “Danish”!

    1. Dear Marcy, thank you for sharing your experience in your writer group sessions. You actually gave me an idea to organize such a group here. I have already started a meetup called Say YES to your life! inspried by other such groups all over the world, but I could also organize one on writing.
      I recently read somewhere that every one of us is a unique author and only we can tell our stories, and if I would be there in your writer group with you, then the story from the same persons would ignite in me completely different things than in you. And this I find fascinating, amazing and encouraging.
      Not a long time ago I was reading like crazy and not quite relaxed and enjoying what I was reading. Then after starting to write myself I realized what it was, I was trying to find a book that would respond to what I would have written. But this is impossible! And since I create my own, I enjoy the other authors more and more because I now read differently. I am curious of the tools and techniques they use and I am excited about applying these in my own way. Writing is a real blessing for me.
      Thank you, Marcy for sharing your writing adventure with me here and yes it would be great to be only one hour away and meet often for a coffee. But who knows, maybe we will manage one day to meet for one somewhere in the world. Until them I am sure that some of the cups of coffee that I will drink from now on will remind me of this chat with you. 🙂

  3. Vica, I am reading about Moldova, so interesting, I have so many questions.
    Did you learn more than one language in school? I only learned Spanish, and
    very little, at that. Are you from a city or rural area? I grew up in a farming area,
    mostly vegetables were grown, but we lived in a small town. My father had a
    grocery store, as well as farm equipment for hire.

    1. Thank you for asking about Moldova, Marcy! My father was an orphan of the World War II and he didn’t know his parents. But he always considered himself Moldovan. My mother grew up with Romanian language (Moldovan is just a dialect of it). But in Soviet Union it was better for the job perspective and success in life in general to speak Russian well. My mother had some challenges with her Moldovan (Romanian) accent in Russian, so my parents decided to send both my sister and me to Russian kindergarten and school. Our studies at the University were also in Russian. We learnt Romanian in school, but more as a foreign language, similar to the way we learned English at that time. So my grammar in Romanian was quite poor and my Russian was better than my Mother tongue. I talk Romanian to my mom now, with my sister and my niece I mix Romanian with English 🙂 and sometimes Danish, and my Russian is confined to reading books and messages from my friends in Facebook.
      I was born and grew up in the capital of Moldova, Chisinau, but we spent our time often in Corjova, where my mother grew up, in Cricova (where the biggest wine cellar in Moldova is situated), and in Vadu-lui-Voda where one of my great-aunts used to live. All of these are villages of various sizes. Although Cricova is now considered a small town. But in general, I am more a big town girl. 😉
      Thank you for sharing, Marcy, and for your interest in Moldova.

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