“Why are you always leaving your things in the middle of the floor?” Haralambie asked. His girlfriend didn’t respond, so he stepped out of the kitchen into their living room.
He had left her writing up a statement for some of her recent sculptures. Now he found her stretching in her chair, her fingers woven through her long, wavy red hair. She gave him a rueful look and then settled back to get on with her work at the computer.
“Henriette, this is not just your studio. I live here too,” he said with a sigh. He crouched to gather her latest clay pieces, her sculpting utensils and plastic sheets, and took them to the balcony. Henriette helped, but halfheartedly. Her mind was on the blurb she was drafting that morning. She said as much to Haralambie, but her focus had already shifted, so when he returned to the kitchen to finish his coffee and smoke another cigarette, she put on a sixties rock ballad. Soon she was swaying gently to and fro, swinging her arms around gracefully, and twirling her hands up in the air—until she noticed Haralambie’s tall, slim body leaning against the doorframe.
“Is that what it’s like at those parties of yours?” he asked.
“No, but that’s how I like it sometimes,” she responded provocatively, a wicked smile on her lips.
Haralambie walked over to her, cupped her face in his hands, and planted a kiss on her lips. “You’re not sixteen anymore, Henriette, and you know it.”