Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about myself and my life. And I must admit, I’m not pleased with the results of this reflection. Yes, I’ve achieved a great deal. But I’m missing the most important thing—a family.
I never thought I’d suffer from loneliness. In fact, until today, I hadn’t even admitted it to myself. I’ve always considered myself an emancipated woman. A feminist. But lately, when I look around, it seems like everyone around me is part of a young family with small children. Wait! Am I jealous? Come on, girlfriend, let’s analyze your life once and for all. I’m 30 years old, and there’s no room for wild passions anymore. At this age, you realize that the idyll of love, the invincibility of feelings, is impossible. But… I still want them so badly! I still do. When I was 15, I felt like no one understood me, like the whole world had abandoned me. That’s when I first experienced loneliness. I cried because I was alone. And I believed I had a right to love.
I remember one time, a friend from school, my classmate, pulled me out of that state. She just showed up during one of my bouts of gloom and dragged me out for a walk. She seemed like a kind fairy back then. But who will dry my tears of loneliness now?
I’m over 30, and I no longer believe in kind fairies. Nor do I believe in love until the grave. At this age, love is cautious, calculated. You mostly want to take, and giving feels like a sacrifice. Cynicism doesn’t surprise me anymore. Suppose I sleep with my best friend’s husband, and I tell him, “You better keep your mouth shut.” And he, the fool, sprawls out, stretching contentedly, and says dreamily, “Mmm… Why don’t people fly?” I look at him condescendingly, wanting to say, “Those born to crawl can’t fly.” Idiot! And my friend lives with him and sings his praises! She looks down on me: still no husband, no kids… And yet, I’ve always had plenty of admirers!
How many people have I underestimated, misunderstood, not listened to, not truly seen! Perhaps, young, proud, and unapproachable, I walked past my true love. And now I wouldn’t be facing this heavy, shameful loneliness. Where are they now, those burning gazes, those warm hands of the boys who loved me?
Cynicism in my soul coexists with sentimentality. I melt when I see young couples with strollers, but I also gloat when I witness spouses arguing. Jealous? No, no, and no! I’ve never suffered from that. Getting old? It’s a bit early for that. Fewer admirers? Yes. Because my beauty has faded? No.
I’ve simply become wiser about life, love, and men. I’ve grown more selective in my interactions: this one’s boring to talk to, that one’s bad in bed, and the other’s a womanizer. I have no desire to settle.
I still long for tender kisses, passionate embraces, and confessions, but relationships without emotional and spiritual closeness are impossible for me. But where do I find that person?
Who do I have in my arsenal now? A perpetual boy at 40, languishing in a mediocre research institute, fond of saying, “Landau, like me, was a theoretical physicist.” An artist who, at gallery openings, steals leftovers and half-empty wine bottles during the buffet. A penniless photographer with a bad temper, but a polyglot. No thanks. I have no desire to share a marital bed with any of them, raise children, argue over trivialities, only to make up passionately later. What, was it for one of them that I was always a straight-A student, graduated university with honors, and started my own company?
“I love you!” Those words have been worn out by humanity. Now I want someone who says them sincerely, from the heart, not some adventure-seeker who, while muttering those cherished words, frantically tears off your clothes, leaves sloppy kisses on your body, and writhes in fake convulsions at the sight of me.
I’m fed up with all that, and now I look every suitor in the eye, hoping to merge with one of them in the flame of a great feeling. But, alas, nothing like that happens.
The phone rang. It was my old friend, Vicky, a perpetual spinster and a whiner to boot. She’s endlessly searching for eternal love. A Turgenev-esque woman (she can’t be called a girl anymore) still lives by principles she once read in classic literature: “Die, but don’t kiss without love” and “You’re responsible for those you’ve tamed.” Though she hasn’t managed to tame anyone. Her appearance leaves much to be desired. A garden-variety look, you could say: a potato nose, skinny legs, and breasts resembling zucchini. But she’s incredibly smart. Sometimes I find her interesting.
— Vera, hi! I’m so bored! Let’s go somewhere.
— Vicky, not today! I just want to lie on the couch with a book all day.
— Ugh, you’re always like this. And I wanted to tell you… That guy called me again!
— Oh, Vicky, don’t start. I’ll call you back later.
I hung up with relief. She would’ve spent half an hour telling me about her silly fling with an elderly writer who tried to seduce her with poetry. Supposedly his own. Vicky naively went to his place, dreaming of candles and champagne. Instead, he sat her down at a grimy kitchen table covered with newspaper and pulled out a bottle of vodka.
— Here, Vicky, listen to what I whipped up recently, — he said. — “Never forget how the water rushes to the pier, how the air is taut, like a life preserver!”
— Oh, please! You picked the wrong one, — Vicky jumped up after listening. — How dare you! That’s Brodsky’s poetry! — she shouted at him.
— Well, look at that! You know your poetry, little chick! — he said, trying to grope her.
She broke free decisively and spent the rest of the evening sobbing in my kitchen. Still, Vicky didn’t rule out this loser as a prospect.
The idea of gossiping about some nobody didn’t appeal to me. No, I need to surround myself with successful, family-oriented people. Like Lena, my university friend. Married to a successful businessman. Everything’s great for them. She loves to lecture me: “You’ll regret this. Time’s ticking. Soon no one will even ask you to marry them.” I’ll call her now. Maybe she’ll come over, and we’ll have some coffee.
I dialed her number:
— Lena, hi! How’s it going?
— Oh, you won’t believe it, they removed Sasha’s appendix yesterday. And we’re sending Ira to camp. And Vova, Sasha, and I, once he’s discharged from the hospital, are planning to jet off to Turkey for 10 days!
— Sounds nice, — I mumbled. — Want to come over? I’m all alone here. Feeling blue.
— Oh, I’d love to, but I’m swamped with things to do.
Yeah, it’s always like that. Husband, kids, Turkey… I could afford to go to Turkey too. But what’s the point? Alone? Boring. With Vicky? She’s always broke. Tag along with Lena? I doubt she’d appreciate that. Why would they need me? They have a family.
I started thinking about my loneliness again. And such a wave of melancholy hit me! I remembered how, for years, I mocked my friends who, one by one, rushed to get married.
— Go ahead, go ahead! — I’d say sarcastically. — In a year, you’ll turn into hens, drowning in diapers and pots. No, no, no, that’s not for me! I’ll calmly build my career, have my fun, take my time… And then pick a husband who’s a better catch.
And what’s the result? It’s like Krylov’s fable: “The carefree dragonfly sang through the red summer, didn’t have time to look back, and winter came again.” No, that’s it. Enough. I won’t think about this anymore. After all, I’ve walked through life with dignity. I’ve built an amazing career. I have a fabulous apartment, a car, money. And finally, I have wonderful parents who’ve been together for 45 years and still coo like doves.
Yes, of course, they’re happy—they have each other. I pictured my lonely old age. It made me sad. “Darling,” I told myself, “let’s make a deal. Convince yourself that true love will happen in your life. And if it doesn’t, we’ll say you’re just a romantic soul. No more dwelling on your womanly fate.”
I got up from the couch decisively and headed to the kitchen. I brewed a strong tea. Cut a big slice of honey cake I bought yesterday at the nearby deli. “My waistline! Oh, forget it! I won’t worry about it anymore. Let them love me as I am!” Yes, delicious honey cake. By the way, I could bake one myself. I remember, in the dawn of my youth, during my first love with a university classmate, I wanted to impress him and baked a honey cake just as tasty. Oh, my old classmate! Where are you? We loved each other so much! We could’ve been a beautiful couple. How he begged me to marry him! And I, thoughtlessly, laughed in his face. “Marry? We haven’t had our fun yet. And anyway, first love rarely leads to marriage.” All I thought about was my career. Back then, I thought: what kind of husband would he be? He’d spend his life toiling at some factory as an engineer. Unambitious. But now I realize: he’s the only one I ever truly loved. Meanwhile, he became very successful, got married, had a son. Then I lost track of him. They say he lived in America for a few years, then came back.
At that moment, my phone rang. An unfamiliar number popped up.
— Hello, hi! — said a painfully familiar voice. — Listen, are you, by any chance, Ms. Sinitsyna?
— Oh, it’s you, my old classmate, Nick! — I squealed with joy. — I was just thinking about you. No, dear, I’m not Sinitsyna, you know that perfectly well. Where are you right now?
— I’m home. You see, I was looking for an excuse to call you. And then my secretary at work told me some Ms. Sinitsyna called. I thought, maybe it was you? Got married, changed your name… I think about you often. I miss you. I got divorced, you know. And I wanted to ask: if you’re not married, will you marry me?
— Nick, my dear, my love, come over right now! I’m waiting for you. I’m free for you…
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