Candid Dreams of a Lesbian

I wake up and instantly remember that it’s Monday. Which means that the department’s head will make her round today. Clearly, this is not a good start of the day — as she cavils about the smallest of things. At the same time she manages to not notice the fact that we haven’t been paid for three months. I make a wish — I wish that the ambulance won’t bring very sick people early in the morning. And I quickly get ready for my duty. On my way out, I glance at the walls in the corridor and think that I never have time to paint them.

It is a fifteen minutes’ walk to the hospital, so on my way I happily recall the weekend. It was beautiful! We did everything together: we cooked, cleaned, picked up apples in a desolate garden, baked a big pile of delicious pasties, we talked a lot and laughed even more. We didn’t go anywhere but it’s nothing, it’s fine to be at home.

Nurses share their impressions of the weekend. For a few seconds I imagine that I can tell about my weekend as well — that I can treat them with my pasties, retell my yesterday’s joke, brag that I learned to cut vegetables like a chef. But I can’t.

An usual work day begins: I distribute pills, put patients on drips, measure their blood pressure, listen to them, comfort them, sympathize with them. During the day I take a seat only once and for only ten minutes. For lunch I quickly eat fish that we cooked together. I think of you once again, my heart gets filled with warmth and my hospital despair abates.

Patients have visitors. I try to imagine their stories, guess the relationship between a patient and a visitor. And I think about my stuff again — would you be able to come and sit at my bed if I get sick? What will you tell your boss, asking for a day off?

A day comes to an end very fast. When I enter the yard near our building, the neighbors on a bench intentionally lapse into silence and turn away. Aunt Katia poignantly asks whether I think that my sister has been staying at my place for too long. “She is not my sister, she is my beloved,” I tell her. I pronounce it with pride but I say it only in my head. In reality, I mutter a quick “aha” and quickly open the front door.

My mum calls me and a usual evening session of reprimanding is open: what I am thinking about, the clock does tick-tock, nobody will need me later, all my classmates are already married and have children, I am the only one “sitting and waiting.” I agree with every word she says and say that I am just not ready yet. In my mind I am trying to estimate for how many years I will have to listen to this before I can start saying that I am too old and nobody will marry me.

This is how we live together, you and I, for already three years. We hide, keep silence, and lie. Some day, maybe, I will tell my parents and colleagues about you. Some day, maybe, we will be able to walk in the streets, holding our hands. For now, these are just dreams. My candid dreams.