Asia's Story

June the 3rd was the warmest, sweetest day of the year so far and happened also to be a Saturday. The streets of Krakow teemed with life. It was far enough into the summer that the people of this fair town knew precisely what they wanted to do with the time the sun had given them. A few weeks earlier, and they would have been at a loss, too used to the cool or the rain to have had the confidence in nature to go out exploring their environment; a few weeks later, and the oppressive heat of the real summer would have settled over the people like a blanket, and there would have been nothing to do but sweat and survive.

Many chose to spend this glorious day simply strolling, looking at all the other happy Krakovians on their day in the sun, perhaps lounging on one of the many benches that line the 'planty', the green area that encircles the old town centre, guarding it from encroaching modernity.

Others chose to lie in the sun on the banks of the Vistula, the level of the water high, the surface pierced in places by boats and pontoons. There was even a water-skier showing off his talents.

Kasia chose to go cycling. At first this might have seemed an odd choice. Given the rising temperatures and the glare of the sun, especially at midday, one would have thought cycling too energetic a preoccupation; but for Kasia it was perfect. The grass had grown tall along the little country paths that she knew existed even in this glistening metropolis, and when she built up a little speed on her bike she felt the cooling influence of the breeze blowing past her.

By two o'clock, however, her exertions had exhausted her, and she returned, a line of sweat stretching from the nape of her neck to the join of her buttocks. Her muscles ached, but it was a golden kind of pain she felt, around her calves and her thighs, that told of a rewarding day.

Immediately she reached her fourth-floor apartment she stripped out of her sports clothes and stepped straight into the shower. She kept the temperature low and the pressure high, the cold water massaging her tired shoulders, the tension in her body flowing out and down the drain with the water.

She dried, and put on the radio, the volume turned down low. She pulled out her sofa-bed, and rearranged the cushions on it so she could lie in comfort and read for a while. She opened the window and breathed in the air. Her home was far enough out of town, and high enough away from the street, that the air was fresh and alive with the scents of the country.

It was still only early in the afternoon, and Kasia felt that she could afford to spend some time on her own relaxing, before she was due to meet friends in the evening for a night of partying in town. She discarded her towel, letting it fall in a heap onto the floor. There would be time enough later to pick it up - now, the priority was finding something suitably light to wear in bed as she read.

She looked through her wardrobe for the most appropriate underwear, but soon gave up her search and decided that she would take advantage of living alone and simply stay naked. She picked up her tattered copy of the Milan Kundera she was reading, and with a nice large glass of chilled mineral water, she retired to her bed.

Within minutes the book was on the floor and Kasia was fast asleep, the day having overtaken her.

The short hours of the weekend passed, one by one. Kasia slept, her dreams a secret kept from all the world; we can only guess what they might have involved.

Outside, a small bird, caught in a sudden updraft, hovered for a moment, looking through the window at Kasia lying naked on her bed. Not knowing what it had found, and suddenly released from its cushion of air, the bird flapped its wings and was away; we, however, have the luxury of staying where we are, and for a few seconds we can take in the beauty lying before us.

Kasia's breathing was gentle. Her small breasts, neat and firm, rose and fell langorously, her nipples erect, an effect the chill of the breeze had produced one can only assume for our benefit as her observers. She smiled suddenly, a cute little smile that seemed to suggest that, yes, she knew we were watching her sleep, and yes, she enjoyed being watched. As her eyelids are closed, we cannot tell the colour of her eyes, but we can say with certainty that they are beautiful, because a woman with a beautiful face always has beautiful eyes, and Kasia is without a doubt a beautiful woman. What we cannot tell, but can choose to imagine, is whether those eyes are illuminated by hope and optimism, or if they are coloured by a maudlin disposition. One hopes it is more the former than the latter.

Her blond hair had drawn the attention of many a man - and woman - when she had been out cycling. Then, it seemed to attract the full glow of the summer sun; miraculously, one could say, it had lost none of its lustre, even though the sun was beginning now to head homewards, and would soon be gone from the sky; even in the evening, or the night, there would still be a glow to Kasia's hair that seemed to defy the laws of logic.

Her breathing was regular and soft. Her mouth, with her thin, pale lips, was closed, yet her nostrils never flared. Here, then, is a woman who is always in her element, even if she thinks otherwise: even breathing when asleep is done with grace and modesty.

Her skin appeared soft and supple in the afternoon light, and it is perfectly reasonable to assume that its touch would be heavenly. Sadly, the only presence in Kasia's company was the incorporeal air, and even the motes of dust it carried that landed on her were sad to think that they lacked fingertips that could run from her breasts to her navel and beyond.

Beyond... beyond lay a small delta of blond hair, a few shades darker than that upon her crown; this delta of venus, this arrow pointing subtly down, gave onto her glorious womanhood, her special area, or as your gracious author prefers it, her pussy. Her pussy, which for so long had gone untouched by the hands of man; this, in and of itself, was a crime of the highest order. What world is this in which there is no man deserving of exploring Kasia's beautiful, graceful, serene pussy? No fingers here have graced the tuft of hair, worked their way down to her protruding clitoris, and run along the lips of that fair entrance to delight, her pussy. Oh to imagine the sensation one would have of even touching for an instant any little part of her there! Oh what glory there would be for the man whose body was granted that hallowed destiny, to touch Kasia and give her pleasure! Only grim history knew of the last man, his name long forgotten, who had placed the palm of his hand first on Kasia's delicate tummy, and had had the nerve to slowly reach down, through the bush of her pubic hair, past the clitoris, and into the wetness of her welcoming pussy.

But enough of these wanderings. We have only time to observe the smoothness and perfection of Kasia's legs, her dimpled knees and her kissable feet, before we are interrupted, and like the bird before us, must fly away and content ourselves with observing this goddess from a distance. Now, as the sun sets a dying red on the horizon, Kasia's sleep is disturbed by the sound of what might be an alarm bell ringing. Suddenly she jumps up, disoriented, forgetting where she is and what she was doing, even what day it is. Frantically she searches for her bedside clock to kill whatever buzzing noise this must be. But it isn't morning, and Kasia realises, on pressing the snooze button repeatedly in vain, that it isn't her alarm clock making the noise. Rather, it is her mobile phone, ringing and vibrating away on her desk.

Innocently and with the only knowledge of those recently awakened from a deep and rewarding sleep - namely, that they had just been woken - Kasia answered her phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello!" The enthusiasm and awakedness of the speaker annoyed Kasia briefly, until she was able to piece together who it was that was calling, and the remembrance of her engagement that evening crept back into her mind.

"Oh!"

"Oh indeed, Kasia!" the caller said. "Are you nearly ready? I'm downstairs waiting for you, and the tram's going to be here in twenty. Are you coming or not?"

The worst thing imaginable had happened: Kasia had slept longer than was reasonable, and had not woken in time to prepare herself for the night's adventures. Ordinarily she would have claimed a headache and stayed at home, but something from her dream, revealed to her all of a sudden, suggested to her that she make an effort and go out regardless.

Hurriedly she grabbed the first clothes that she could find that didn't need ironing. This happened to include a simple white skirt, about knee length and pleated delicately, and a black top of the greatest simplicity. A white bra and matching thong completed her outfit for the night, along with a pair of simple though pleasant black shoes that Kasia knew could be worn without socks. How odd it felt for her to have to rush like this to get ready - it was like an extension to the dreams she had been having just minutes ago, and she was sure that any moment she would wake up again and discover she had more time.

Her hair she quickly brushed back and then let fall long and alluring over her shoulders; she decided against wearing make-up; her lip gloss would have to suffice, though with only a brief application her lips became irresistible. She knew she smelt good, thanks to her long, cold, shower, and needed only a quick squirt of a simple perfume to complete her toilet.

She almost forgot to lock the door to her apartment as she left, and nearly fell down the stairs in her hurry to meet her friend. She explained herself immediately.

"Do I look all right? I was asleep when you called, and I'd totally forgotten we were going out!"

Her friend, a work colleague called Magda, looked at her with a faint glimmer of jealousy in her eyes.

"You look fine," she said, though deep down she knew that was an understatement, and it hurt her to think that Kasia looked better now than she herself did after two hours preparing for the night.

The two young women went to the tram stop and very soon found themselves rattling along towards town. The tram was packed with that strangely urban assortment of creatures, from the drunk detritus of society sleeping at the back, to the students heading out for a night of drinking and dancing, to the tired and hassled parents leading their children to classical music recitals that none of them wanted to endure. There were no free seats, so Kasia and Magda stood; one of the windows nearby was open, and a draft blew gently up Kasia's skirt, tickling her thighs and briefly kissing her cheeks.

Magda was as dissimilar to Kasia as genre is to literature; the relationship was one purely built of convenience, since neither had been in Krakow long enough to have their own friends. Joining the company at the same time, they were quickly grafted onto the existing social network, and when the staff went out for drinks, they went with them. There was something vaguely desperate about the group's late night activities, and Kasia feared generally that one day she would become as desperate as the rest of them. Already she caught herself occasionally judging the men she met as prospectives mates, and this mercenary aspect appalled her. Kasia did not feel as though she was a special person, as any special person is wont to do. She did not even think herself as especially attractive, a consequence of some unfortunate choices made years and years before, before she had become the woman that the world now loved. One day, the world promised silently to the night, she would find the love she deserved, and on that day the sky would glow a shimmering pink, as if to announce to the people that dwelt upon the world that there could, indeed, be happiness here.

However, we are concerned with the here and now, and less with the philosophy of love. That we shall leave to less jaded sensibilities, to those who can appreciate it. To love is to live, and this was precisely what Kasia intended to do that night. In her mind she swore to herself that she would have a good time, and not worry greatly if she was overlooked by men once again.

If the start of the night had been inauspicious, with Kasia oversleeping and almost missing out on everything, then the next part was even less encouraging. The first bar they visited was crammed with smokers and the air was rank with the sweat of the summer. But Kasia had no choice but to follow Magda down the stairs leading to this basement pub, where they were to meet the rest of the party. Reluctant to stay for more than a few minutes, Kasia bought the smallest, cheapest drink she could, and sat slowly sipping it, trying valiantly though perhaps unsuccessfully to look as though she was happy there.

The others in her circle were a motley crew, mostly women in their thirties and forties, the men all married and many of the women divorced. There was sadness here, as it was generally agreed that the world was not of their making, though what they wanted to do about it, nobody knew. The hopes and dreams of their lives had long been forgotten, and for most now the hopes and dreams lay with the concept of conception, the birth of new life and the opportunities for happiness that a baby could bring. But before there could be new life, there must be new lives, and therefore drinks on a Saturday night and then dancing, and the hope that a bump in the night would lead to a bump in the belly a few months later.

Kasia knew all of this; the women there knew all of this; the men that courted their attention knew all of this. Kasia was desperate to escape this vicious cycle, and wanted to think she had the strength to do so alone; she knew not that she had this strength already; what she needed, and we know this because we are able to see more than most from our lofty vantage point, is that she needed to find somebody who could show her the strength she had inside her.

To find the man for Kasia, Kasia knew she had to get out, but to go out alone, even in a modern city like Krakow, was still considered unseemly, and Kasia didn't for an instant want to be considered unseemly. Therefore, nights like these were her only chance. She hated to be considered the rose that grew in a pot of manure; the thought never crossed her mind. But the thought has crossed our mind on more than one occasion, and if we had but the power to do something about it...

Kasia's attention was distracted away from the person droning on to her about glossy celebrities by a man who had risen from his chair at a table near to her own. As he rose, a calm seemed to fall over the whole room; the music quietened, the chatter around her ceased, the smoke dissipated and he was revealed to her. He was tall, though not noticeably, and looked strong, though he kept whatever muscles he possessed hidden under modest clothes. He wore black trousers and polished shoes, and a simple belt. His shirt was white and the top two buttons were undone, revealing a little chest hair and a beaded necklace that seemed right but could have been oh-so-wrong. He wore a black blazer jacket that came in above the waist, and perfectly complemented his figure. He was smiling at one of the people near him, and as Kasia turned her attention to the focus of his, she saw to her enormous dismay a beautiful young woman with full breasts and a brilliant white smile.

Then Kasia was brought back into the conversation that had continued without her, and her attention was distracted away from her Adonis. She perceived, out of the corner of her eye, a number of people passing towards the exit, and when finally she felt able to turn back to the table on the other side of the room, she discovered that it was empty.

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Part 2

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At this point of the story, which cleaves nicely in two, it is worth mentioning briefly that those critics who say that the writer is the most important element in the act of writing are, on some occasions, wrong. One such occasion is this one. So, what else could be the most critical factor that determines how a story is written?

I suggest that that role is played by you, the reader. You see, it would be very easy, as the writer, for me to decide that I had had enough of Kasia, that I was bored with this story, and so send her home all alone, to a night of tears and lamentations, and perhaps follow her so far in the course of her life as to see her later life, as a spinster perhaps, and the sadness that the passing days told. I could do that as easily as if I wanted to suddenly introduce a superhero, or a spaceship, into the story. Whether the story would be any good if I did is open to debate, but the power apparently lies in the hands of the writer, since he is working as the creator.

That changes when one knows one's audience.

The writer has, frankly, been in a bad mood for the last couple of days. His personal life has impinged on his work, has entered it like an unwanted character breaking through the third wall. In his present frame of mind, this writer feels almost unable - at times - to write a romance, yet a romance he must write. Why? Because this writer knows his audience, and if he does not tend to that audience, the whole endeavour of writing is pointless: what good is a story with nobody to read it? Therefore, in the specific case of this short story, since the anticipated audience is known to the writer, he must fulfill his duty, and write as if he felt what he was writing to be true in his heart. And who knows? Perhaps, through the cathartic act of writing, he might find that the mask he wears now fits, and he becomes a happier person because of it. Then, not only will he have satisfied his audience, he will have found himself suddenly, and forever, in their debt.

Kasia was sad to see the table now vacated. One might be tempted to say that she was suddenly miserable, but that would be to forget her generally positive, optimistic character. No, she was not miserable; nor was she upset with her friends for not noticing her change in demeanour. Such ignorance comes to be expected, especially in smokey bar rooms.

Magda was already on to her second drink. Kasia was still sipping her first. The table in front of them was cluttered with empty glasses - shot glasses, wine glasses, pint and half-pint glasses. The bargirl made another pass through the small spaces between the massed tables, and again neglected to pick up anything as she went. Nobody complained, such was the length of her short skirt.

The minutes passed like hours. Imagine how long an hour would have been! Fortunately Kasia didn't have to wait to find out; before she knew it, she was being swept out of the bar along with all of the others, the hive mind spontaneously deciding to find another place to go to drink.

The streets of Krakow teemed with life now, and Kasia thought momentarily of all the places she had seen in her life. Could this city now really be her home? It was possible, though even now, whenever she caught a whisper in the wind of a foreign accent, her heart and her mind turned briefly to lands far away from Poland, to exotic, forever sunny shores, to the shock of the new and unexpected.

Eventually, having chosen and rechosen, argued and settled, the group found themselves in a bar with what Kasia would later call the perfect atmosphere. For whatever reason - perhaps a nascent move towards cleaner living - the bar was almost devoid of cigarette smoke. The chill-out area, full of comfortable sofas and designer tables, was quiet, but one could still hear the calm and graceful grooves floating over from the dance floor on the other side of the room. It was ideal, and all the more so since her Adonis was sat over by the window.