I have quite a few stories where I no longer remember the names of the people involved. Not because they didn’t matter — they did, very much so — but because their names were the least important thing about them. It’s as if the mind deliberately smudges out the trivial to help us focus on what really counts.
After my divorce, for instance, I met a girl through one of those then-trendy online dating sites. I found her — or maybe she found me. I don’t remember anymore. She had only one photo up, and even that wasn’t particularly flattering: a girl in a foamy bathtub, a face, a hand, and a smile. But there was something in that image — something intangible—that completely captivated me. We chatted for weeks, and somewhere along the way, I fell in love. With a photograph. With a pixelated illusion.
Our first real-life meeting also turned out to be our last. We had coffee, wandered through a park for hours, talked about everything and nothing, and laughed. We genuinely had a good time. But there was nothing more. Not even a hesitant touch. Not a stolen half-smile. All those tiny signs that usually turn a simple date into something charged and electric were just… missing. “Did she touch me on purpose? Was that a signal? Was the smile for me? Was I supposed to read into it?” The questions are the same whether you’re a teenager or allegedly an adult.
Toward evening, we reached that part of the park — just outside the old Transport Museum — where people used to park their cars. She walked over to one, unlocked it, and kindly offered to drive me home. Of course, I accepted. I got in, reached for the seatbelt, and…
In about two seconds, she pulled down my pants.
I was so stunned I couldn’t speak. I froze. Not because I’m a prude — I’ve done far more “adventurous” things in my life. (For example, not many people can say they’ve done that at a concert, in front of thousands of people, at the BS…) But this abrupt turn really didn’t match the tone of our date.
She noticed my hesitation, looked up, and — genuinely surprised — asked, “What? Isn’t this why we met?”
And just like that, the feeling vanished. Gone. Like someone flipped a switch. We continued to see each other for perhaps two more weeks. Two very exhausting — and very “enjoyable” — weeks. We barely spoke. We just let things happen. It seemed that whatever we had to say, we had already typed out online. What remained was purely physical. And purely empty.
Then she disappeared. Just like that. Deleted her profile from the dating site, never picked up the phone again. I didn’t mourn the loss. Not really. There were others. I found someone whose name I do remember.
You’re willing
And beautiful
But if needed, you turn ugly
Even as a stranger,
You’re my home
The way you reach for me so hungrily
I could be grateful for it —
Or cry
Because you’re kind to others too
But when I curl up in your lap
I don’t care
Not even if tomorrow never comes.
...
If life were only one hour,
I’d spend the last minute
Inside you.
I had already finished writing this piece when this song by Ákos suddenly came to mind. Because it is about her. Two weeks at the edge of the world, when the big questions of life no longer matter. When the soul has already drifted elsewhere, but the pull of the body is still strong enough to make you surrender everything for it. Even that final, precious minute.