The New Matilde

1.

Friday

My name is Matilde. Matilde Jørgensen. I'm a 28-year-old schoolteacher with an interesting and challenging job at a local school at Frederiksberg in Copenhagen, Denmark. I live in a cosy two-room apartment with a balcony close to the Assistens churchyard and I have everything one could wish for.

Except for a nice boyfriend. And that seems somewhat strange as I consider myself sweet, smart and pretty.

Over time I have used Tinder quite a bit and experienced a number of dates of the kind where you meet at a cafe and talk until one or the other (or both) starts yawning in a very obvious manner, casually pointing out how early the alarm clock will sound tomorrow morning. After which you part with an awkward hug with totally untrustworthy promises of future phone calls.

A couple of times it turned into more than that but never to something really promising. Actually I haven't had a steady boyfriend since teacher training college and that was a couple of years ago.

Until the phone rings, I have the impression that my date with Thomas the other day was just another one in an endless row of more or less unsuccessful dates. Well, not that I wouldn't want more. Actually I like Thomas. A lot. But after 90 minutes of talk at a cafe in the city centre, he suddenly started glancing at his watch and mumbling about an early start tomorrow. Until then my feeling had been that it went well so I was disappointed as I walked through the rain to the metro.

Thomas is really handsome. A lawyer. A body refined by healthy physical activity. Extremely charming. Clever. Interesting to talk to. He told me about his job in a consulting firm where he is travelling a lot. Mostly in Europe but also to the United States and Japan. Maybe my boring life as a schoolteacher was simply not interesting enough to him. Ouch!

We had exchanged phone numbers but I didn't really feel like calling him. Or I was too proud to. And too afraid of rejection.

I'm slightly chocked when my muted mobile phone vibrates on Friday during lunch break at my team meeting with the other teachers of class 7.a. "Tinder-Thomas" it says on the display that I'm holding out of eyesight of my colleagues.

"I have to get this one," I say and go outside. My fingertip seems unable to swipe right and answer the call. My hands are shaking a bit. I get goosebumps on my arm.

"Yes?" I reply, as the call finally comes through.

"Hi. Is that Matilde?"

"Yes."

"Hi, it's Thomas."

"Hi."

"Du you have plans for tonight?"

"No," I answer far too quickly.

"Great. Should we meet?"

"Yes. I would like to."

"Can you be at the Trianglen metro station at eight?"

"Yes."

"Right at the top of the main stairway?"

"Yes."

"Great. I'll see you. Bye."

"Bye," I reply and feel like I'm flying back to my colleagues.

In front of the mirror Friday evening I choose a pair of tight, red jeans, a black strap top with an advantageous effect to my tits, and my new Nike shoes. To that I add my thin, white summer jacket. I put small silver rings in my ears, put on a discrete make-up and collect my long blonde hair in a ponytail. Everything under control.

Down on the street the evening cold has descended over the city. I consider returning upstairs for warmer clothing. But I don't bother to go back up to the fifth floor. It's getting late and after all we are obviously going to sit inside.

It gets dark during my short metro trip. Thomas is already there when I walk up the stairs at Trianglen Station at exactly eight o'clock. He is a little more dressed up than the last time in his black jacket, black jeans, white shirt and shining, black shoes.

He is waving at me, and I am almost running - a bit too eagerly maybe? - towards him. He receives me with open arms and a long hug. Then he steps back one step and monitors me.

"You look lovely," he says.

"Thank you," I reply, hoping that the dusk will hide my blush.

"Have you been at the Magasin department store?" I ask, pointing to the large, dark green shopping bag in his right hand.

"Yes. Let's go. I'll take you to the lakes. I know a place."

Thomas takes my hand and we walk across Blegdamsvej and Ryesgade. Five minutes later we are at a wine bar at the Sortedam Lake. Inside there is light and people. Outside a few smokers are freezing around the heaters. Thomas pulls out one of the outdoor chairs for me.

"Shouldn't we go inside? It's kind of cold," I protest.

"No. Let's sit here and look at the water. There's a heater."

I sit down. Luckily very close to the heater.

"White wine? Like the last time?" he inquires.

"Yes please," I nod.

Thomas disappears into the wine bar. At my feet is Thomas' Magasin bag with a gift-wrapped box in it.

Two minutes later he's back with a whole bottle of Riesling in a cooler and two glasses.

He pours. We raise our glasses.

"I got you something," he says.

Thomas extracts the box from the bag, placing it in my lap.

"Here you go."

"For me? Thank you!"

I start unwrapping. Indside there is a cardboard box with a lid. Under the lid there is thin paper. Under the paper I find a black sandal with an extremely high, stiletto heel. Or two sandals actually. I take one of them into my hands, studying it more closely.

"Well, that's very thoughtful of you... But I can't wear these," I blurt out.

Thomas smiles: "You can learn to."

The height of the heel is at least eight centimeters and the diameter at the end is not larger than and old-fashioned, Danish 25 øre coin. The sandal is completely minimalistic. Only two thin, black leather straps are supposed to hold it onto the foot. It's open at the front and at the back. Elegant, some would argue. But not my style at all.

"I hope it's the right size."

I look at the box. 39 it says. That would be about right.

"How did you get my shoe number?"

"Don't you remember our talk about feet? I managed to make you tell me at the cafe."

Apparantly it has been his plan since Tuesday to buy shoes for me. I weigh the sandal in my hands. It's extremely light.

"Maybe I'll give them back to Magasin in return for some other shoes..."

Thomas looks disappointed: "Please don't. Give them a chance. You have to try them on."

"But, I don't think..."

"Come on! Try them!" Thomas begs.

I smile at him, starting to unlace my right Nike shoe. I take off my short footie sock and remove little bits of cotton from my toes before wringing my naked foot into the right sandal.

"May I?" he asks and holds out his hands. He takes my foot, placing it on his lap, tying the sandal strap around my ankle with his warm hands.

"It's perfect," he states with satisfaction.

I smile at him and let my glance wander from my right foot, which Thomas is holding gently, to my left, which is on the ground in a somewhat clumsily looking Nike shoe.

"And the other one!" Thomas commands, putting down my right foot. With my pointed stiletto heel on the pavement I reach for the table to stay in balance while laying my left foot with the Nike shoe in Thomas' lap. He carefully unties the shoelace, takes off the shoe and removes my sock. He is handling my left foot for a moment, holding it with both hands.

"Your feet are really beautiful, Matilde," he says.

"Thank you!"

He takes the left foot sandal from the box and puts my toes under the lower strap before carefully tightening the strap around my ankle.

"Is this too tight?"

"No. It's fine."

Then he puts my left foot back on the pavement, and both my feet are separated from the ground only by eight centimeters of stiletto heels.

"To your beautiful feet, Matilde!"

We raise our glasses and empty them. Thomas pours more wine.

"Now...," Thomas says, "...you´re going for a walk."

Laughing I lean forward and carefully move the weight from the chair to my feet. I put down the palm of my hand on the table and slowly stand up. The table isn't totally stable. Thomas is on his feet quickly to catch me, preventing me from stumbling forward. He has a nice smell and feels warm. We stand for a bit with our arms wrapped around each other. His face is extremely close. I carefully move my mouth toward his and I'm pursing my lips, as he suddenly lets go of the embrace, but takes my hand.

"Try to walk over there," says Thomas, gently squeezing my hand.

"You're doing great," he encourages as we have walked five meters from the table. "Now you've got to try on your own."

Thomas lets go of my hand and slowly moves backwards to the table. I carefully step after him leaning backward in order not to fall. It hardly looks elegant. It's like walking on stilts. Just without handlebars. I take a final, long step towards my chair and put down my arse with a sigh of relief.

"You're not returning those. You look great in them, Matilde."

"You think so? Thanks!"

I take a large gulp of Riesling. Thomas pours from the bottle which is almost empty now. Thomas looks into my eyes smiling.

"Give me your foot again, Matilde."

I put my left foot back on his lap. Thomas is caressing my toes with his index finger.

"Some nail polish would suit you," he says.

"I wasn't exactly aware that you were planning to give me these stylish sandals."

Thomas smiles.

"No. Of course. I'm glad you think they're stylish. By the way... do you have any tattoos?" he inquires.

"I have one in a very private spot. But you will only get to see it later, if tonight goes as planned," I say, trying to smile seducingly.

"Really?"

"No. It's a lie. I have no tattoos," I laugh. "Do you?"

"No. But seriously: They do look nice on a beautiful woman."

I smile:

"Is that what I am? A beautiful woman?"

"Yes! Very much so!"

Thomas' eyes wander along my body from my left foot to my face.

"I was wondering...," he starts caressing my instep with his index finger, "...if you would consider getting a tattoo here."

"On my foot?"

"Yes. Here on the instep. It would suit your new sandals extremely well. It would be just... stylish."

"And what would you want me to get tattooed on my foot?"

"Something beautiful. A flower. A red rose maybe. That would look great."

I laugh as I put back my left stiletto on the pavement.

"Shouldn't we go inside? I think it's getting chilly."

"Chilly? You actually feel cold? I find it so nice to sit out here."

Apparantly Thomas is an outdoorsy kind of guy. He gets up, takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. It has his nice fragrance. He empties the last drops of wine into our glasses.

"I'll get new supplies. In the meantime you can look into the box. You haven't finished unpacking, Matilde."

"I haven't?"

Thomas enters the wine bar with the bottle and the cooler.

I take a look into the shoebox which is filled with the thin paper that was covering my sandals. Under the paper I find a yellow plastic lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Marlboro Lights.

I place them on the table. Soon after, Thomas is back. He puts the cooler with the new, full Riesling bottle on the table while watching me with a smile of expectation.

"So, what do you say?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Would you like a cigarette?"

"Uhm, no thanks... I don't smoke."

"Oh," he says, sounding almost insulted, "I'm sorry to hear that."

For a moment there is an awkward silence.

"You're sorry to hear that? What do you mean?"

Thomas looks at me with a serious expression:

"I've got to tell you about a weakness I have..." he begins.

"But you can smoke. We are in open air. It doesn't bother me," I say, pushing the cigarette pack to his half of the table.

"No thanks. I don't smoke. My... weakness is that I like cigarettes when a beautiful woman is smoking them."

I look at him, puzzled. He continues:

"And now I'm here on this lovely evening with a beautiful woman who has the most beautiful feet in the stylish stilettos that I have bought for her. And I very badly feel like watching her smoke a cigarette."

"But why?"

"I'd just like to see you light the cigarette, inhale the smoke, exhale, hold the cigarette between your fingers while we're talking. And I'd like you to lean back a bit and put your right foot on your left knee in order to show me your foot in the sandal."

I arrange my foot in the requested position and wriggle my toes a bit.

"Like this?" I'm laughing.

Thomas nods, sending me a satisfied smile, pushing the cigarettes back in my direction.

"I even bought light cigarettes that aren't so strong. In fact I prefer when beautiful women smoke Marlboro Reds. But in my experience most beautiful women like to smoke lights. Unfortunately."

"But I've never smoked," I say, omitting a singular unsuccessful attempt in ninth grade ending up in a lot of pitiful coughing behind the school's bike shed.

"That's strange. It would suit you so well."

"I don't think so. And look here: 'Smoking kills'."

I hold the pack for Thomas to see the big, black letters.

"Well. They have to write that. But I'm sure you won't die from trying one."

I look at the pack more closely.

"Try and open it."

"But I don't feel like smoking."

"Just open it and take one out and hold it between your fingers. Pretend to smoke it. It will make me happy."

"Okay. If it makes you happy."

I sip a bit of wine and start removing the plastic wrapping around the pack. I open the lid. Smell at the tobacco. It's spicy and sweet. The cigarettes are packed closely together. I fumble a bit to take one out, but succeed. Thomas is beaming with expectation across his glas of wine.

I'm holding the cigarette between the index and middle finger of my right hand. At first close to the palm. Then at the fingertips. I'm trying the same procedure in my left hand.

"You're so elegant," Thomas says.

"Thanks."

The cigarette feels strangely light. Lighter than a pencil. After all it's just paper and tiny strips of tobacco. Thomas looking encouragingly at me while I pose. I take the cigarette to my lips briefly and then pretend to exhale.

"You're so beautiful," Thomas says, fascinated.

I smile at him. Then I purse my lips around the filter of the cigarette.

I'm sitting for a bit with the cigarette in my pursed mouth. Then I take it into my left hand, sipping some wine and posing with wineglass and cigarette - still with my right foot resting on my left knee.

I put the glass down on the table and Thomas gives me another refill. I put the cigarette between my teeth.

"I have to try to talk while it's in my mouth," I say.

"It works just fine." Thomas is praising me."

I take the cigarette in my left and drink wine with my right hand. I pour down the wine and leave the cigarette between my lips in the right corner of my mouth.

"Look! It's moving up and down, when I'm talking."

Thomas has a big smile on his face.

"Hi, Matilde!" someone says right behind me.

I turn my head a bit too fast, in the process losing the cigarette that drops to my lap. Behind me is my dear colleague, Kate, a woman in her fifties, spreading her arms.

"Hi, Kate!" I say smilingly. I pick up the cigarette and get to my feet in one movement, for a moment forgetting what's on my feet. I'm about to lose my balance, leaning a bit too much and too suddenly towards Kate to hug her. She drops some red wine from her glas, but in a mutual effort we succeed in keeping me upright.

"Oops! Take care," Kate laughs and holds me in a firm grip. I sense her smell of smoke and perfume.

I get back on my chair.

"You two have made the only sensible choice by sitting out here where you're allowed to smoke," says Kate, "I went for a glass of wine with some friends who have all quit, so they want to sit inside. But I need to go outside for a smoke once in a while."

Kate places a long cigarette between her lips and lights it. She inhales, raising her glas.

"Skål," she says, letting her glance wander from me to Thomas.

We raise our glases and sip some wine.

"I'm sorry I almost fell before, but I'm not used to these yet." I stretch my legs for Kate to see my high heels.

"Oh, they're so awesome, Matilde!" she says.

"Thanks."

She glances at the wrapping paper, the shoebox, my Nikes and socks under the table.

"So you just got them from...?"

Kate looks inquisitively towards Thomas who, very gentlemanlike, gets onto is feet extending his hand.

"Thomas."

Kate puts her wineglass on the table.

"Kate."

Kate inhales deeply and blows a plume of smoke over the Sortedam Lake.

"You know how to make a woman happy, Thomas," she says approvingly. Suddenly she leans towards me holding the flame of her lighter 20 centimeters from my face. I look at her in confusion before realising that I'm still holding the cigarette in my right hand.

Within a second I consider the option of explaining to dear, helpful Kate, that I'm actually a non-smoker posing with an unlit cigarette without any intention of smoking it. Not being able to find any useful explanation, I put the cigarette between my lips and move it towards the flame while carefully sucking a bit of smoke into my mouth.

At once my mouth is filled with smoke and an intense taste of ashtray. I take the cigarette in my left hand, blow out smoke and quickly empty my glas of Riesling. The wine is cooling, but has a strange taste now. I move the liquid around in my mouth before swallowing it. Then I take a deep breath of fresh air, but the strong taste of ashtray remains.

Kate's attention is totally focused on Thomas who is listening to her long explanations about why she's not wearing high heels anymore. At the same time he keeps glancing at me, pouring wine into my glass.

Meanwhile the cigarette in my hand is smoking itself. I use my thumb to flip off the ash. Cautiously I put the cigarette back between my lips, taking a minimal drag just to uphold the illusion of smoking. I'm trying to keep the smoke in my mouth for a moment, then blowing it out, preventing a major coughing fit with a large gulp of Riesling. After which I still sense the persistent taste of ashtray in my mouth.

Kate is describing to Thomas how happy she is to work with me and how competent I am. Meanwhile I'm busy watching the cigarette between my fingers and the ash that needs to come off before getting too long. I manage a minor drag - this time without coughing - before Kate puts out her cigarette in the ashtray and returns it to her red Prince 100 pack.

"I'm ready to go back in with the non-smokers," she says raising her glass, "See you on Monday, Matilde. And what a nice boyfriend you have," mouthing the last sentence with exaggerated lip movements and almost no sound.

I smile and wave as Kate is reentering the wine bar. I reach for the ashtray in order to finally stub out the cigarette, but Thomas interrupts me.

"Stop!" he says, "It's going so well."

"What?"

"You're so good at it. Beyond any expectation."

"What do you mean?"

"You were so awesome when you let her light your cigarette and smoked it like an experienced smoker. My respect, Matilde."

"You're joking, right?"

"No. Absolutely not. You have no idea how sexy you are with that cigarette. It suits you so well."

Leaning back, I look at the burning cigarette in my hand. The ash has become long again. I flip it off.

"I just want to get this: You think I'm sexy because I'm smoking a cigarette?"

"Yes. I'm absolutely in love with you when you're smoking... I mean... I am in love with you. But that cigarette adds a special elegance."

"But it tastes bad," I say, emptying my wineglass, gargling a bit and swallowing the wine. The ashtray taste is still in my mouth.

"You'll get used to the taste. If you give it a chance, I'll guarantee that in a short while you will enjoy smoking a cigarette. Think of the first time you tasted white wine..."