If it wouldn't be too intimate…

So many lost stories! So many good ones you didn’t write down over the past few years! — I hear this a lot these days from the people around me, holding me to account for the “omissions” of recent years. In my defense, I can say that I had neither the time, nor the strength, nor the space in my life for them… But so that I do tell something, here is a heart-warming story from the (almost) last day of the year, something that happened to me a few years ago. If it’s not too intimate… It happened in December 2018. I only remember the important details, but one thing is certain: that morning it was bitterly cold. I was in a rush. I quickly threw on my warmest coat, didn’t fuss with my hair, just wrapped my scarf around myself, put on a hat, and off I ran across Szabadság Square. Meanwhile—because I couldn’t resist and because it felt so important—I called my friend. In my great haste I had left my earphones at home, so I had to hold the phone in my hand. My fingers were frozen by the time I reached Báthory Street. In the inner courtyard of the building, a man was waiting in front of the elevator. He watched with interest as I tried to put myself together, fixing my appearance, adjusting my hair, and awkwardly attempting to shove my numb fingers into my pocket, stiff with cold. “If it wouldn’t be too intimate…” he spoke up after a moment, “…I could warm your hand.”

“It wouldn’t be,” I turned toward him, surprised and, at the same time, completely naturally. Then slowly, questioningly, I held out my trembling fingers. The man gently took my hand, lifted it to his mouth, and began to breathe warm air onto it, softly rubbing it. The elevator doors opened. We stepped inside. “So, what was so important that you froze your fingers because of it?” he asked. “The truth is, I had to call my friend to tell her what I dreamed,” I said with great momentum, like someone about to tell a long and important story and having no idea where to begin. “And then what happened? Did she tell you her dream too?” he asked, still warming my hand with his breath. “Yes!” I sighed, wonder in my voice, clearly revealing that I couldn’t imagine how he had guessed. I would have said something… something… but it was unnecessary. We just stood there in the elevator, our noses almost touching, my hand in his. The elevator doors opened. I stepped out. The doors began to close. My hand remained in his until the very last moment. I walked toward the far end of the corridor. The people around me received the story with great enthusiasm and bewilderment. Why didn’t you exchange numbers? A business card? Anything? What did the man look like? I don’t know. I don’t remember. Everything happened so quickly. “Do you know what’s so attractive and exciting about this story?” one of my friends summed up the thoughts that had come up. “That it contains everything a woman longs for: attention, kindness, tenderness, care, intimacy. And it’s so strange that all of this can happen so simply, so naturally, between two strangers.” “Yes,” I replied. “If we are able to accept it.” Agatha Seymour