Twirl

After we finished our drinks, the musician suggested wandering around the neighborhood. I knew already that I wouldn’t see him again, but I thought I might kiss him at the end of the evening. As we were reaching my bus stop, he suddenly took my hand and pulled at my arm, twirling me on the pavement. I laughed. It was such a strange gesture and perhaps also charming; I wasn’t sure.


My first meeting with Zerrin was at a pub in our neighborhood. From there I would go to another date. I’d decided to line up as many as possible, having heard enough times from my colleagues that this was a numbers game. Some of them had even helped me select photographs for my profile: on a hike, at a café, at the beach wearing a sundress. Friendly, generic pictures that suggested ease, that gave nothing away. I told my colleagues details about physical intimacies, often exaggerated for comical effect.

Sharing any of this with Zerrin seemed inappropriate, even profane. The date would be my first time seeing the man, and I didn’t want to risk running into him with Zerrin; I had picked a place a good distance from the pub. What if there was something strange about him or he was much older than he’d claimed?

Zerrin approached me, waving from across the street. It was such a pleasure to be reminded of the old familiarities: the warm kiss, the rush to pay for the other’s drink, the enthusiasm to establish a connection. As soon as we sat down, we listed favorite spots in Istanbul, quickly finding common acquaintances. Zerrin was wistful. Not so much for the city, I thought, but for the life she’d had there. Her authority in her native place, her network of friends, her carefree youth. Zerrin’s daughter was now starting nursery school—or was it daycare? I didn’t really know the difference; I gathered only that the child was still young and that Zerrin was a single parent.

More or less a single parent, she amended. The child’s father worked in an adjacent town and came to the city on weekends to spend time with their daughter. Even now, though the child was past the early years of constant care, Zerrin had very little time to herself, and her career had suffered as a result. She was a writer, she told me when I asked. She added hastily that she mainly wrote stories for Turkish literary journals, some of them now defunct, as if she were afraid I might ask her for proof. These days, she said, to make ends meet, she worked on translations in what little time she had.

I told her she was a hero, as is common to say of mothers, especially those who are in a difficult situation.

my date that evening was with a high school science teacher. His pictures made him look athletic in a rugged, nature-loving sort of way. I knew that these profiles rarely matched reality, but I was still disappointed to discover he was nothing like his photographs. He was unfit and unkempt, with a slouch of self-pity weighing him down. It took him a long time to order: he went back and forth between three options, and when his dish finally arrived, he said he was upset that he’d made the wrong choice. I found them all so childish, these grown men who couldn’t see beyond themselves, who were incapable of seduction. This one told me at length about his divorce, the two boys he had on alternate weeks. Then, out of the blue, he reached over to pick something off my shoulder before elaborating on the logistics of his children’s visits.

The casual flirtation of the touch was at odds with the man’s awkwardness. It puzzled and intrigued me. I thought I must have misread him, that he was not so straightforward as he seemed, and perhaps this was why I agreed to extend our date, walking with him to the metro once we’d paid. But there were no other signs of mystery. Soon after we parted ways, the man texted to ask if I would like to meet up again the following day. I told him I wouldn’t.

I thought we had a great time? he wrote.

zerrin and i started to meet on weekday afternoons when I worked from home. We would go to the park or a café of Zerrin’s choosing. I had never experienced the inverted hours of a mother. I found the routine leisurely, if strangely out of time, as if the two of us existed on a different plane while the real world continued a step away—especially because Zerrin knew little about my life outside of our afternoons, and I knew little of hers, I suppose, though I found it easy to imagine.

Tell me everything, she said whenever we met up.

I liked her attention, the yearning with which she asked me about my work, my weekends, my acquaintances. She wanted to know what I did in the evenings, where I went out with my friends. It was so tempting to think of my youth as a virtue.

I used to be just like you, she often told me, relating anecdotes from her student years in Istanbul when she would be out all night in Cihangir, spend whole days visiting bookshops.

Really, she laughed, I may not look it, but I’m a free spirit at heart!

I found this hard to believe; I continued to be surprised by Zerrin’s decorum, her attire that was always neat, as if she were on her way to an interview. But I told her benevolently that she was still a free spirit.

i went on a date with a man named Kafka. This was the only reason; he didn’t look very attractive in his pictures. Surely, I thought, such a name was the sign of an interesting personality. We met at a rock-climbing gym upon the man’s suggestion, but we only sat at the bar overlooking the tilted wall. Kafka told me about his father’s love for his namesake, as well as his streak of sadism. Who would ever inflict such passions on their child, he asked. He had obviously told this story many times before, but he still acted out the injustice with great fervor. He went on to rank Kafka’s works, starting from his favorites, moving down to the ones he considered repetitive or overrated. I didn’t agree with him but I didn’t object; he probably had greater authority to evaluate these works—a natural connection. Instead, I pointed out a climber dangling from the slanted wall, holding on with one arm, while his remaining limbs moved about, trying to grasp something. From where we were sitting, the man appeared curiously like an insect, and the prospect of his imminent fall seemed less dramatic.

This was my best date so far. Even though Kafka talked for the majority of the evening, I was interested in what he had to say. He’d become an urban planner, he told me, in utter disregard for where his name might have taken him. Or was it indeed the direct result? He asked which neighborhoods I frequented and told me about little-known parts of these quarters. One favorite, he said, was the courtyard of an old bottle factory, entered through the back door of an Indonesian restaurant. Perhaps he could show me one day.

As he said this, he moved his hand toward my shoulder and picked a stray hair, which he casually dropped on the floor before smiling at me.

We kissed before parting ways. It was not really an exchange, but not a clash, either. We agreed to meet again.

SOME DAYS LATER, I ran into Zerrin at the organic store. I had already picked out cheeses and olives, good bread and wine. I invited her to my apartment.

Okay, Zerrin said, but let me at least get the wine.

I’d gone shopping with Kafka in mind, in case he came over following our outing to the old bottle factory, but it seemed more fun to share my small feast with Zerrin. And of course there was vanity: I wanted her to see my flat, its careful decoration and charm, my life as an independent single woman.

Zerrin was enchanted. That’s what she kept saying, that my place was enchanting. I should consider myself lucky to have found it: the city was becoming unaffordable. She could never live in this neighborhood if she were to move in today. I wondered whether Zerrin, like me, was living beyond her means for the sake of being central, not feeling left out.

She examined my books, my assortment of mugs, the trinkets on the shelves, asking me where I’d gotten them, what they signified to me. There was no self-consciousness in her avid regard, no attempt to hide her curiosity.

Everything is so beautiful, she said. And again when I’d arranged the cheeses on a board with fruits and handed her a glass of wine.

When she was a student, she told me, she always had friends over. They would eat and drink, sometimes smoke a cigarette or two, she said giddily, as if announcing a great secret. She lived in a beautiful flat in Arnavutköy. It was the favored meeting spot among her classmates.

They’d just show up, she said, knock knock, no warning! Sometimes they stayed the night. We used to joke that I was running a hostel.

Sounds so fun, I told her.

Really, Zerrin said, you would’ve loved it. We should’ve met two decades ago!

THE NEXT DAY, Kafka showed me the courtyard, pointing out the details of its industrial past, and from there we walked through a farmers’ market that extended several blocks. There were food carts and musicians, a cheerful scene that put us both in a good mood. We got wine from a stall, pastries from another. Just as we had finished our drinks and were approaching a jazz trio in old-timey clothes, Kafka reached for my hand and pulled at it, eventually managing to twirl me. I was taken aback, remembering the twirl from several weeks earlier—the surprise of it, my clumsy step to follow the man’s lead. Still, I reasoned, this was a little different. There was music playing, people swaying from side to side. A little girl was also twirling, alone, in front of the collection hat.

We kissed again. I invited him over, warning him that I could offer only the remains of a bottle of wine.

Bottle remains are my favorite offering, Kafka said.

There wasn’t a long prelude to sex. Afterward, he left to meet his friends for dinner.

In the following weeks, we got together several more times: at my place, or at a restaurant before coming home. We enjoyed similar foods; we always found a topic to discuss. I thought, with optimism, that there was something there. Or there would be, given enough time.

i hadn’t seen Zerrin since her visit. She messaged frequently to ask how I was doing and sent articles she thought I might enjoy.

Tell me when you’d like to meet up, she finally wrote. I know you must be very busy.

I found her message strangely needy. Still, the next time we got together, I explained to her that I’d met someone—through mutual friends, I lied—and had been spending a lot of time with him.

Zerrin clapped her hands at my news. We were having tea at my flat. Once again, I had taken care to make a nice presentation. I filled an old porcelain dish with cherries, put out little bowls of nuts and biscuits.

I recounted the early date to the bottle factory and our long walk afterward.

Isn’t it so fun to be in love? Zerrin said childishly.

During their first years as a couple, she told me, she and her husband used to discover faraway corners of Istanbul, walking for entire days, making stops here and there to read or have coffee. Later, they had traveled all over the world, to India, Cambodia, Brazil. They always explored by foot, considering it the best way to get acquainted with a new place. But they were different people back then, and though she retained the spirit of her former self, she could barely recognize that energetic, curious man in her husband.

You mean your ex-husband? I asked.

Well, Zerrin said, we aren’t officially separated. It’s just a formality, she added. Their relationship was entirely drained of affection, but their daughter was still too young for them to sever bonds completely.

I asked if it was difficult for her to see him on the weekends, when he came to the city.

We can still spend time together, she said. He stays with us, after all.

I hadn’t realized that, I said. It was very generous of her to allow it.

There’s no big drama, she told me. In fact, they were perfectly civil. It was a state of mind. At some point, it had dawned on her that the marriage had ended and they were only performing a series of gestures they’d committed to memory.

I was interested in this, the internal knowledge. I told her that I often had trouble judging whether a relationship had substance. I could be naive, I said, or oblivious.

Not at all, Zerrin said. You know how to enjoy life. You know how to retain your freedom. You’re doing all the right things.

I was flattered, so I didn’t object. I asked how she’d known that her marriage was over.

I suppose a child changes everything, Zerrin said. After the birth, their union had become unbalanced, the sacrifices one-sided. They hadn’t been able to recover their carefree friendship. Perhaps she was even to blame. She’d been too complacent.

I didn’t know how to respond. I felt so removed from her experience, and perhaps I found it a little pathetic that she had not been able to stand her ground. But I repeated what I’d told her a few weeks earlier—that she was a hero.

Zerrin shrugged.

Enjoy every minute with your boyfriend, she said.

As she was leaving my apartment that afternoon, she remarked that there were a lot of bees outside, pointing to the small swarm hovering around the potted plants in the courtyard.

Strange to see so many of them in the city, she said. It’s kind of refreshing.

I didn’t understand what she meant by this, and I didn’t ask. I needed to start preparing for the evening, when I would meet Kafka at a Korean place in his neighborhood. This was always my favorite part of a date—the anticipation, the dressing up. As I was putting on earrings, I noticed that the bees had increased in number, moving blotches against my bedroom window. An hour later, the window frame was covered in a thick swarm, slowly swallowing the glass.

I called Kafka to tell him I would be late. There were now several hundred bees in the courtyard, and I could not imagine stepping out without being stung. But surely, I added, they would drift off in a bit.

Let’s just postpone, he proposed. He said that the situation with the bees sounded really bizarre.

What should I do about it? I asked. I’m trapped here.

I guess you’ll have to wait it out, he said.

I then took a photo and sent it to Zerrin.

Bees took me hostage, I wrote. Immediately, she suggested coming over to bring me food. I told her it was out of the question. Still, I wished Kafka had at least offered to do the same.

Soon after, Zerrin wrote that she’d contacted an apiculturist in the area and that someone would be arriving shortly.

As I waited, I pressed my face against the window, feeling a vertiginous thrill. The bees tumbled past my cheeks and mouth, their whirs audible through the glass. At first, it seemed that they were walking drunkenly on top of each other. After a while, however, I saw their small wiggles and turns, the careful dance each of them performed in the little space they had. I watched, mesmerized, my face numb against their bodies.

An hour later, a middle-aged woman carrying a large bag appeared in the courtyard. She donned her white suit, then opened two jars of honey. Within minutes she had gathered the bees to herself, the insects at once frantic and serene, buzzing around her lifted arms. I came out of the apartment to thank her.

Always a nice way to end an evening, she said. With my little friends.

I told her that her little friends had imprisoned me in my own home.

You should take it as a good sign, she said. These remarkable creatures are very picky about their environments. She was a lawyer, but her real passion had always been bees.

Remarkable little creatures, she repeated.

I texted Kafka that I was liberated, but he had made other plans. He was busy that weekend too, so I arranged to spend Saturday with colleagues. I suggested going to the farmers’ market, after which I could show them the old bottle factory. Once again, the market was lively, with music and cheerful stalls. I directed our group toward the drink stand.

The aphrodisiac, one of them joked. I’d told them about my second date with Kafka, how we’d ended up at my place that afternoon.

Watch out, I said. Might hit you any minute. Just then, I saw Kafka across the street, holding hands with a woman in a floral dress. As I made to hurriedly look away, he lifted the woman’s arm and twirled her in one swoop.

Really, it was a gorgeous sight. Kafka stood still, his hand raised in a perfect arc. He caught his partner’s gaze just as she was twirling. For a second, their eyes locked. The woman’s skirt billowed, wrapped around her thighs, then dropped. This must have been how it was supposed to look; it was so much the right move.

In the evening, I looked it up online: twirling, first date, pick-up moves. Within seconds, I was reading a list of ways to ensure a successful date. On a first meeting, the website instructed, you should casually remove something from your date’s clothing. Even if there was nothing, you could always pretend to spot a strand of hair, a leaf, a piece of lint. This would create a sense of organic intimacy, from which you could build: touching the woman’s arm to emphasize a point, patting her on the back, taking her hand on a walk. All these steps would come naturally if the foundation of physical intimacy was established early on. A few items down, I read that twirling one’s date out of the blue could signal spontaneity and fun and make a woman feel like a heroine, playing the lead role.

The following day, even though I hadn’t heard from him, I texted Kafka that I didn’t want to see him again.

Ah! he wrote back. I’ve had a lovely time with you.

ZERRIN AND I were at the beginning of a walk one Friday when her daughter’s school called to say that there had been an accident. Her daughter had fallen and lost a tooth. She had cried considerably and was still unsettled. Zerrin said she would be over immediately, and I offered to come along. Ever since the incident with the bees, I’d wanted to do something nice for her.

There were more tears at the reunion; the daughter released the final shock of her fall. Then her attention turned to me. She was pleased there was a new person on their outing. She announced that she was hungry.

How about a yummy slice of cake? I proposed. There was a very good bakery some blocks down at the edge of the park; I would treat us all.

I know the one, Zerrin said.

The child took my hand. Her palm was warm and sticky, and I felt strangely honored. We ate our cakes sitting on a bench in front of the grand houses that lined one side of the street.

How’s the great romance? Zerrin asked.

Hardly that, I said. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her, just yet, that it had ended so quickly. I was even more reluctant now that I knew the seduction had been an illusion, repeated time after time. And that I’d been deceived, so easily.

Oh, you’re in love! Zerrin said. I can see it in your eyes.

No, I told her. I’m really not. I’m not even sure we’re a good match.

But he sounds so fun.

I suppose so.

The child had taken my hand again and was tugging at it.

Let’s go to my room, she said, as if we were already at home.

Darling, Zerrin said, she probably has other things to do.

No! the child shouted, pulling me more forcefully. Come and see my room!

I told Zerrin I didn’t mind. The attention of a child had always made me feel accomplished. Besides, I had a date with someone new in a few hours and would be glad to kill time.

You don’t have to humor her, Zerrin said, but I was already following the daughter’s lead. Zerrin sat a while longer on the bench before finally getting up.

It turned out that we were in fact sitting right across from their house, a two-story villa with vast windows I’d often admired from that very spot at the edge of the park. I could barely contain my surprise. I’d assumed a different life for Zerrin—a single parent who didn’t work. Perhaps her insistence that my apartment was full of charm had made me think hers must be lacking it.

As she was taking keys out of her bag, Zerrin mumbled that her husband might be home for the weekend.

He was. Stocky and cheerful, he greeted us in a blue canvas apron.

Where’s my Ninja Turtle? he asked. The child ran to show him the site of her broken tooth.

Oh no! he said. We’ll have to glue it back!

He slung her onto his shoulder, to the child’s shrieking delight, then kissed Zerrin on the cheek. She didn’t protest.

I tried to look at her, for some explanation, but Zerrin was busy taking off her coat, putting away the child’s bag.

After I’d seen the room—unsparingly pink—I sat at the kitchen island with a glass of wine. Zerrin had disappeared upstairs, seemingly in a hurry to tend to something. The house was lavishly spacious. There were long corridors of closed doors, accented with paintings, and plants the size of small trees. There must have been servants, too, to keep everything spotless, continuously erasing the usual signs of life and wear.

Zerrin’s husband was frying halloumi. There was a shopping bag on the counter; bowls and utensils; packs of washed, perfectly shaped vegetables.

I offered to help.

I got this, he said. Friday’s my day to cook. Helps me relax. Are you ready for the weekend? I sure am.

I told him I was hoping to see friends. Perhaps a movie.

He nodded his head as if he’d already known my answer.

I asked if he had plans.

Nothing at all. Not. One. Thing. Put up my feet. Be with the girls.

It was so nice to be back home, he continued. I might already know from Zerrin that he spent weekdays in another town. He had a small flat close to his work, which he used like a hotel. The long weekly commute and the days away from his family felt particularly difficult this year. It would be so much easier if Zerrin agreed to move to the countryside. But she’d always been a city girl.

Anyway, he said, I’m going to start looking for a place in the country soon. Whatever Zerrin says. When you’re making good money, he chuckled, you have to be able to enjoy it.

Zerrin came to the kitchen briefly, then left. From the hallway, she called out to her husband that he should offer me a drink.

I already have one, I called back. I’m very well taken care of.

Soon after this, I announced that I would get going. At the door, Zerrin kissed me goodbye.

You have a beautiful home, I told her.

Zerrin waved her hand abstractly.

Come again for dinner, the husband shouted. I never get to meet Zerrin’s friends.

i still had some time until my date and decided to take a roundabout path through the park. The sun was setting; deep shadows stretched gently into every furrow. The call of the mourning doves rang from treetops. I was glad to be alone.

I knew already that I wouldn’t ask Zerrin about any of it—the grand house or the husband’s oblivion to the separation she’d described. It would be an embarrassment for both of us. Besides, I reasoned, the situation wasn’t so different from what she had told me. Not quite a lie but a deliberate presentation of facts.

At the other end of the park, I put on lipstick, checking the contours on my phone screen. Then, I continued to the intersection where we’d agreed to meet. The man was already there, standing with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t take them out when he saw me. We walked for a while, looking for a place to sit down, finally settling on a craft beer bar. The conversation was neither engaging nor terrible; I knew what questions to ask to enliven our time together.

Afterward, we walked a bit more. The park was locked for the night, so we traced the periphery, passing by Zerrin’s house, which was dark save for a dim light coming from the second floor. I slowed my step to look up, though it was unlikely I would get a glimpse of the family. The child would be asleep, the husband and wife tending to their own lives. Surely, it wasn’t such an unappealing fate.

I had the sense that I’d been thrown off a ship. I wondered at Zerrin’s ready admiration of my life; it seemed now that she’d been humoring me. Without her eager audience, my youth felt charmless. It was already spent.

We passed the organic shop and were turning toward my street. In a moment, I would make up my mind to invite the man over. Just then, I felt the familiar tug, and raised my arm to follow its lead.