Sibling Coffee

I stare at the coffee maker, my lips in a tight smile, remembering.

I remember the good old times, when Katyusha would make us coffee, drowning our cups with milk and honey.

When it was just the three of us in the world, our world, when it was just Vanya* and Natalya (and Katyusha).

I remember our first kiss, behind the barn and under the sunflowers.

There was a pleasant innocence to it, we were young and alone and we knew nothing but Katyusha's smile, The General Winter (our white horse)'s fur under our fingers and each other.

We kissed many times after that, without losing that childish naiveté that characterized our touches.

When Katyusha realized what we were doing, she became hysterical, she didn't understand and maybe, we didn't either.

"It is wrong! You are siblings! Родственники*(2)!"

At first, you paid no heed to her words, your young lips, soft against mine.

But Katyusha's opinion must have gotten to you because you stopped indulging me with kisses.

You pushed me away and I saw the way you gagged whenever I forced my lips upon yours.

And so, I stopped, and then, we sold the farm.

We left it all behind, even the general, our only possessions being the clothes on our backs and the coffee maker Katyusha took in her arms.

You picked a sunflower to take with you.

"So I don't forget." You said and I hoped that you were talking, not only about the farm but also, about our kiss.

The flower died a few days later.

We moved to an old, rickety apartment in the big city and I seemed to be the only one that missed the chickens and the sun.

We entered school and went our separate ways, I was alone and if you ever saw the bruises peeking from under my long sleeves you kept quiet.

You called me Sister in public and it may have been to remind me that in this world we shared blood and there was no place in it for our childhood memories.

Eventually, I started calling you Brother, the title falling from lips with practiced ease.

Not even Katyusha called you Vanya anymore, as she served you coffee, and I wondered if Vanya, my Vanya, had been replaced by Ivan.

It wasn't until High School that I met someone, his name was Matthew Williams and his lavender eyes reminded me of yours.

He was soft-spoken and sweet; he never held it against me when I confused him with his much more rambunctious twin.

I invited him for coffee a few times, he added maple syrup to his cup, you didn't even notice he was at the table with us.

I remember the night I kissed him almost as clearly as I remember the feeling of Katyusha's fingers, threading through my hair.

He tasted like maple syrup and mint, with an underlying hint of tabac.

We kissed until we were out of breath but it was him who pushed me away, I waited awaited for rejection, my respiration ragged.

"Natalya, you're an amazing girl and my best friend, but I… I don't like women that way. I doesn't matter anyway, does it? I've seen the way you look at Ivan; you don't like me for myself, do you? Nobody does."

He cried that night, leaning onto my shoulder.

He cried quietly for a while and then he screamed, crying with big angry sobs and a red face.

To this day I wonder if he was right.

Was I in love with his tiny voice and gentle mannerisms or did I like him only for the Vanya I saw in him?

It was probably both, I reckon.

But it was true that it didn't matter, for he got married three years later to an albino, whom I threatened harshly not to hurt Matt.

I was maid of honor at their wedding but you couldn't know, you never asked what the pretty dress in my closet was for or where the hickeys that decorated my neck the next day came from.

They were from a Lithuanian gentleman named Toris, with warm eyes and soft skin, whom I met at the reception.

He was gentle on the bed and he took gratefully the cup of coffee I offered him next day.

Still, he never talked to me again, evading his eyes guiltily when he crossed me on the street.

My coffee was never as good as Katyusha's.

After Toris there was no one and I cried myself to sleep for many months.

I still wonder today, as I gaze jealously upon the couples outside my window, what would have happened if Katyusha hadn't discovered us.

It doesn't matter now, perhaps it never did, for you are dead and tears stain my wrinkled cheeks as I keep smiling.

I planted sunflowers, you know? I planted sunflowers on your grave in remembrance of happier days when it was just Vanya and Natalya (and Katyusha).

I water them every day as Matthew waits besides his husband's grave, talking quietly to Gilbert's memory.

There's a stone upon your tomb, cold in between the sunflowers, and it still angers me that the name written on it is Ivan and not Vanya.

Still, it was put there by your best friend (or was it lover?) Yao and I cannot blame him, for the image of his despair still haunts me.

Hard tears, inky black hair streaked with silver, hopelessness.

The only things in my garden are grass and roses, the latter Katyusha's favorite.

I couldn't stand to plant sunflowers, I still love you.

I hear the doorbell ring, it's probably Matthew so we can visit his grandchildren.

I take a sip from my cup of coffee, it's commercial and it tastes horrible, but after all, the coffee maker has been broken for years.

And my heart has been shattered for even longer.

-Page Break-

* Vanya is a unisex diminutive for Ivan, it just seemed fitting.

*(2) Kin in Russian.