Her Charming Absentmindedness

The early morning envelops the city in a gentle half-light, and I, shivering as I wrap my scarf tighter, climb into a taxi. The cold air still clings to my fingers, but the thought of seeing her warms me better than any heater ever could. I pull out my phone and, smiling to myself, type a message: "I’m on my way, please make me some coffee." I send it and gaze out the window, watching the sleepy streets flicker by, already anticipating the cozy warmth of her apartment.

When the taxi finally pulls up to her familiar building, I pay quickly and nearly run to the door. She opens it with that same smile—half-asleep, a little mischievous, but so dear that my heart can’t help but tighten with affection. I step inside, shrug off my coat, shake out my hair still chilled from the wind, and ask with a hint of eager anticipation:

“Where’s the coffee?”

She looks at me with wide eyes, as if I’ve just said something utterly unexpected.

“What coffee?” she asks, tilting her head slightly.

“But I texted you!” I reply, already laughing as I reach for my phone to show her the proof.

She grabs her own phone in a flash, opens the messenger, and… before I can even blink, she not only reads my message but also likes it. Her fingers freeze over the screen, and then she looks up at me, her expression brimming with genuine bewilderment.

“How did I do that?” she mutters, staring at her phone as if it’s just revealed some grand universal secret.

I can’t hold back my laughter, and she, catching my smile, heads to the kitchen. She sets the kettle on the stove and turns to me, leaning against the fridge. Her eyes—warm, a little drowsy, but so full of love—gaze at me with an inexplicable softness. I nod toward the stove:

“You forgot to turn on the gas.”

She blinks, then flushes and laughs—a bright, slightly embarrassed sound, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

“I forget everything!” she exclaims, but there’s no trace of annoyance in her voice, just a light, self-mocking tone.

And it’s true—her forgetfulness is something extraordinary. She can forget not only to turn on the gas but also that her shoe size is 38, not 41. As a result, she buys herself oversized slippers, her tiny feet sinking into them like they’re fluffy clouds. I don’t know how she manages it, but there’s something wonderfully natural in her clumsiness, something that makes her so… real. She does it with such grace and ease that I can only shake my head and smile tenderly.

“You’re the sweetest when you get so flustered,” I say, looking at her with warmth.

She smiles back—that smile that turns my insides upside down—and turns to the stove again. She clicks the lighter, but then pauses, stares at the kettle, and realizes the gas still isn’t on. She hurriedly fixes it, and finally, a cheerful blue flame flickers to life beneath the kettle. She turns to me with a triumphant grin.

“See?” I laugh. “The coffee’s coming after all.”

She nods, still smiling, and whispers softly:

“It’s just that you distract me…”

Her words hang in the air, simple yet so significant. I look at her—at her slightly tousled hair, her gentle gaze, her slender fingers still clutching the lighter—and realize there’s nothing more precious than these morning moments. These forgotten messages, kettles on the stove, slippers too big for her feet. Because in her absentmindedness lies all her tenderness, her warmth, her love.

There was another moment like that, too. Once, I went to her workplace and called her:

“Where are you? I’m here.”

Suddenly, I hear her voice behind me:

“I’m right here.”

I turn around, end the call, and there she is, standing close, smiling at me. And then she lifts the phone back to her ear. I stare at her, puzzled:

“Who are you talking to now?”

She doesn’t answer, just gives me that enigmatic smile and slips the phone into her bag with a graceful motion. And how could I not love her after that? She catches my gaze, smiles—and in that smile is my entire world. I look at her and know: her absentmindedness is the stars lighting up my life, and her love is my home, the place I’ll always return to.

Victoria Lunar. 2025.