copyright©2025
THE LITTLE DONKEY
The afternoon was soft and grey, the kind of light that seems to rest on your shoulders rather than fall from the sky. In the kitchen, the kettle whispered on the stove and the scent of coffee hung warm in the air. I’d just laid out a plate of biscuits when a familiar knock sounded on the door.
Katka and Filip stepped inside, bringing with them the scent of the outdoors—fresh hay, damp earth, and the faint metallic tang of stable work. They were a young Czech couple we had met only weeks before at Roosters, their cheeks flushed from the shy battle with the menu, their laughter breaking through as they tried to order fries in a patchwork of English and smiles.
They worked nearby, tending to Mr. Mullins’s riding horses, but in their free hours they painted—always horses, as if the creatures had taken up permanent residence in their minds. Their art was meticulous and alive, and they carried it everywhere in thick binders whose corners were already worn soft.
We were leaning over the kitchen table, turning page after page, the sound of paper against paper like a slow exhale, when three deliberate knocks broke the rhythm.
I wasn’t expecting anyone, but I went to open the door. Jack stood there, framed in the doorway, his hair catching the dim light like strands of copper wire.
“Hi… what are you doing here?” My voice came out softer than I’d meant it to.
“May I come in?” he asked, his tone neutral but with that glint in his eyes I could never quite name.
“Of course. We’ve got company, though,” I said, letting the words hang as a gentle warning.
He stepped inside as if the space had always belonged to him. Names were exchanged, but then… nothing. He stood silent, his gaze flickering between them. The warmth in the room cooled by degrees until the conversation stumbled and, finally, stopped.
“Girls, we should be going,” Katka said suddenly, her voice lighter than her face. “It’s getting late, and we still have somewhere to be.” She closed her binder with a soft thud, the sound oddly final.
Only later did she tell me what had unsettled her.
“That was your boyfriend—the Irish one?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It’s just—something in his eyes… Does he dislike us?”
“That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even know you.”
“I know. But it felt like he did—and not kindly.”
I laughed, though it felt more like pushing air than genuine amusement.
“Oh, that? He looks at everyone that way. That’s just his face.”
But when I was alone again, the question returned, unwelcome but persistent: Was he trying to chase my friends away? I tucked the thought deep into the shadows of my mind and let it sleep there.
The plan to visit the Kilkenny caves had been ours for months. But like so many plans, it slipped through our fingers—work, weather, moods. Then, one damp day, he rang my phone again and again. I let it ring. My own thoughts were a fog I didn’t want disturbed, and I wasn’t speaking to anyone—not even Marketa.
By the time he arrived at my door, evening had settled like velvet over the street.
“Why didn’t you answer?” His voice was calm, but there was a sharpness under the surface.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t… in the mood to talk.”
“You missed a great day. I took Julian to the caves.” His smile had a deliberate weight to it, a message I was meant to receive.
I feigned surprise, hiding the sting. I doubted Julian had gone anywhere. This was theatre—punishment disguised as conversation. I knew his strategies as one knows the rhythm of an old song. Still, I silently cursed myself for giving him an excuse. And so I promised: from now on, I would answer every call, no matter what mood I was in.
The quarrels began to multiply—small sparks over nothing, each one smouldering until it became the same old play: a performance of a breakup, followed by the inevitable truce. I was almost always the one who broke first, unable to bear the stillness. He knew this. And he used it.
But one day, the quarrel was only half real.
The afternoon was restless with wind. I jumped out of his car before he’d even killed the engine and sprinted toward my front door, half laughing, half daring him to follow. I heard his footsteps quicken behind me.
At the door, I slipped inside and closed it too quickly.
A muffled thud—then a low, surprised yelp.
I opened the door just a crack. He stood there, palm to his forehead, eyes narrowed but smiling at the edges.
“Ow. You slammed it right in my face. I’ll have a bump for sure.”
“Serves you right,” I said, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me.
He went to the kitchen, gathered ice in a towel, and pressed it to the spot. The water slid down his shirt in slow, glistening trails. Within moments, his sleeves clung to his arms.
“Damn. Do you have an iron? This is my work shirt.” He peeled it off, the fabric pulling at his shoulders until only a thin vest remained.
The light from the skylight poured over him, warm and gold. His hair—long, loose, and slightly tangled—caught the glow, and for a moment I simply watched. His arms moved with quiet strength as he tried to press the shirt, fumbling at the edges, and something in me softened.
“You little donkey—never slam the door on me again,” he said, his voice playful now.
I crossed to him without thinking, my arms finding their way around his waist. I kissed the tender spot on his forehead, where the skin was already swelling.
“Let me make it better,” I murmured.
We stayed like that—just two shadows tangled together—while the sunlight waned to a last, fragile gold. Outside, the wind slipped through the trees. Inside, the silence between us was warm.
And I thought: if he could live in moments like this, perhaps there was still hope. Perhaps I could be the one to slip under the armour, to teach him how to love without fear. In that glow, his flaws seemed like distant things, harmless shadows at the edge of the light.
Back then, I couldn’t have imagined how much he would come to mean to me—both the light and the darkness of him.
copyright©2025
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