Dimitra woke abruptly at half past four, heart hammering, shadows flickering on the white walls of her Athens apartment. We have to pack and leave, now, before everything becomes sacred, she whispered to herself, trembling. Shed never felt such humiliation coursing through her veins. How did it come to this? What a naïve fool shed been!
Since her daughter, Myrto, moved out to a rented place in Exarchia, Dimitra barely cooked anymore. Most afternoons, she took her lunch at the cozy kafeneio on Kifisia Avenue, just steps from her office. There, one sunny day, Christos joined her at a small marble table. After a few conversations, their acquaintance blossomed into a passionate affair. Christos, a few years younger, had that dignified silver hair, giving him a rugged charmand an aura beyond his age.
Christos knew how to court a woman. He whisked her off to elegant tavernas in Kolonaki, gifted her fragrant lilies and invited her on moonlit strolls through the Plaka. Dimitra soon lost herself in his attention. She lived for each message, every glance, running to the beauty salon before their dates, her mind wrapped up tight in fantasies of their future together.
Night after night, she played out their wedding in her dreams, picturing themselves honeymooning on sandy shores of Crete.
A week and a half ago, Christos invited her to escape for a short holiday on the coast. Lets leave Friday night and come back Sunday, he said, promising romance. Dimitras heart soared, her imagination spinning visions of him proposing beside a sparkling lake under the stars.
On that Friday afternoon, Christos called with a slurred voice: I drank a bit, so well take your car. Alright, she replied, determined not to let disappointment cloud the weekend.
After work, she met him on Ermou Street. He staggered slightlyclearly drunkbut Dimitra hoped hed sober up by the time they reached the resort outside Marathonas. They arrived after dusk, checking into a stone house Christos had reserved. He opened the door with flourish, and Dimitra felt like royalty, stepping into a new chapter.
They went out to the local kafeneio, where soft bouzouki music played. Christos ordered cognac, pouring himself a glass. Will you join me? he asked. Just a little, to relax, he assured her.
Dimitras first husband, Andreas, had died from alcoholism, and she had a deep aversion to spirits. Christos knew that. In less than an hour, he was completely drunk, raucously dragging her onto the dance floor. When she refused, he shambled off alone, soon joined by a young woman. At first, they danced; then their behavior became vulgar, drawing stares.
Eventually, the waiterhands deep in his moustacheasked them to leave. Christos and the woman returned to Dimitras table, drained the cognac in a flash, and Christos muttered, Dont wait up for me tonight. The woman sneered, Youre an old lady compared to him, and they stumbled out together.
Hot shame burned in Dimitras chest, her vision clouded with disbelief. Numb, she sat until a waiter gently placed an ice cream dish before her. From the house, he said, quietly.
Silent tears slid down Dimitras cheeks as she ate the cold treat. Though she wanted to flee that instant, she forced herself to wait for dawn. Back home in Pangrati, she immediately threw every item in the washing machine, determined to erase his scent. As she opened her bag, she found her blouse stained with bloodChristos blood.
Her hands shook. If Christos were dead, shed be the first suspect; she had every reason for vengeance.
Desperate, Dimitra dialed her neighbor, Eleni, who worked at the police records office. Eleni, I need help. Please, its six in the morning, but
Sobbing, Dimitra scarcely explained. Im coming. Open the door, Eleni said.
After hearing the tangled story, Eleni grabbed her phone. Good morning! Whos on duty as forensic today? Ill be there in thirty minutes. For Dimitra. She hugged her friend. Youre scared theyll arrest you, eh? Give me your blouse and Christos number.
An hour later Eleni rang back. Dont worry. The blood is from pork, and your Christos is a scam artist. Ill tell you everything when I get there.
Dimitras mind reeled. Who was this criminal? When Eleni rushed in, she asked first, You sold your parents housewheres the money? On your card? Is your phone linked to the card?
The cards in the wardrobe. Phones not linked. Dimitra answered, confused.
And Christos knows the code, I bet?
Yes, we talked about the year on the card.
Block the card, now.
Dimitra saw recent charges at a souvlaki shopright before her eyes. They smeared your shirt with pork blood so youd be frozen in fear while they emptied your account. Lets go to the station to file a report before they realize youve blocked your card….
Eleni squeezed Dimitras hand as they hurried down the sidewalk, the morning light now golden. Youre stronger than you think, she said. Lets catch the thief, get your money back, and reclaim your peace.
At the station, Dimitras nerves steadied as she recounted everything, feeling a surge of defiance amid the shame. When the police officer assured her it was a common scam, Dimitra realized the truth: she wasnt alone, and she wasnt powerless.
Back home, Dimitra stared at the Athens skyline, the city humming below. As she brewed strong Greek coffee, her lips finally curled into a smilea small, fierce smile tinged with relief and something deeper. The lilies Christos had once given her sat wilting on the kitchen table. She plucked them out, tossing them in the trash with a flourish.
Later, Myrto dropped by, bringing warm koulouri and, without asking, wrapped Dimitra in a hug. Youre safe, Myrto whispered.
Yes, Dimitra said, pressing her forehead to her daughters. Im safe, and next timeno more fairy tales. Ill write my own story.
Outside, the sun spilled over Athens, illuminating the bruised past but also bathing Dimitras future in gold. She felt it: a new chapter, one she would live fiercely, wisely, and entirely for herself.
