Jela brought an overnight bag and a second bag she immediately placed beneath a chair. She had been dating Omer for three months. They were in their fifties, had grown children, and enough experience not to rush something they enjoyed. Dinner was good, the conversation even better. Still, she kept looking toward the chair. The second bag held the machine and mask she used while sleeping, a part of her life far less elegant than the dress she had chosen.
She mentioned it only when Omer asked whether she wanted more tea. She explained that she needed an outlet near the bed. She did not discuss her condition in detail, only what he would hear and see that night. He got up to move the bedside table. That simple response almost made her cry. She had prepared for a joke, an uncomfortable question, perhaps even a polite withdrawal of the invitation to stay. She had prepared no answer to an ordinary search for an outlet.
While unpacking, she said she did not look particularly attractive in the mask. Omer did not reply that she looked perfect in everything. He said he did not know because he had not seen her yet. Then he opened a little box and showed her the mouthguard he wore to bed. He did not present it as a competition in embarrassment. He simply took it out of the place where it had been hidden, as another object needing space beside the bed.
Jela laughed, then asked him not to watch while she fitted the mask. He turned away. A few moments later she invited him to look. They switched off the main lamp, and she waited to become somebody's difficulty. He asked whether the bedside light was too bright. She said yes. He moved it. She could not believe how exhausting the conversation that never happened had been, a whole evening of rejection performed in advance inside her own head.
Neither slept particularly well. The bed was narrower than Jela was used to, and Omer tried too long to lie motionless so he would not disturb her. Toward morning she told him he could turn over. He admitted that his back already hurt. They laughed softly and cautiously, like people who had finally stopped performing their own simplicity. It was no perfect first night. There were many cables, adjustments, and one missing pillow.
In the morning Jela found her second bag open on the chair. She no longer hurried to hide it. While she washed her face, Omer asked whether next time he could visit her, where they might both sleep more comfortably. She said yes. They kissed in the kitchen, before coffee and before explaining how they looked after a bad night. The dress hung creased over a chair back, by far the least important thing she had brought.