Pärnu Passages
I freeze for a moment at the thought of him—Tarmo, with his manufactured calm and predator’s patience, his knack for appearing at precisely the moment convenience turns to constraint. He’s coming to pick me up; gods know what the voyage will entail.
His presence is practical, of course—a shield, a ready-made alibi, the armour that lets me slide past the suspicions of police and politicians as I slip deeper into my own maze. With Tarmo beside me, doors open: university chancellors, thick-walleted patrons, the sort of men and women whose empires rest on silence, handshakes, and hints of threat. He can conjure a parade of “interesting people” with a single text. On paper, his presence is a gift.
And yet.
I know better than to believe in gifts. With him, every convenience shrouds a calculation. I am both asset and witness—maybe even temptation, though that’s riskier by far. There’s a chill beneath his charm; I’ve seen him turn it on and off like a lamp. I have to ask myself: Is he coming as protector, partner, or jailer tonight? Or all three, spinning their boundaries until I forget which one I’m supposed to trust?
Part of me catalogs the advantages: the introductions he promises, the ease with which he’ll clear customs and sidestep problems, the connections only he can broker. The smart thing—my entrepreneurial mind insists—is to accept the cover he provides and smile for the cameras.
But the rest of me—skin smarting under silk, mind still humming with defiance, desire, and gnawing unease—wonders what price he’ll set for his protection this time, what favors he’ll count before letting me go. I cannot shake the anticipation, spiked with apprehension, that tonight I am not simply being escorted; I am being delivered, positioned, made to serve ends far from my own.
I collect myself in the mirror one last time. Tarmo is picking me up.
Glass doors sigh closed behind me; the Telegraaf’s lobby smells of polish and midnight coffee. Tarmo stands at the curb, posture engineered for nonchalance, but his face flickers with something I try not to name. His smile is dry, lips barely tilting, as if the world itself were only a passing inconvenience. He opens the G-Wagon’s door with chivalry that would almost be disarming—if I’d ever believed it of him.
“You travel light as always. Punctual too.” The smolder of his voice lingers.
My heels ring against the cobbles, rhythm deliberate. “Traveling light is part of the charm, isn’t it? Less to lose, less to explain later.”
His fingers brush mine—a slipstream of heat crossing skin as he takes my bag. Logic exchanges for touch. Doors shut with a final, padded thud. The city shrinks, bleeding colors into glass and memory as the world outside narrows to dashboard glow and the faint, expensive cologne that always lingers in his orbit.
The car rolls forward. Each lamplight stutters over dashboard plastic, Tallinn fragmenting in streaks and shadow. My breath keeps pace with the engine—a jitter, then slow recalibration.
His gaze flickers sidelong, steady—appraisal, not invitation. “Plans changed. I hope your schedule survived the chaos.”
“You know I thrive on chaos.” My mouth tightens; half truth, half dare. “But I did wonder about the timing. Tomorrow was the plan. What’s got you spooked—or is this just your love for detours?”
His jaw locks—silent semaphore, tension mapped in muscle. One hand rests at the wheel, the other counting time in knuckle cracks. “Sometimes it pays to move when the board shifts. Call it a security precaution.”
“Security for you, or for me?”
Two fingers drum out a thought—hesitation in code. “Both, perhaps. Tallinn’s safe, but the air makes people bold.”
Streetlights vanish; the rearview stares back with hungry eyes. Warmth deepens, air thick and skin tingling. Memory flares at the base of my spine, alive to earlier touch and present threat. He adjusts the mirror, his gaze pinning mine—intent unsheathed, a moment stretched and dissected. I swallow, nerves a chorus.
“You seem uneasy. Still thinking about business, or is it the route?”
“A bit of both.” I keep it level. “Hard to focus when the rules shift mid-game.”
A smile, sharper now, fleeting. “Sometimes it’s best to improvise. Trust the driver.”
Words hover—promise or warning, breath or blade. The city bends away.
We settle into thick, humming silence. Beyond the windows, only endless black ribbon and the glimmer of taillights ahead—Tallinn’s glow now distant, lost. The world has gone blind and hungry tonight.
I catch a slice of my own reflection in the window: eyes too bright, lips parted. Not sure if with fear or longing. With Tarmo, it’s always both.
I watch him in the darkness, the G-Wagon’s interior humming around us—soft leather, cold chrome, and the faintest trace of aftershave shadowing his every gesture. He drives with the confidence of a man who expects the world to yield. The city is far behind now; the highway a silent tunnel, headlights soaking the black.
I track the road signs. Pärnu ahead. It’s a detour, and it’s not lost on me.
He keeps conversation light, almost affable—small talk about roadworks and weather, a joke about the perils of Estonian radio. Under it, something flexes between us: not quite threat, not quite invitation, just tension kept on a taut, invisible leash. His hand, large and composed on the gearshift, never strays. But every now and then, his gaze meets mine, holding a fraction too long.
My body thrums with aftereffects—of risk, of not knowing what comes next. The back of my mind cycles through scenarios: is this stop logistics, a lure for shadows, or something more intimate? My mouth is dry. I press my thighs together, suddenly hyperaware of every scrape of lace, every memory of hands and mouths, and what it might mean now.
He pulls off at a quiet service station. Gas station lights flicker harsh against the Baltic night pressing beyond their reach.
Without looking at me, he asks, “Do you want to stretch your legs? Take a breath?”
There’s peculiar gentleness in his voice that makes me wary. I step out anyway, boots crunching on gravel, air cold and sharp in my lungs. He stands a careful distance away, posture loose, but his attention is total. I feel him watching how I move, every signal and flinch.
I wish I could say I’m only scared. But that’s not honest anymore. There’s a spark inside me—fear not just of him, but of what I might want. Longing and dread lace together, a burning rope pulled tight.
The silence between us grows vast. If he reaches for me now, will I resist, or will I lean into the fire just to watch it burn? I can’t say, and he seems to know it.
He says nothing, just opens the door for me once more. As we merge again with the road—two shadows gliding through Baltic night—I hear the drum of my own pulse and wonder if he can sense the edge I’m walking. Nothing is settled. Every possibility is still alive.
In the G-Wagon’s tinted reflection, I study a woman whose professional composure masks seismic shifts beneath. The wool blazer, the turtleneck, the calculated neutrality of my expression—all careful architecture concealing ridiculously expensive lace underwear, an invitation waiting to be discovered.
The fact that I am fundamentally altered.
Beneath this curated exterior, my body hums with new frequencies, a tuning fork struck and still vibrating. I am fifty years old, holder of advanced degrees, architect of other people’s alibis, and I have just discovered that desire is not the polite academic exercise I once believed it to be. It is archaeology in reverse—not the careful excavation of what was, but the violent creation of what is.
The anthropologist in me wants to document this transformation: Subject exhibits unexpected responsiveness to risk-adjacent stimuli. Notes correlation between professional competence and personal abandon. Recommends further study.
But even my scholarly distance feels performative now, a vestige of who I was before steam and skin and the particular brand of recklessness that tastes like cardamom.
This awakening crystallized in Dakhla, though the foundation was laid earlier. Naples planted the first seeds—Ciro with his artist’s hands and philosopher’s mouth, teaching me that bodies could be canvases, that pleasure was a medium worth mastering. I thought myself worldly then, collecting experiences like passport stamps. In truth, I was still observing my own life from comfortable remove.
Novi Sad stripped away illusions of control. Marko, with his checkered past and unashamed expertise, showed me that desire could be choreographed without being artificial, that wanting someone could coexist with knowing precisely what you were buying and selling. He was my education in the economics of passion—fair trade in flesh and honesty.
But Karim… Karim is different. With him, there’s no performance, no careful calibration of give and take. Just the shocking recognition that all my previous encounters were preparation for this—the moment when intellectual curiosity combusts into genuine hunger.
I catalog the evidence: the particular ache in my thighs, the way silk catches on sensitized skin, the involuntary intake of breath when specific memories surface during mundane moments. My body has become a palimpsest, each lover a layer of text, but only now can I read the full manuscript.
Is this liberation or merely sophisticated self-deception? Am I finally authentic, or have I simply found a more compelling role to play? The questions feel less urgent than they once did. Perhaps wisdom isn’t knowing the answers but learning to inhabit uncertainty with grace.
Outside the window, Estonia rolls past in shades of white and silver—a landscape as liminal as my current state. Tarmo drives with his usual competence, occasionally catching my eye with the kind of knowing look that suggests my transformation isn’t as invisible as I’d hoped.
I should feel exposed, vulnerable. Instead, I feel awake in a way that makes my previous existence seem like elaborate sleepwalking. The academic in me will eventually analyze this, find frameworks and theories to contain what feels uncontainable. But for now, I’m content to sit with the beautiful discomfort of being fully present in my own skin.
Field notes can wait. Some discoveries deserve to be lived before they’re understood.
I glance sidelong at Tarmo. It’s absurd, really, the sheer inevitability of his body: those hands, easily twice the size of mine, resting casual and assured on the wheel; his thighs tense beneath crisp wool, bred for sprinting or crushing insurrection. His shirt—damn him—is tailored so close it might as well be field-issued armor, not a trace of softness anywhere, only muscle and uncompromising architecture.
The anthropologist in me should be making notes about posture, displays of dominance, cultural coding of predatory masculinity. Instead, I find myself cataloging the curve of his jaw, the careless set of lips that promise nothing gentle, and wondering—with no small amount of private hilarity—what it would be like to bite him, just to see if he’d flinch.
I catch myself mid-assessment, and a short, irrepressible chuckle leaks out. Apparently, sexual revolution comes with side effects: namely, sudden inability to keep libidinous appraisals to oneself.
And of course, that’s when he glances over—one eyebrow arched, mouth already curving into a grin so knowing it should come with a warning label. There’s no way he missed the appraisal.
Embarrassment wars with bravado. I decide bravado wins. I meet his eyes, lips quirking in outright amusement.
He smirks, low and satisfied, the kind of man never surprised to be wanted. “See something you like?” His voice is pitched low, teasing, perfectly aware.
I shrug. “Just running a risk assessment. All those muscles—hard to tell if you’re better suited for rescue or abduction.”
He laughs, delighted, the sound rolling through the car’s hush. “With you, Elena, I’d say the odds are even.”
I roll my eyes, but the heat in my cheeks is unmistakable. Gods below, I’m not just surviving this night—I’m thriving in it, appetite and all.
May your fire rage; just mind the blisters.
Author’s Note
Let’s get two things straight before you read further:
- Nothing here is entirely true.
- Nothing here is entirely false either.
I’ve lived long enough to know that life is not a neat division of research and experience. For years I hid behind analysis, pretending desire was an exotic artifact I could catalogue with the proper framework and footnotes. But age is a ruthless editor. Eventually, all the academic scaffolding collapses, and you’re left with bare appetite and the occasional headache.
The figures who haunt these chapters, Tarmo with his theatre of menace, Karim with his uncalculated burn, are real enough to have left marks. Still, it would be tedious (and possibly litigious) to insist on verifiable biography. Consider them instead as masks: truths scrambled, timelines swapped, and the locations, well, perhaps changed, everything muddled together into something fiction.
If you’re looking for a polite, well-organised chronicle, you’re in the wrong theatre. What you’ll find instead is a messy blend of philosophy, intrigue, confession, and lust, delivered with the sardonic humour of someone who has stopped asking permission to be complicated.
I am not here to reassure you.
I am here to remind you that life, especially after forty or fifty, doesn’t end in dignity; it begins in fire.
I.Ph
The C.O.M.C. Files 