Liesa's Night

Andy set the kettle down with a clang that echoed in the kitchen. He stared at the reflection in the brushed steel: green eyes, a little brackish with fatigue, and the tired half-smile of a man who’d spent the last half-hour replaying a couple of particularly uncomfortable incidents in his head. The Suite was immaculate, the coffee table arranged with symmetry—a tray of madeleines, a wedge of brie and crackers, a neat stack of little plates, two mugs placed in front of the couch and the armchair. He’d even uncorked a bottle of Pinot, just in case tea wasn’t enough. Amazing, what a magical fridge and pantry could produce.

It looked, he decided, like the world’s most boring home-staging. If he had to impress a real estate agent or a judgy mother-in-law, this would be the move. For Liesa, it felt both excessive and inadequate.

The sun was nearly down. Outside, the ocean was an indigo bruise, reflecting the last orange veins of daylight. Andy watched the horizon, waiting for the elevator’s call light to flicker, announcing her arrival.

The elevator dinged five minutes early. Andy’s pulse jumped into his throat. He wiped his hands on his jeans, cursed the moisture there, and crossed to the elevator door just as it slid open.

Liesa stood in the cabin, sketchbook under one arm, a battered cardboard box tucked against her hip. Her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled up in a messy bun, a few loose strands framing her face. She wore a chunky blue sweater over a white tank top and black leggings, her feet bare except for a pair of bright green slippers with felt daisies glued to the top. She spotted Andy and did a little curtsy, the movement more graceful than it had any right to be.

“Dag,” she said, her accent painting the word with a gentle brushstroke.

Andy grinned, then realized he was staring. “Hey. Come in?”

She stepped forward, pausing at the threshold. In a single, practiced motion, she took off her slippers and lined them up side by side near the elevator, toes pointed outward. Andy smiled, remembering how she’d done the same thing in college dorms. “You still believe in the no-shoes rule?” he asked.

Liesa wrinkled her nose. “Moemoe‘s* rule. Floors should be clean enough to eat from. Not that you’d want to.” She peered past him into the suite. “Is good here. I like it. Very… cozy.” She said the last word like it was a discovery.

Andy stepped aside, and Liesa padded into the living room, taking in the view. “Wow,” she said, “is beautiful.” She ran her fingers along the edge of the table, pausing at the tray of madeleines. “For me?”

He nodded. “Only the best for my distinguished guest.”

She raised an eyebrow, then giggled. “You’re a sufferd**, Andy Cooper.”

He laughed, tension draining from his shoulders. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment, the silence threatening to settle in. Liesa rescued it, holding up her sketchbook. “Can I draw here? Or is too formal?”

“Please,” Andy said, gesturing at the sofa. “Make yourself at home.”

She tucked her legs beneath her and opened the sketchbook to a blank page, then glanced at the madeleines. “Is it okay if I…?” She mimed eating one.

“Help yourself.”

She took a cookie, bit into it, and closed her eyes in bliss. “Mmm. Not as good as Brussels, but much better than Starbucks,” she said, then looked at Andy. “You remember the Belgian cafè by the train station?”

He did. They’d spent an entire afternoon there once, sharing a plate of tiny cakes and arguing about whether the chocolate ones were better than the plain. He nodded. “You claimed the lemon ones were for tourists.”

Liesa’s face split in a grin. “They are! But I like tourists.” Her eyes shone, but there was a sadness behind the smile. “I missed this,” she said, softer now.

Andy sat across from her, keeping a careful distance. He watched as Liesa uncapped a pen and began to doodle in the corner of her page, tiny triangles and squares blooming into a lattice. It was a nervous tic, one she’d always had. He wondered if she even noticed.

“Travel sketches?” he asked, nodding at the book.

“Some,” she said. “Mostly ideas. Sometimes I just draw what I see.” She glanced at him, then away. “It’s easier than talking.” He nodded.

“I’m sure you’ll have plenty to talk about with Emi. She’s an illustrator now.”

Andy wanted to ask about Belgium—about her family, her work, her life since they’d last seen each other—but he couldn’t find the right angle. He tried: “You’re still in Antwerp?”

Liesa shrugged. “For now. I move a lot. I had to change apartments four times in one year. Is not so easy, but… better than I expected.” She doodled a little faster, the pen catching on the page. “I do freelance illustration. Book covers, sometimes murals.”

“That’s great,” Andy said, and meant it. “I always thought you’d be famous.”

Liesa laughed, but it was brittle. “Not famous, but I like my work. I can be myself. Even if…” She stopped, looking down at the box in her lap.

Andy waited, letting the silence work.

After a moment, Liesa said, “You want to know why I left, don’t you?” Her voice was soft, almost apologetic.

He met her eyes, steady. “Yes. But only if you want to tell me.”

She shook her head, lips pressing together. “I still don’t know how. Every time I try, it’s like the words are…” She waved her hand, as if swatting a bug. “Lost.”

Andy nodded, understanding. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

She smiled, grateful. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath, then turned the sketchbook so he could see the page. “This is what I see,” she said.

The drawing was of the suite, but seen from a child’s perspective: the furniture loomed large, the windows stretched to the sky, and two figures sat at opposite ends of the room, both smiling but with a gulf of white space between them.

“It’s beautiful,” Andy said.

Liesa blushed, then looked away. “It’s not finished yet.”

They sat together for a while, the only sounds the scratch of pen on paper and the distant shush of waves beyond the glass. Andy found himself watching her hands, the way they moved with confidence and precision. He remembered how he used to wake up with her hair tangled across his chest, how she’d hum songs under her breath while she worked, how she could make even the ugliest parts of life seem worth drawing.

He missed her.

“So,” Liesa said, breaking the quiet, “do you want to know what’s in the box?”

Andy grinned. “Only if you want to tell me.”

She rolled her eyes at the echo. “You’re not making this easy, schat***.”

He laughed at the endearment, surprised at how natural it felt. “Sorry. Old habits.”

Liesa set the sketchbook aside and opened the box, peeling back the lid with careful fingers. Inside were a half-dozen ticket stubs, a faded Polaroid of a graffiti mural, a pressed flower (now brown and fragile), and several sheets of drawing paper, the edges curled from age.

“These are my memories,” she said. “Of us.” She picked up the photo and held it out. “You remember this?”

Andy squinted at the picture. It was of a wall near the university, spray-painted with a giant dragonfly in blues and greens. Liesa stood in front of it, hair dyed teal and sticking out in all directions, her arms wrapped around a younger, shaggier version of Andy. They both wore paint-stained clothes and were laughing so hard their eyes were closed.

“I do,” he said. “We got in trouble for that.”

“Only because you forgot the paint can,” she teased.

He smiled, and for a second, the years between them dissolved.

Liesa set the picture down, then drew out a sheet of paper. It was a pencil sketch of Andy, sitting at a kitchen table, half-asleep and hunched over a laptop. His hair was a mess, his eyes dark with exhaustion, but the expression on his face was soft, peaceful.

“I made this the night before I left,” she said, her voice tight. “I didn’t want to forget you.”

Andy felt a lump in his throat. “You could have called,” he said, then immediately regretted it.

Liesa flinched. “I know. I was ashamed.” She looked at him, searching. “I still am, sometimes.”

He wanted to reach out, to take her hand and tell her it was all right. But he stayed where he was, letting her lead.

She closed the box, hugging it to her chest. “Arabella put this in the Commissary. I didn’t even know she can find these things. I left them in Antwerp.” Her eyes narrowed in confusion. “I pay 100 BP, and it was in my room.” She glanced at him, uncertain. “Why would she do that? Isn’t this supposed to be—” she gestured around, at the Suite, the absurd comfort— “all about… you know. Sexy things?”

Liesa: 2000 BP - 100 BP = 1900 BP

Andy shrugged. “She did something similar for Dawn. And for you, with the tea set. Maybe you get a freebie, but other things you can get. Sometimes, I think she wants us to be… I don’t know. Whole people.” He frowned. “Or maybe she’s lulling us into a false sense of security, and then… BAM! Orgy!”

Liesa smiled at that, then nodded. “Is strange. But nice.”

She returned the box to the table and pulled her knees to her chest, arms wrapping around them. Her feet, small and pale, rested against the carpet. Andy noticed she’d painted her toenails bright pink.

“Can I draw you?” she asked, her voice shy now.

He blinked, surprised. “Now?”

She grinned. “It helps me think.”

Andy nodded, unsure what to do with his hands. “How should I…?”

Liesa waved him to stay as he was. She set the sketchbook on her lap, selected a pencil from the cup on the table, and started to draw. Her eyes darted from his face to the page, back and forth, the pencil moving in light, quick strokes.

Liesa suddenly muttered. “I check your Instagram sometimes. No girlfriends. Only the coffee place, and once, a picture with Sam and a funny hat.”

Andy laughed. “I guess I’m not very interesting.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You start a company, no?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Sold it, too. It was… strange. Everyone says you should be happy, but it’s just emptiness, really.”

Liesa looked up, her gaze piercing. “You’re lonely.”

He didn’t answer, but she already knew.

She returned to the sketch, her lips pressed tight in concentration. “Sometimes, I think about writing you. But then I get scared you won’t answer. Or that you change too much.”

Andy watched her, feeling the old ache return. “I think about you, too,” he said. “A lot more than I probably should.”

Liesa’s hand paused, then resumed. “Why didn’t you ever come to Belgium? Even just to visit?”

Andy hesitated. “I was afraid,” he said, honest. “That you’d moved on. That you didn’t want to see me.”

She drew faster now, the strokes turning bold. “I wanted to see you every day,” she said. “But I made mistakes. Big ones.”

Andy waited, but she didn’t elaborate.

She changed the subject: “You have a nice smile, Andy. Did you know?”

He flushed. “Not really.”

She grinned, showing her own perfect teeth. “I like it,” she said, and he believed her.

The sketch took less than fifteen minutes, but it felt like an hour. When she finished, she tore out the page and handed it to him.

Andy looked at the drawing: it was him, but sharper, more real. She’d captured the shadow under his eyes, the curve of his jaw, the way his hands fidgeted with the edge of the tray. He looked uncertain, but alive.

“It’s great,” he said, and meant it.

Liesa ducked her head, pleased. “You can keep it. If you want.”

He set the sketch on the table, then looked at her. “I do.”

The night drifted on, the conversation turning lighter as they shared memories of college, of mutual friends, of the dumb things they’d done together. At one point, Liesa reenacted an epic prank they’d pulled on a professor, her accent thickening with each punchline. She laughed until she snorted, then buried her face in her arms, mortified.

“You’re ridiculous,” Andy said, fondness warming his voice.

She peeked at him, her eyes sparkling. “Ik vind het leuk.****”

He nodded. “I always did.”

The words hung between them, heavy and sweet.

After a while, Liesa grew quiet. She gazed out the window, the moonlight silvering her hair. “Do you think we could stay up a little longer?” she asked, her voice trembling just a bit.

Andy understood. He moved to sit next to her on the couch, close but not crowding. He reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek. “Whatever you want.”

Liesa’s eyes searched his, but she didn’t move. Andy remembered her transformation. He wondered if she wanted to kiss him, but couldn’t. So Andy cupped her face, gentle, and kissed her. It was tentative at first—light as breath, both of them holding back—but then Liesa pressed closer, her hand warm against his chest, and the kiss deepened.

Kissed the Master! +1 VP

Years of regret, longing, and confusion spilled out in the space between them. Andy wrapped his arms around her.

Hugged the Master! +1 VP

When they finally broke apart, Liesa let her head rest on his shoulder. “I missed you,” she whispered.

Andy held her close, her bare feet tucked beneath her, her hair soft against his chin. “I missed you, too.”

They talked a while longer, words growing slower and softer as fatigue caught up with them. Eventually, Liesa drifted off, curled up with her head in his lap. Andy stroked her hair, watching the rise and fall of her breath.

He thought of Erin, of how she’d fallen asleep the same way, and wondered if this was his role: to be a safe place for women who needed to forget the world for a night.

He didn’t mind.

When Liesa’s breathing grew deep and even, Andy lifted her gently, carried her to the bed, and tucked the blanket around her shoulders. She stirred, blinked up at him, and smiled. “Good night, schat.”

He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Good night.”

He lay down beside her, then an instinct made him wrap his arm around her, pulling her closer, spooning her. She snuggled into him, with a soft sigh, and one of her hands clutched his, as if it were the most precious thing on Earth. "Thank you," she whispered sleepily, and then she was asleep. Andy held her tight, and listened to the soft hush of the waves beyond the glass.

Spooned by the Master! +1 VP

Andy woke to the scent of waffles. Not the faint, chemical memory of a hotel buffet, but the real thing—yeasty batter, browning butter, and a faint thread of vanilla. He lay there for a moment, confused, before remembering Liesa had fallen asleep beside him last night.

He blinked at the ceiling, feeling uncharacteristically content. The memory of their late-night conversation lingered, softer and less sharp than he’d feared, like an ache that had finally lost its sting.

After a minute, he rolled out of bed, slipped on a pair of sweats, and padded into the living room. The sun was bright against the ocean, the suite suffused with the gold of a morning that could almost be mistaken for normal. Liesa stood at the kitchen island, her hair a frizz of soft red and gold, spatula in one hand and mug of coffee in the other.

She looked up, saw him, and smiled. “Goeiemorgen, slaapkop,”***** she called. Her accent was thicker, the way it always was when she was distracted.

Andy grinned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Are those…?”

“Waffles,” she said, brandishing a triangle. “I hope is okay. I don’t know if I can make American pancakes. Is not so different, maybe?”

He crossed to the kitchen, trying not to stare at her bare feet on the tile. “Are you kidding? I love waffles. You didn’t have to—”

She shook her head. “I wanted to. I needed to make something with my hands.” She set a plate on the counter, then slid the next waffle onto a wire rack to cool. “Also, why is breakfast food labeled ‘low-calorie’ in the fridge? Your milk is very strange, Andy Cooper.”

He poured himself coffee and took a seat, watching her move. She was in a borrowed T-shirt and boxers, both comically oversized, but she wore them with the same careless confidence she brought to everything else.

He picked up a piece of waffle and took a bite. It was incredible: sweet, crisp on the edges, with just enough lemon to make it bright. He closed his eyes, savoring. “You could open a restaurant with these.”

Liesa beamed, flushed with pleasure. “Are not as good as my moemoe’s. But you are easy to please.”

He shrugged. “You have no idea.”

They ate together in comfortable silence, the only sounds the crunch of waffle and the gentle pulse of the ocean beyond the window. When the first round was gone, Liesa cleared her throat.

“I want to say thank you,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

Andy waited, not sure what to expect.

She spread her hands, palms up. “For not asking for more.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “You can tell me anything. Or nothing. It’s up to you.” He wished he knew what she was referring to, though… if her past in Belgium, or what they could have done in bed. Perhaps both.

She looked at him, relief and something else—something like gratitude—softening her expression. “You always say the right thing, Andy. Even when you don’t mean to.” She laughed, then took a sip of coffee.

They lingered over breakfast, but eventually Liesa pushed her chair back and stood. “I should go. I have to meet with Marissa and Emi.”

Andy nodded, but as she started to collect her things, a question rose to the surface. He decided not to let it drift.

“Hey, Liesa?”

She glanced back, tucking her hair behind one ear. “Yes?”

He hesitated, then: “Your transformation. I know you can’t initiate… but what does that mean, exactly? Are you allowed to, like, say something? Or is it just—”

She cut him off with a laugh, light and musical. “You mean, can I ask for sex, or must I only hope for it to happen?”

He grinned, embarrassed. “Yeah. I just want to know where the lines are.”

She moved closer, her bare feet silent on the carpet. “I can say what I want. Except for that. And I cannot… make the first move. Is like there is a wall, here.” She tapped her sternum. “Sometimes, I want to, but my hands do not listen.”

He nodded. “So if I ever, you know—” He stopped, unsure how to phrase it.

Liesa’s eyes twinkled. “If you want to sleep with me, you must start. But if I want it, I can only wait.”

Andy felt his cheeks go hot. “Got it.”

She smiled, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, soft and warm. “You worry too much.”

He shrugged. “This place is weird. I feel like I’m supposed to be sleeping with everyone, but—”

Liesa shrugged, matter-of-fact. “If everyone is happy, what is wrong with it?” She grinned. “Maybe I am too European for your American guilt, Andy.”

He laughed, the knot of awkwardness dissolving. “Maybe. In that case, I look forward to our next date.”

She kissed him again, this time on the mouth—a brief, bright thing that left him breathless. “See you soon, schat,” she said, and slipped on her slippers at the door before vanishing down the hall.

Andy stood there for a while, the taste of lemon and sugar lingering on his tongue, the echo of her touch warm on his cheek.

* Grandma.

* Idiot.

*** Dear/Darling/Sweetheart.

**** "You like that."

***** "Good morning, sleepyhead."