Behind the Statue

Sixteen was a year of translation. From strict Hungarian classrooms to an international school in Budapest, where Michael Jackson and Iron Maiden bootleg cassettes passed between friends and the city whispered of change. Statues came down, but on Friday nights we gathered beneath the glow of McDonald’s arches, pretending not to care as we pocketed the paper trays like contraband maps of America.

One night, in a park smelling of wet stone and cigarettes, a game turned toward me and Nevin, my Egyptian classmate. “Go into the trees,” someone said. “Don’t come back until you’ve kissed.”

We slipped behind the statue of a half-forgotten poet. The voices faded. She looked at me, dark eyes steady. I wanted to hold her hand, but my palms were damp.

Her breath was mint and tea. Her lips soft, the lightest touch of her tongue…then my body locked and I pulled away too soon.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted.

She smiled. “Why? It was nice.”

We walked back. Laughter greeted us, knowing, harmless. The game moved on. But the kiss stayed.

It was no romance, not yet. It was an initiation. A gate swung open. A new vocabulary: not memorization, not recitation, but the shock of being alive, being seen.

Years later, I still think of that night…statue darkened by rain, mint on her breath, the taste of permission. For the first time, the world felt like it was mine.

Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary and lives in Tokyo. Loves books and podcasts.