Once upon a time, many moons ago, I met her. I met Her.

We were attending an erotic poetry reading event. She was a black cat type of woman, her style quiet chic—only truly curious eyes would notice the custom-made dress, the shoes, that enormous red scarf dragging on the floor like a queen’s mantle. One peculiar detail that caught my attention was the red lollipop she was licking throughout the entire time.

I knew by the way she moved—or rather danced through the crowd—by the way she’d look with her half-opened eyes at those who dared talk to her, that she wouldn’t stand a casual approach. She would listen with patience, yet there was an absence in her seemingly enthusiastic replies.

She was flowing towards the exit when I picked up the end of her red mantle. She turned her swan-like neck and looked me up and down with her watery blue eyes. The silent question hung in the air. I waited three seconds and fired: “The queen needs an entourage.”

Her eyebrows formed a half-pity, half-surprised arch, and then we both burst into laughter. Time froze, and then the dam broke and swallowed everything in its way.

We became lovers that very night.

She loved extravagance: I wasn’t allowed to touch her or kiss her until I’d done something ridiculous—recite a poem and drink wine from her shoe in front of crowds.

She loved good meals and wine but never expressed anything beyond polite approval. And after any dessert, she would always fish out her red lollipop.

She was tireless with life’s pleasures—show after show, new restaurant, new book, new film. She would move from one thing to another without pause, always up for something more, more, more. She’d never stop, never slow down, as if some wicked force was driving her forth.

We made love for hours, like two professionals, until we couldn’t move anymore. 

But with all her love to immerse herself fully, she would never stay with me. She would leave, or tell me to leave after we were done. Every time. My mornings were always lonely, empty. As if there was something to hide in the morning, or she refused to be in something more than this fanciful insanity.

One day I came over to pick her up and found her in distress.

“I think I’m out of lollipops! We’ll stop by the kiosk on our way.”

“What is this with you and your lollipops?” I asked. Strangely, for the first time, as if I knew somewhere deep that it was more than just candy.

She looked at me with the eye of an experienced detective. After a pause, I, proved worthy, was granted a story.

“It was my mother and I, and an expired train pass she kept forging to save money. I was happy with my dress made from our only curtain, like Scarlett O’Hara. She didn’t let me eat sweets because the dentist was expensive—only once a week, I was granted a treat.

We would make colorful lollipops from my grand-grand-grandmother’s recipe. Cinnamon, coriander, ginger root, Turkish blend, sugar—she whispered the rest of the ingredients as if it was a big secret. It was the tastiest thing!

One day my mom sent me to the market to sell the lollipops because she felt ill. With my basket of lollipops, I went off. Halfway to the market, the Earth shook. When I returned, I found our house in ruins, with everyone who was in it. 

I wandered the streets for three days, sucking on my lollipops. They were the only thing I had left.

I was sitting by the ruins of my house, when a silver car approached me. There was a woman, very well dressed woman, who asked me what happened and who I was. After I told her all about it, she thought for a moment and said, that God sent her a sign she was waiting for, and she wants to take care of me. I became her only child, never in need of anything again. I could finally buy lollipops, as many as I wanted…”

She paused, looking somewhere far, trying to find words to convince herself of something.

Often, I’d see her eyes locking as if she’d gone to another world. Her features would soften, deep sadness would cross her marble face. Then she’d return, except for that part given only a brief moment to emerge.

She traveled the world, had many talents, but nothing deeply interested her. I feared the day she’d decide to move somewhere else—alone.

“My darling,” she said one day, swallowing her R’s in a British way, “I must go soon. I’m bored of this city.”

My heart sank.

“I do love you, but I must go alone. We had a magical journey.”

Again, I sensed something: she sounded confident yet desperate.

I hadn’t slept all night. There was something off about her narrative—this chic hunger for life, elegance, and childish lollipops.

Early morning I rushed to the Turkish market. She came at noon as agreed. I walked to the kitchen where ingredients lay on the counter.

She burst into loud laughter. “Did you go broke, and now we have to cook?”

“Show me your lollipop recipe.”

She looked angry, scared, as if I were pointing a gun at her.

“That’s how I’ll remember you.”, I said.

“This is ridiculous,” said she, and began pacing the room.

I waited. 

She pulled up her hair, removed her jewelry, and then her clothes… Standing in underwear, she demanded: “Give me your least expensive shirt. It’s gonna get dirty.”

She started giving orders, playful and engaged, telling stories about each ingredient’s spirit. The more we cooked, the less recognizable she became.

I was participating in some sacred ritual that men weren’t allowed to witness in the past.

The last touch—the coloring finished bright red, like blood in sunlight.

She took a lollipop, closed her eyes and put it in her mouth. Suddenly, a tear ran down her cheek. She whispered, “I missed it. Oh, I missed it.”

The dam broke again. She squeezed me like a wolf mother who’d lost her cub and found it again. She cried like a baby, with all the swallowed for so many years tears. 

I woke to yellow sunlight crawling across my bed. Feeling usual morning sorrow, I was about to rise when a tiny warm arm grabbed my waist and her voice said: “mmm nooo.”

I turned and, a baby deer’s face, messy hair, and red like a rose lips.

“I think you missed your train,” I said in disbelief.

“Thank God,” said she.

________________

Note from the author: This modern fairytale was inspired by the old fairytale “Red Shoes”.  

Inspired by many stories and books on reconnecting to one’s creative self, I founded Cretivity club: DClub, the space where people reconnect with their authentic creative selves through diverse events and experiences, because sometimes we all need to remember the taste of our own homemade lollipops.