Luca Kristof

“I’m here,” she texted me.
I stood across the one-lane street from a six-storey white Bauhaus building, fronted by a tidy stretch of greenery and a low stone fence with metal mesh between the pillars. It was warm and sunny—one of those beautiful spring days.
“I don’t see you,” I replied.
I crossed the street and saw a woman raise her hand and walk toward me. She wasn’t tall, with a pretty face, a dark shock of curly hair, and skin untouched by age.

How do you feel?
A bit nervous, uncomfortable.
Why?
My boyfriend couldn’t understand why I’m getting a tattoo from you—especially since I don’t even know what it will be.
And given that, why do you want to get a tattoo from me?
Because I’m curious.

Uncomfortable, I said aloud to myself. When there’s comfort, there’s no need to change anything.
I don’t like changing stuff, she grinned.
You don’t like the fact that it changes, or being the reason it changes?
The second.
For example?
Sorry… Tears appeared in her eyes. I’m always like this.
With people, or situations—when I’m the one who wants the change and it hurts them. When I make someone else uncomfortable by creating my own comfort.

Do you feel guilty?
Yes.
What is it you wanted to change that hurt someone?
I let them go. No—I let myself go. So I broke up with them.
Was it the right choice?
Yeah.
Then why does it still hurt?
It happened not long ago. And I keep getting reminded—by my parents, or that person. She blew her nose into a tissue.

If you could change something in the past, what would it be?
I wouldn’t jump into things so easily.
Can you elaborate?
I’d think more about the outcomes. Nothing really bad happened, and when I think of this person and the whole experience—it was a good thing.
So what is it you’d change, then?
Probably the ending. The way I handled it. I would have done it in person, not over a video call.
Now you know.
She smiled briefly.

Have you apologized?
Yes. And it wasn’t just a word. I never meant to hurt the person, but the guilt doesn’t go away—because it was my fault.
Do you take personally what others feel?
Yes. It’s just how I am.
That’s a heavy burden.
I’m a very emotional person. I feel empathy for everyone. So it’s hard for me to let go.
Do you express empathy toward yourself?
Not so much.
Why not?
I don’t know. She smiled. I guess I’m a people-pleaser. Oh, sorry—do you have another tissue, by any chance?

We were sitting at a table on the balcony, so I went inside and brought back a pack of tissues.

What do you think your intention is, in pleasing people? Maybe to receive care in return? To be seen?
To make them happy, so they’ll think of me as a good person.
What does it mean to be a good person?
When no one is angry with you.
And what if people are angry with you because you’re a good person?
Never thought about that. She chuckled gently, but the tears were still present in her grey eyes.

What makes you cry?
Everything. She smiled. I usually can’t have a deep conversation without crying.
What makes you cry right now?
Right now? Her voice was wet. Just talking about my emotions and thoughts. I usually don’t express them out loud.
But do you see any picture besides me and our surroundings—as if on a double screen?
Probably.
I mean, when we think, we often see our thoughts as scenes that overlay the present moment.
Yeah.
And what do you see there?
Them crying. Not understanding why I’m doing this.
But do you understand that it’s not real? They aren’t crying right now. That was in the past.
I never thought of it that way—that this is the past, and they’re not crying anymore.

Do you have a dream?
To see the world.
What is ‘the world’ to you?
Places. Cultures.

We talked about happiness, and how it differs from joy, and what friendship means.

Is there something you are missing in your life?
Yes. Being here in Hungary, I miss the sea, the beach, and high mountains.
What do you need to have that?
More money.
You can travel without money—hitchhike, find places to stay. I’m not saying it’ll be comfortable, just that it’s possible.
True.

You said you met someone who quickly became your friend after she did your first stick-and-poke tattoo, and that you shared your secrets with her. May I ask—what kind of secrets?
It was about a new experience of sex.
Why did you call it a secret?
Because I hadn’t talked about it with anyone else.

How do you define sex?
It’s changed for me lately. Now I’d say it’s the pleasure of cumming.
What makes that pleasure different from, say, the joy of a sunny day?
The vulnerability. Being naked with someone. The intimacy.
But you can orgasm when you masturbate, right?
Sure—and that’s not sex.
So what is?
The act itself.
You mean penetration?
That’s the part that changed for me. It doesn’t have to be penetration. It can be hands, mouths—anything, really. As long as it’s shared. As long as it’s with someone.

Do you still feel nervous and uncomfortable?
No.
What’s changed?
Time spent together.
Where do you feel it—the comfort that’s come?
In my muscles. They’re not as tense anymore.
All your muscles, or a specific area?
My shoulders.

Why did you break up?
Because of the distance.
Emotional or physical?
Physical.
How often do you need to see someone to not feel that distance?
As much as possible.
Every day?
Yes.
For the sake of pleasure?
Like sex? No—more like joy. Happiness.
Pleasure.
She grinned.

What about love?
That’s what I mean.
But you don’t need to see a person every day to be in love with them, right?
Yes, that’s true—but ideally, I’d see my lover every day.

How do you define love?
To care. To accept them, with all their mistakes.
Still, that doesn’t mean seeing each other every day. What is the pleasure in that daily presence?
The physical touch. The shared moments.
Describe that pleasure.
Waking up together. Making breakfast.