Hazel

Hazel. He had white teeth and held a black umbrella in his hand. The city wrapped itself in them, as if to deny its identity. "Difference was completely inadvisable here, yet so common," he thought, turning away from St. Mary's Tower with undisguised disgust. The bugle call was nothing. That's exactly what he thought: nothing. But of course, he hadn't expected it to be a beautiful melody, or for a blond beauty to play the trumpet. He only wanted some kind of distinction from Warsaw. But here, everything was different—the same. Schematic and unpleasant. Why couldn't cities come up with something more original than pathetic melodies, huge shopping malls, haberdashery stores, boutiques. AND MARKETS. How it amused him. These markets, cultural centers, such vast, precious cultural heritage. He passed the capital's police headquarters with a quiet laugh. Ha, ha, how fitting. Like a fist to the nose…

Agila circled him here and there.

"Oh! Look! St. Mary's Church! The bugle call! Look, look, the Cloth Hall!! Aah! That famous town hall, remember? Matejko Square with "Vinci"? Remember? Oh, the art shop! Ha, ha, what funny paintings, why do they hang them on St. Florian's Gate? What? Hazel, Hazel, can you listen to me and answer me?"

But he was listening, of course he was. Very attentively. The black locks of her randomly cut hair perfectly matched her equally black eyes. Those eyes were deep, beautiful. She was absolutely incredible. But now, at that very moment, he grasped the meaning of what he'd been thinking about tonight.

She wasn't HIS. Although she could be considered an ideal (created from the fairy tale of Snow White, Danuta Stenka, and a few acquaintances), he didn't feel what one was supposed to feel when walking steadily next to his ideal woman. Agil was well-read, beautiful, and intelligent. But she wasn't the least bit scatterbrained, and she didn't like silly comedies. And most importantly, she couldn't paint. Yes, everyone knows there are no perfect people in the world. But why, even though he likes her, does he have a constant, strong feeling of wasting time?...

"Haazel," she stopped, petite and awkward, "why are you so... You're not listening to me." Her deep, black eyes drifted into his blue ones. Everything he'd seen today merged, and he wondered for a moment: how had he ended up here? Alone, with this girl he didn't even like. Why had he decided to come here?

"I'm listening. I'm listening very much.

" "Hmm," she huffed softly, and two silvery tears rolled down her cheeks, pink from the (already!) December air.

"I'm just stealing both of our time here," he mused, but in reality, he wiped a tear away, hugged her, and they continued on their way. Eventually, it grew dark, the streetlights illuminating their conversation, in which he avoided the topic of "we" as much as possible. It worked. They reached the hotel, and he quickly began pretending to be asleep. He didn't know how he would handle this tomorrow.

"Hazel's leaving," he heard a hoarse voice. The room was filled with tobacco smoke. To disguise himself, the television was blaring. She sat with her legs drawn up by the window. While talking on her cell phone, she was smoking what looked like her fifth cigarette (the overflowing ashtray told him so).

"Mhm, definitely," she said. Her voice wasn't sad. More like: steady. She was probably talking to Emilia. But where had this crazy thought come from? Crazy… or maybe true… He suddenly remembered that just yesterday he'd decided this wasn't it. He felt sad, so he closed his eyes again.

"No, it can't be done. He'll leave today. I'm sorry. A little, because I tried to get him," he finally heard a quiet sob. He fell asleep.

When he woke up for the second time, the room resembled a dark cave. The curtains were drawn, not even the slightest ray of light reached him. Next to him lay the small body of Agil, who this time was crying in her sleep. The sight saddened him deeply. He saw a note and read a sentence written in her even handwriting, in black pen: "Hazel, Hazel, why are you like a cat?" He remembered how good they had been then. They joked because they knew it would be enough for a while, feeling secure in what they had already achieved: feeling secure in each other. He smiled quietly, to himself. How sad it all was. Agil's satin shirt creased uncomfortably, and her sad expression suddenly vanished, replaced by a kind smile, slowly appearing on her face, as if with hope. But tear tracks glistened under her eyes. He

couldn't cope with the rush of thoughts. He went to the bathroom and saw his cat's face in the mirror. He remembered the story of when the cat had gouged out his owner's larynx. That was how he felt. As if he were brutally depriving her of something.

"Hazel, Hazel," she always said, twice. He knew she liked the name, that it reminded her of something black and pleasant. Black and pleasant…

Suddenly, something moved behind him in the mirror, and he saw Agil's white, tear-stained face.

"Hi," she said, and began brushing her teeth with her purple toothbrush.

"Don't forget the black umbrella, it's in my suitcase," she said, and spat out a white avalanche of diluted toothpaste.