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Hi!

I have nothing to do, so I'm taking the liberty of writing a little to you. Nothing beats emailing over morning coffee and a cigarette (and of course, Nurofen had to be used after yesterday's drinking spree). You probably haven't woken up yet; you're no saint either. Okay, enough of this pointless chatter. When you were leaving, I promised you I'd politely update you on what's going on, so here we go.

Firstly, it's the same old boring shit at work – we're constantly performing school readings. You know how it is, they attract hordes of bored, gum-chewing kids to the shows, but the only way we can hope for a paycheck is through school trips. After all, it doesn't matter who we're playing for; I'm no longer a teenager to delude myself with any messages, etc. Sometimes I want to laugh when I remember our late-night, drunken discussions about art, when we confused absinthe with the absolute...

But, back to the news...

Yesterday, for I don't know how many times, we performed "Un-Divine...". It was a tiring routine (especially since, as the Corpse Virgin, I have to be smeared with a ton of white powder and wander around in miles of rags). So Adam and I decided we couldn't take it any longer sober and arranged for a little post-performance libation (ahem, I guess I'm with Adam now, at least until his wife figures out why her husband works so hard in the evenings...). But he (I mean, Adam) also had to take his daughter to some extra religious service, because she's having her First Communion this year. So I decided I'd wait for him at the theater, because why bother wandering around at night? I was curious about this new miniature he'd recently directed, and besides, it would be a bit silly not to be interested in what he's been up to in his pain. You know what his creative process is like—he's often dragged you and me through the mud and called me a bunch of talentless idiots... Adam.

Knowing his homegrown philosophy of art reception, I sat in the audience to, as he puts it, "feel like a spectator." Things were already happening, they were filming, so I'll give you a relatively faithful account, at least in terms of dialogue, and I'll bring you the recording sometime, then we can have a TV and theater evening.

So, I'll start from the beginning, because I think it's the hangover that's making me unable to write coherently, but I promise I'm getting my act together before you lose your patience and delete this attachment.

I'll start with the technical description: the sets.

We see a room, strangely eclectic. A high-gloss Gierek coffee table sits in the center of the stage, and on it, on a crystal plate, are rotten black bananas and wrinkled, scattered oranges, a small, worn paperback book, a carton of juice, and two glasses. At the table are two chairs: the one on the left is pushed back crookedly, the other, on the right, evenly spaced. On the wall opposite the viewer, in the center, is a door; a large door, covered with a beach-themed photo wallpaper, closed. On it are palm trees, a sapphire sea, yellow sand. Overall, the photo wallpaper gives the impression of a travel agency advertising banner. On the left, against the "wall," is a table with a computer, next to the keyboard an ashtray full of cigarette butts, an overturned perfume bottle, and on the monitor, the screensaver is on—standard 3D Microsoft logos fly across the screen, a fan hums loudly, as if broken. On the wall with the doors, to the left, stands a standard, large, two-door wardrobe, ajar by a white cord sticking out of it. Squeezed between the wardrobe and the computer table is a large, plush armchair with gilt trim—it looks like it came straight from a brothel (you know, the same one that usually pretends to be Creon's throne).

Magda sits in the armchair—it's a good thing Adam chose her for the role and not me, though I was initially angry with him—"role in a one-actor play" would always be an interesting line on a CV, but Magda really is a better fit; I'm still too young.

She made a strong impression in that first scene; you'll see for yourself in the recording—they happened to have a close-up. She's sprawled in the armchair, her legs drawn up under her butt. In this position, you can clearly see the folds of fat accumulating on her sides, bisected by the gold cord that ties her red, satin, brothel-mama-style dressing gown. Slightly sagging breasts spill out from a deep slit. Her head is thrown back, and long curls of a Hollywood-style blonde wig flow over her shoulders. The girls have glued so many false eyelashes on her that they cover half her cheeks. Her mouth is parted, and a trickle of saliva is dripping down her cheek. In front of the armchair are black, shiny stilettos—the heels seem to be about 12 cm high—one shoe is down, the other is standing.

So much for the scenery and what the viewer might notice at first glance.

Suddenly, Magda stirs, lies loudly. Her eyes are still closed, she raises her hand and wipes the drool from her face with her sleeve. She begins to mutter something under her breath, grimaces. She opens her eyes and, louder, shouts into space:

"Fuck, I'm getting up already, what are you yelling about?"

Silence answers her, but she remains motionless

. "I'm getting up soon, five more minutes. Do you think I'm a robot, ready to get up and lie down on command?"

-…

-Okay, okay, just a moment, OK? My head is spinning, but I'll get up soon

- …

-Don't worry, no, we won't be late. (stretches)

-…

"Jesus, you're getting so annoying with age. Do you know what it's called?

" "…"

"Okay, let's call it responsibility, but I think it's andropause

." "… No, not responsibility, it's a midlife crisis. And by the way, it's treatable. You should just go to the doctor, and they'll give you the right dose of testosterone.

" "…

" "And am I saying you can't get erect?

" "…

" "What does disability have to do with it? I never accused you of that, honey."

Magda stands up from the armchair with a sigh, her robe spreading over her breasts, and she adjusts the gold string that ties it. In a cinematic move, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and bursts into laughter

. "You should wake me up with a kiss, not curses."

She lifts her head and looks up at the ceiling.

"Why are you so grumpy? I love you, honey."

She bends down and puts on her shoes. She moans,

"Jesus, I wish I could feel this way when I don't..." (the audience watched her self-talk intently). She straightens up, clutches her lower back, and grimaces again. Suddenly, she turns to the side and shouts,

"Look at you. I'm not old at all, just worn out. If you worked as hard as I do, it would break your bones too.

" "...

" She starts to flit around the room, approaches the table, and fiddles with the platter as if trying to arrange the fruit. They scatter on the floor. Magda kicks one of the oranges and throws it into space.

"See, you idiot, what have you brought me to?

" "...

" "I'm not cynical at all, and I'm not making fun of social advertising. Piss off, will you? I just like that line; it's stuck in my head, I can't help it. You know I like playing with language and I memorize every possible sentence perfectly."

She delivers this fragment while pacing the stage, as if unsure where to stop or what to break. Suddenly she stops and, lifting her head, shouts,

"What the fuck do you mean, you're getting nothing from my tongue-twisting?" All these years I've been killing myself preparing volumes of poetry, just for fun? And what have you been doing all this time? Nothing, you thought, looking at me condescendingly. I brought home the money so that my God would have enough for cards and dinners with who knows who."

(She turns and goes to the closet, takes out an iron and a large white men's shirt. You can see she's furious. She spreads the shirt on the floor, pulls the computer cord from the socket, and plugs in the iron. The robe spreads over her breasts, which almost fall out from under the fabric. She begins ironing. Suddenly she speaks in a hushed voice:

"Well, maybe we didn't have coconuts, but at first it was not bad...

"

"Don't worry, we won't be late, I'll be ready in a moment. And getting back to the point: I've really been trying my whole life to make you happy. You know I have no one in the world but you.

" -…

She gets up from her knees and straightens up heavily.

- Have I changed over the years? I know, I've aged, but it's not so bad, right? (She looks at her body, smooths the folds of her robe, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and flutters her eyelashes flirtatiously)

- I was even successful once. Remember how jealous you were of me? You never let any guy get close to me. You told me to brush them off under any pretext, whether it's that I don't have time or that I'm not feeling well. But you're my darling. See how consistent I am? I've never cheated on you. I cook for you, I do laundry, I talk to you... Oh, do you want something to drink before we go?

" -…

"Okay, I'll pour you something."

She walks to the table and fills two glasses with juice. She pulls out a chair, sits down on the other opposite one, and, staring into the emptiness before her, continues:

"But at the party, we'll pretend we don't know each other, okay? They won't understand our arrangement. It'll be safer that way. I'm coming alone and…

"

"But of course I'll go home with you, honey. And who else would I go home with? You have no competition, you jealous bastard. "

She bursts into laughter and downs the juice in one gulp.

"It's really getting late now. I'm getting ready. I still have to get ready for my disguise."

She gets up from the chair and walks to the door covered with a photo wallpaper. She gently pats her and adds:

"I know you don't like all these balls and parties, but for professional reasons, we have to go. My editor will be here. But don't worry, I promise you, we'll lounge on the beach when we get back.

" "…

" "Okay, we're leaving now

." She walks to the closet and takes out a small gray suit, a black mask, and a gray handbag. She changes her clothes, takes off her wig, beneath which her straight, undyed hair is, and pulls it into a tight bun. She peels off her false eyelashes and looks like an accountant. She puts the mask in her purse and says,

"You close the door, will you?"…

Honestly, I didn't really know where all this was leading. Besides, I was sitting in the audience more to kill time than out of admiration for Adam's "art," so I started digging in my purse to see if he'd sent me a text saying he was on his way, because I must have had my phone ringer turned off during that crappy performance. I didn't notice Magda had left the stage and wandered into the audience. While searching for my phone in the brothel, which I had in my bag, I felt a touch on my shoulder. I looked up. It was Magda. Walking between the rows, she stopped beside me for a moment and whispered:

"I didn't have time to tell you. Right before the play, Adam called me and told you he had to cancel your meeting tonight. He said you had to go home." She went on and left the theater through the emergency exit. The audience turned to look after her. She closed the door. The lights came on and the curtain fell. Everyone was a little confused (because it really was a very short performance). Suddenly, someone started applauding, and everyone joined in. And I sat there, furious as a flock of devils at this idiot who hadn't even bothered to send me a text apology, but instead called that old, talentless cow (I'm starting to get angry again when I remember that) and told her to give me a message.

But you know me, I didn't go home alone. I had a bottle in the fridge, and I didn't drink alone, because that would be extreme alcoholism. So I got drunk with an underage fan of my art and kicked him out of the apartment in the early hours of the morning – you have to earn your place in bed with me, and besides, I didn't want him to see what I looked like when I woke up (he's a really nice plaything, by the way). So everything's fine, Adam can get stuffed. For now, I need to fight off a hangover and head off to one of those "afternoon cocktails." I don't feel like going, but a few high-profile directors are coming – maybe there'll be some work. I'm off now because I'm late, and I still have to hide the traces of yesterday's debauchery under the wallpaper. Kiss, let me know how you are. I'm waiting for your email.