Moon and Star

 

1.

When we enter this world, we never know what awaits us. Whether it's the bloated images of our own pride. Or perhaps the abundant scenes of jealous battles. Or fragments of small desires dismissed with a quick slam of the door, even though the girl who tried to sell us a movie pass smiled somehow differently from the rest of the salesperson's world.

Then, when you sink into your sofa, you never know what to do next. You mindlessly flip through the TV channels, tossing ideas lingering in your head, weighing their importance and significance. The confusion that grips you disorganizes the entire evening, drives you crazy, discourages you from your ritual drink. You think of a hot bath. But a hot bath only makes you impatient. Maybe One Hundred Years of Solitude, but how long can you read? It's a touching wonder. Or maybe just jump into bed and sleep through this incredibly desperate state?

When you burrow your head into a deep pillow, you never thought you'd start screaming, so you can only call astonishment your reaction to your own desperate voice. The sound echoes muffledly across the floor, you feel it jolt last night's cold coffee, and silence falls. Your acute hearing detects nothing. No reaction from this world where you never know what awaits us.

And that's when you make an instant decision. You clench your fists, your teeth, your eyes. You have to, you have to!

And that's when an image, long ago, or perhaps never before, appears in your mind. An ordinary image. An absurd image. Completely incongruous with your world.

An image of the moon and stars.

As you fall exhausted onto the rumpled sheets, you no longer realize you're sound asleep...

2.

Overload. At every moment, in your current state, in this very moment. You're standing over the sink, you were supposed to do something. Staring at the steady stream of water flowing from the faucet, you can't understand. The grimace on your face shows any potential onlookers that something has unsettled you. You can't move your hands. You can't blink your eyes. Absolutely nothing.

The water slowly filling the sink overflows. It can't keep up with the emergency drain, so it spills helplessly across the kitchen counter, and when it reaches the edge, it stops for a moment, as if to look at you and ask, "So what now?" But it lasts only a moment, then, first in a narrow trickle, then in a wide stream, falls silently to the floor, onto your feet, onto the knife you'd dropped earlier.

The leading water race, having found a comfortable trough in the grout between the tiles, begins to briskly, as if enjoying the game, along the kitchen toward the slightly ajar doorway. Passing intersections with other grout lines along the way, it pours itself into the room, greedily filling the entire grout system. At the same time, never losing sight of the intriguing vision of the crack under the door, it races ever faster and more furiously, as if the thought of endless parquet frolics imbued the situation with new meaning.

However, once it crosses the threshold, the world doesn't become so rosy. I should say it turns bluish, takes on a strange silver color, and if it weren't for the fact that everyone immediately recognizes it as a fresh corpse, I could swear it was a veritable moon.

The moment the limp, despairing water touches its shoulder, you hear a muffled scream. You will wake up. You'll look at the liquid spilling from the sink, the liquid that has already covered the entire kitchen. You'll slowly turn around. A glimpse of him lying on the floor will flash through the open door. It's then, precisely then, that you'll utter words you've imagined somewhere else entirely:

"Image of the Moon and Star."

And finally, to confuse things even more, you'll think that it's quite beautiful here, on this Moon, my little Star…

3.

Being unaccustomed to such situations is irritating, causing your heart to race, your breathing to become shallow, and sweat to drench your palms. Most often, you react by stopping in the middle of the street, turning your head uncertainly, listening to see if you heard correctly. You can't be sure, because the words sounded clear only inside your head, but you stubbornly stand there, staring sadly at the nearby door. You have the feeling that this shouldn't be happening, that an explanation is the most appropriate solution. But courage isn't your strongest suit, as you helplessly admit to yourself. Taking a step toward the sidewalk, you step into a puddle. Your foot immediately becomes unpleasantly wet, a short curse escapes your lips, echoing multiplied off the tenement walls. The overwhelming sense of helplessness and utter resignation turns your face once again toward that door. All you want to do at that moment is try again.

I mean, I didn't really like it. Honestly, if it were up to me, I definitely wouldn't let you go back there. But I don't have much say in the matter, so I can only watch as you calmly and slowly climb the steps, press the doorbell, and wait, nervously licking your lips. However, the silence from inside brings a grimace of incomprehension to your face. You look irritated at the round button, as if it were to blame for this situation. You hesitate for a moment, then ring it again for a long time. And you wait, only to press the button furiously and insistently. Your mind is racing, your hands are sweating, and he won't open the door!

But he had installed that doorbell with his own heavy sleep in mind, so it was only a matter of time before he woke up. If you hadn't been so furious, you would have heard his footsteps, even his voice, letting you know he was on his way. But your rage was so intense that not even the sounds of the lock turning, the bolt sliding, and the gentle creak of the door could penetrate. Instead, you saw a sleepy, tired face, its expression a mixture of surprise and irritation. At that moment, you realized you were still pressing the doorbell. The next moment, something caught your attention. A split second later, your brain informed you that it was a rain of red liquid pouring in a huge wave from the ceiling. A moment later, fainting like a movie, you could only groan in his ear about stars, which he probably mistook for a hallucination of your fading consciousness. After a moment, carrying you across the dry room, he glanced around quickly, wondering what you could have been looking at for that moment before fainting.

4.

Cracked glass has its charm, you thought, and touched a finger to the long crack that ran across the entire pane. It must have cracked recently, because it hadn't been there recently. A distinct crack extending from the steps, supporting her light feet, which ran quickly, headed straight for the street, which, having run the width of the road, almost collided with you.

You turned from the window and looked. She looked the same as usual. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her makeup imperceptible, and she was nervously searching for her keys in her purse. Only the mole wasn't on the same side, because it was always in the reflection of the window.

You steeled yourself. You knew it was now or never. She couldn't do that again. You had to tell her, even though you hadn't prepared the exact words for this occasion.

Three steps. That's exactly how far you are from her. You checked earlier, so there's no point in hesitating. You move. You count.

One.

She didn't make a sound. The knife in her lungs prevented her from screaming. You'd checked medical books earlier.

Two.

She looked at you, utterly astonished. She burst into tears. Silently. And then she collapsed onto the seat, blood gushing from her mouth.

Three.

Before you took out the blade, you brought your mouth to her ear and whispered,

"The stars are fading fast. Goodnight."

5.

She seemed to want to say something, but as you laid her on the couch, you ignored the sound of her lips forming a silent "I love you." You left her almost unconscious and grabbed the phone, intending to call an ambulance. But, staring strangely at the keyboard, you realized she had only fainted. That she had only fainted. It was just a faint. A faint. Regular nausea. Just like today when she was leaving. The nausea came as she left. The nausea rose in her throat when she slammed the door too hard. The nausea turned your face slightly green. It fit you too closely. They gently touched the back of your neck. They stroked your back with their small hands. They searched for that favorite mole. Her favorite spot, under her shoulder blades, where they always dug in harder, making you moan, turn around, delve into her mouth, taste the bitter coffee, the dark chocolate, find a few unswallowed particles with her tongue, let her lead you to the couch, let her sit you down, let her sit on you, let her unbutton your shirt and start biting your nipples, just the way you like it best, let her do whatever she wants, exactly how she wants, right there, with that blindfold over your eyes that she always removes after you've fondled her breasts and moaned softly that you have to see them, because they're so beautiful.

She does.

And you go numb because she's sitting on you instead of lying unconscious on the couch. Because you don't know this saleswoman at all. Because she's deceived you, misled you, completely lied to you.

With a sudden movement, you throw her off. She lands softly on the carpet. She lands with a terrified expression that quickly transforms into a broad smile, then laughter, a wonderfully feminine laugh that fills the apartment, the building, your head.

You look at her and don't understand. You can't fathom why. And she, laughing, offers you her hand, roars with laughter, leads you to the bedroom, with a comical gesture, motions for you to lie down on the rumpled sheets, with laughing eyes, she gazes deeply into your uncomprehending pupils, and giggling girlishly, she pulls down your pants, to which you react with a violent gesture of protest. But laughter, as they say, is contagious, so when you see her clapping her hands with joyful laughter, you relax your hands and facial muscles, you start smiling broadly at the sight of her beautiful buttocks, you laugh at your awkward naked torso, you burst into laughter when she briefly runs out of the room, and in the spurt of laughter you practically lose your breath when you see the beautiful steel of the knife in her returning hand, which immediately turns your genuine laughter into a snort of ridicule.

6.

"I have to tell you something," she whispers to you as you snuggle up to her, just as you're kissing her neck. You don't feel the chill yet.

"Yeah?" you say against her neck, and the thought occurs to you that you're speaking directly to her body.

"But I'd like you to look into my eyes," she continues calmly. The kiss suddenly ceases to concern you. You think cheerfully that she wants to tell you something.

"I'm listening," you smile at her, but only for a moment, because the expression on her face sends a gentle chill down your spine.

"I'll say this bluntly," she stutters.

"I'm listening..." you repeat mechanically, trying to read everything in her eyes.

"We have to break up..." The chill on your back turns into a biting frost. You don't quite know how to react, so you smile.

"It's not funny," she says calmly, and after a deep exhale, you realize she's gotten the most important part out.

"I know, I just don't know how to react," you say, looking strangely at her neck, glistening with saliva. She catches your gaze and gives you a brief smile.

"It was nice, but..." she stutters again. "Aren't you going to ask why?

" "Why?" you ask flatly.

"Because there's been nothing for a long time," she says slowly.

"There's been nothing for a long time..." you repeat slowly, completely missing the point.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" she asks louder.

"No," you murmur.

"That's exactly what I mean. That's what I've been saying for a long time. It's been a long time..." she trails off, resigned.

"Are you saying you've wanted to tell me this for a long time?" you suddenly ask consciously.

"Yes. Too... I wanted to say that I mean that we've been strangers for a long time. That it hasn't been like this for a long time... Do you remember how it used to be? Do you remember what you called me? And what I called you?

" "What?" you say, though it seems your mind is gone again.

"Please tell me how! Don't pretend you don't remember!" she raises her voice, and you, uncertainly searching for the meaning of her statement, say,

"I don't remember." Unfortunately, I don't remember…

You're silent for a moment. Standing opposite each other, you remain silent. She looks into your eyes. Yours focus on her legs. And you remain silent.

"It's a shame you don't remember," she says, breaking the silence. "It's a shame, really. That's what our relationship says. Not remembering the sweetest, most endearing name you ever used to call me. Unless… unless the swelling images of your own pride prevent you from admitting that you remember now." He looks deeper into her eyes, and you wonder if you've truly forgotten, or if the swelling images of your pride prevent you from remembering.

"Pride, I guess?" she asks, and you nod, because she's probably right. So she turns and walks to the front door. You don't see her off. You feel you don't have to. And as she turns the knob, she pauses for a moment, gives you a quick glance, a glance that no longer carries any trace of her earlier courage, and says simply,

"And I have someone." She quickly disappears behind the door.

7.

"The image of the moon and the star," she repeated once more, turning off the tap. She looked again at my body lying in the reddening water and sighed.

"Now I'm the Star," she smiled to herself, picked up the knife from the floor, and entered the room, opening the door all the way. I wonder what she's up to, because she stood over me like a butcher over a slaughtered pig, toying with the blade, thinking. Her face was filled with pride, happiness, and the delicious coffee she'd drink at her favorite café as soon as she was finished. I thought I had to do something, because she couldn't just leave without facing the consequences of her actions. She killed my beloved wife, only temporarily ex-wife, but officially still my wife. She killed me, which she could have forgiven herself, because I knew nothing about the whole situation unfolding behind my back, and now she probably wants to cleave me to pieces and scatter me across the city. I won't let that happen!

So I take steps. I see water, still running despite the turned-off tap, pouring out through the crack under the front door, trickling down the stairs, and beginning to flow into the street, attracting the attention of a passerby. He climbs the steps and rings the bell. She, having already plunged the blade into the area below my ribs, which clearly indicated she wanted to remove my heart, froze, tiptoed to the door, and said that everything was fine, that the pipe had burst. She would have been lucky, I must admit, because the calmed man was already descending the steps, already checking his watch, and almost heading in the direction he'd interrupted. She would have been lucky if it weren't for my blood, which, mixing with the water, nonchalantly began to flood the street. How could that man react to that? Anyone would have reacted as he did. Everyone would have started screaming, banging on doors, calling for help from other passersby. I must admit, I started smiling at the sight of her terrified eyes. And I must admit, my smile widened even more when the screams of the young girl discovered your body in the car, my little Star.

Yes. The crowd of people was swelling uncontrollably. In the distance, the pleasant sound of police sirens could be heard. Someone had smashed the car window and was checking your pulse. Of course you were dead. How could you be alive when you're here beside me, smiling, even though I see no joy in your eyes? Rather, I notice with surprise your gaze fixed on hers, a dreamy, warm gaze, a gaze identical to the one you had years ago, when you looked straight into my eyes and said, "I love you, my Moon."

This was too much. Red-faced, shaking, and speechless, or, to put it another way, seeing the imminent scenes of jealousy battle, I quickly whisper in her ear, before you could react, that running away was the best way out of the situation. She, hearing this with her inner ear, agrees with me completely and, suddenly opening the door, runs out through the frozen and speechless crowd, who helplessly let her pass. They can only watch as she runs across the sidewalk, as she runs into the street, and as she is swept away by a huge truck that, at my urging, has entered a narrow alley because, apparently, this way, you can shorten your route to the garbage dump, or at least see an interesting gathering of people, stare at this pleasant sight, and brake only after the clear impact of her body against the bumper and wheels, her severed hand against the glass, and her broken tooth against the window opposite my house, which is only now opening a large crack so that a trained observer can see her running out of the house, how she gracefully gets under the wheels of the huge vehicle, and how I laugh until I burst out laughing, because from my perspective, time is not linear at all, as I have been arguing here for a long time!

8.

"Treating time non-linearly and ending the telling of this fascinating story in the same way, I must say that they had loved each other for a long time, which I only now realize. And the source of the entire tragedy was your statement, Little Star," I said.

"Yes, there was a great misunderstanding. It was a misunderstanding to say the words...

" "The stars fade quickly. Goodnight." That's what you said to me then," she said and smiled.

"I said it because you didn't let me have my say. Abundant scenes of jealousy took over your entire consciousness, so you couldn't hear me going to him to leave him. You screamed that you were my Star..." Little Star became irritated.

"...and that I didn't want you to go to that Moon. How I hated that sweet nickname. For a long time, I couldn't even look at it shining at night." She looked at me with hatred, to which I responded with a good-natured smile.

"So you understand that I could have let it slip." And you took it to yourself…" she didn't finish again.

"You would. You can shout. You've outshouted me more than once. Only the bloated images of your own pride wouldn't let you. Isn't that right?" she looked at me defiantly.

"True. But I loved you," you confessed, and I felt faint.

"I love you too," she whispered romantically.

"And now I'm coming to the conclusion that I probably didn't," I said loudly, breaking the unbearable silence of their staring.

"What, I probably didn't?" they asked uncomprehendingly.

"That I haven't loved you for a long time, dear Star," I began. "That watching you mop up the apartment with me, flooded by the upstairs neighbor, and together we cleaned up the blood that had seeped through the ceiling with the bathtub water thanks to his wife's knife, that I realized right then that I didn't love you at all, that I wasn't attracted to you, that I had nothing in common with you, and that it would be good for you to find someone. Saying that to myself set off a cascade of events. I sent you to the door when she rang the bell, unknowingly recognizing you. I sent you to more than one party, getting rid of you and praying silently that you'd end up in bed with someone, and...

" "Stop it. This is hysterical," Star said, smiling at me. "Let's see how wonderfully they're handling this whole mess."

"Oh! Look, they're dragging you out of the car. You look beautiful," she smiled.

"I know, thank you," and kissed her on the cheek.

"And they're carrying it out in a bag, damn it," I muttered.

"Don't worry about it," they both hugged me. "We can make it a little harder for them. Do you want to?

" "Do I? Of course!" I said, delighted, and I heard how deeply they thought about that gasoline-filled tanker truck driving down the highway, whose driver, without knowing why, had turned onto the nearest exit, run a red light, crushing a small car, cut down several fire hydrants in a row for the sight of beautiful rainbows, and, driving full force into the crowd in front of my house, exploded spectacularly with a spark, the image of which inside the large barrel was easy to imagine.

"Fireworks like stars in the sky," said Little Star.

"And the next day, the entire city block burned and silver with ash," I added.

"Like the moon," She concluded.