a kind of chocolate love in scoops

And no one knows

if it's blood

or still chocolate ice cream

, if it's chocolate ice cream

or still blood.

One day, techno music would wake you up. You'd jump because you don't like it. You'd see her picture on your phone, back there, behind the case, and you'd think: she has really amazing eyes.

And here's Grado, a city in Italy, everything pulsating with that sun. The Italian women are pretty, the cafes are packed, you feel a whiff of genius in the air and smoke, smoke, acrid-sucking smoke, like the mouthparts of a praying mantis. You feel the music again somewhere under your skin—someone smuggled it in along with that oxygen. Across from you stands a beautiful girl, you'd say in Polish: a chick. She's holding two scoops of chocolate ice cream, and the saleswoman cheated her, forced that old ice cream on her, overcharged her. Even though she gave her two wafers, because otherwise, it would have been a complete fraud. A hot girl, with black hair, black eyes, and black legs that you could say reach straight to hell. You're not attracted to her because you have her, the one under the hood.

And here, let's not hide it. You sweated, like my Labrador, which I don't have, and I don't even know if he could say anything about sweating (a breed with long hair? Tell me, friends!!). But you did sweat. It wasn't the techno, what kind of techno. You live upstairs in a bass cafe, why would techno scare you?! You met some kids on your way here who were going to mini golf and only paid 5 euros for admission, right? You think it's a bargain? You'd think, you probably would have. Well, the pizzeria you live at upstairs had pretty Italian girls, sooooo pretty. But you weren't sweating like a Labrador, which I don't have.

You liked this hot girl.

Another time, another time, maybe you'd run away to avoid complicating matters. Maybe you could whisper or say, "Madzia, just to yourself, sweetie. But not now, not here, not now. When you remember everything, so terribly, it's almost too much. You know what, if someone doesn't like something, they'd have to run away and hide. You would have done it if it weren't for me in the cupboard at the back. You haven't forgotten me, that's why you stayed. There's no point in dragging what's gone. I love you, honey, please stay with me. You can spit in the glass unnecessarily.

The Italian woman was clearly having a bad day today, because she was at the manicurist, the kind of Italian manicurist who swats away flies even though she has nothing to eat anyway. The manicurist was fat, lisping, Italian, and flowing and colorful. She wore elasticated skirts, which didn't suit the aesthetics of this country, but she, no Margaret Tacher, didn't have to dress up. Oh, and she voted against the EU in the referendum. But she could do her nails very nicely, really nicely. These white crescents and some eyes.

An Italian woman came to her place at 6:00 a.m. She wanted to be there earlier, because then there would be more flies and more people. Now she stood there, her nails, her eyes a little less amazing than mine – you could say that if I were there – but the whole thing, the thinness, the variety, and the chocolateness of her face, her skin, her high heels, too high for 17, was beautiful, beautiful, and that chocolate ice cream in her hand. Consternation. You like older girls.

And everything's fine with me. With me – everything – fine. Sunday morning, Sunday church. A wonderful courtyard, my tights are torn – someone calls from the back. Who's out here in tights in this heat?! Green, green, heat, scorching, in the square, so many, so many people. And so slowly. Slowly, it all flows by. They drag like flies, sloppy and black. Mother, take me away from here, to a quieter room, because I won't get lost in this crowd, but I can easily forget who I am and why I've come. All the dresses, the little skirts, are pink and floral, the shoes clatter awkwardly on the floors, where the oil from the oil lamp has soaked in. There's almost no white blouse left; they've been flooded with mothers, aunts, grandmothers, uncles, and wives. Most of them, flooded, folded and hard, became a crowd and suddenly collapsed, disappeared, collapsed. Oh, GONE! And yet, it's still there for a moment. For another second, maybe a second longer. And then everyone went home. And they sat down before the decorated plates, made in porcelain factories, and their hand shook over the flower pattern, completely old-fashioned.

There they were. I check my phone. And you haven't written anything!

You'd trip over her heel and bash your head against the wall. Touched by the sight of an ugly Pole smashed by her heels (ah, I'm so sexy in the summer) against an Italian wall, she'd fly to help you. Her beautiful fingernails would be drenched in blood, the blood would mix with the ice, her chocolate complexion would hide the most beautiful blush in the world, and her chocolate hair would flow, like ice, down her temple, down the heated road, into the sewer chute the mayor had decreed. And white crescents would go............. You'd have chocolate in your fingers, Italian, chocolate and blood. Sticky, it all.

Then, in the bathtub, shower, sink, a great tragedy would occur. You die, you cover yourself, you don't know what to do, the mirror didn't lie, everything is chocolate.

"IS THIS ICE CREAM OR BLOOD, MOM?" And she could also say: Mamma mia.

I'd be standing there alone, small, though tall. You'll forget about me before midnight tonight, midnight, when my Adidas sneakers fall off, and the locals approach my window, very ungratefully flirting with me. I'll ask them if they like the mountains, and they'll say yes. They'll envy you, the me you're betraying with your thoughts. Unaware of anything, before midnight, I'll have time to look at my Nokia's sun-pale screen three times, and think of you three times.