The lover sat on the corner of a chair, sipping the remains of someone's beer, because it was more economical that way. He was searching for a pleasant, simple girl in the crowd gathering around the bar. The crowd was full of girls, most of them unpleasant and complicated. One of them was just sitting across from the lover, piercing him with her lascivious gaze. The lover, with his cherubic charm, stood out positively in such social-ludic cesspools. And now he was swallowing nervously.
"Excuse me?
" "Please. I will fulfill your every wish."
Her tongue lightly touched the tip of her lip, where the two mounds close into a heart. The lover suddenly felt tight and taut.
"You must have mistaken me for someone else..."
"I'm never wrong. And if I'm right today, you'll be the twenty-sixth man to take me in his arms, and all twenty-five times before had been simply fantastic."
The lover tried to clear his throat of outrage, lodged just above his Adam's apple.
"But I'm... just a lover...
" "Honey, let's agree that in our two-person company, I'll be the professional. You're a product of degenerate male chauvinist literature; I could rattle off titles. But I'll show you what a liberated woman means. You'll be begging me to stop, and I'll be relentless. "
The lover ruefully wondered why all liberated women were ugly.
"I have a friend waiting for me at the bar.
" "It's okay, maybe the twenty-seventh."
She fell silent as her friend approached them, slightly stepping to the left and clutching his jacket pocket.
"Some jerks have taken my seat. Hello lover, hello whore."
The whore fluttered her eyelashes gracefully in response to the compliment. She grabbed her friend's crotch.
"You're beautiful, aggressive, and generally strong, and as a true woman, I approve and appreciate that. Perhaps you too will have the honor of joining my bed."
"Screw off, nymphomaniac, or I'll turn gay. Listen, lover, don't you have a pipe?"
He quickly lit it with one hand, crushed the embers on his cheek, and staggered on, squeezing laboriously through the empty corridor. The prostitute watched him with distaste.
"He was rude and probably gay in general, but now we're alone, so tell me where you'd like to touch me. "
The lover sighed.
"Listen, I appreciate the three professional skills, but you see... I'm not interested."
The prostitute was petrified.
"I dedicated my life to art and poetry. I never had the face for it, like a convict, but I tried as hard as I could. Don't get me wrong, but with women I enjoyed reading poetry, watching movies, riding trains, and smoking cigarettes in the breeze. Oh, and drinking new wine under the starry sky. And this sex, breasts, tongue...it's a bit beyond me."
The harlot blinked as if something had gotten in her eye, cleared her throat, and began speaking in a completely different voice.
"Listen, lover, I'm not quite what I said either."
The lover looked surprised, noticing that she really wasn't quite a harlot.
"With that tongue, you know... I practiced in front of the mirror. With the twenty-sixth, that's not entirely true either. If you were, and I don't think you will be, you'd be more... tenth. Maybe sixth. Third."
He noticed that the lover looked innocent.
"With this bed... I actually live with my mother. But I have my own room. And posters on the walls. And I'm not exactly promiscuous.
" Something in my lover was bending and cutting, gnawing at each other. He thought: "Maybe now? Maybe now? There will be peace and balance, and an end to this insane literary ride without brakes and the second part.
She's not so bad, she's actually quite alright, she has pretty eyes and smells nice." And just when he was about to give up, that other part of him told him: "But that's not it. There must be something more somewhere, higher, further." And the lover gets up and says:
"I'm sorry. I have to go. "
"Listen, don't go yet, sit down... with these flowers, wine, cigarettes, sky, maybe we could be together someday...
" "I don't think so. Goodbye. "
The harlot with smeared makeup sat and cried for a long time until the staff threw her out.
The outlines of a drinking plan were taking shape in his friend's mind. Such plans have a tendency to be always good and pleasant, but they don't withstand the brunt of mundane reality. Therefore, before going to bed, write "THIS IS NOT A BAD IDEA" on a piece of paper in large, bold letters and burn it. After burning, hang it above your bed again. A compromise between drunken courage and sober reason. The friend was already experiencing the beginnings of a wonderful magical intoxication, so his plan was exceptionally audacious. It wasn't really a plan at all, but pure fantasy, which, if heard in the right group, would evoke mirth, then surprise, fear, and finally mirth again. The friend's mind quivered slightly as he realized the absurdity and grotesqueness of his plans. He turned to a boy sitting next to him with a girl.
"The big one wants to see me suffer."
The boy nodded in a nod of "fuck off" and continued to persuade his girl to give herself to him.
"And I hate pain."
The friend frantically tried to recall how it went.
"And the big guy's girlfriend, though it's not talked about openly, is the Chinese Promotion."
The boy seemed to perk up at the mention of the Chinese promotion, but then immediately went back to convincing his girlfriend.
"But I know for sure it's her. And the Chinese promotion means a lot to the big guy, maybe more than he does
himself. I see a simple equation here that doesn't add up. On one side is the friend who wants not
to die, on the other side the big guy who wants nothing because he has everything. For both sides to add up,
the big guy also has to want something. And he can only really want the Chinese promotion. So I...
"If you loved me... listen, buddy, piss off, okay?" The boy got a little upset.
"Then I'll kidnap her. Have a nice evening." The friend stood up and walked away.
"He must really love her..." the girl mused. "Kidnappings, chases... not like you do—only about sex."
The boy buried his face in his hands.
"You know what?" Shut up.
And the Chinese promotion was, as usual, unclear for this sick phrasing. Sometimes, but rarely, very rarely, when a black cat appears against the backdrop of a full moon, and magically intoxicated people like ants on the streets, then she sometimes enters the room and sits at the first table that comes along. Everyone recognizes her, though she's never the same twice. She sweeps her black tresses across the room, brushes her blond curls away from her face, looks with blue or hazel eyes, smells of canal or perhaps sike, but always airy, fleeting, and also sensual, predatory. Pheromones fall behind her in a narcotic ribbon, and everyone focuses their wandering eyes and spins dreams as sinful as they are dark. The lover stops talking, the condemned man's vodka catches in his throat, the Wirtual is unsure whether he envies or admires. And she, in this collective delight, grows stronger with each step. Her hands are even more slender, her eyes passionate, her lips sensual, her feet shapely—fuck, even her hairpins are sexy. And she continues to walk through the room as if no one had ever seen her, pulling off her glove with her teeth. Her coat slips from her bare shoulders, and a dull apprehension permeates the entire room. A ribbon of tattooed Chinese ideograms stretches across her collarbones like a summer memory. Black spiders gleam on the silken ottoman, and the condemned man and his lover tremble at the thought of the needle and the ink injected under the skin.
And they admit defeat; they have been defeated by the proudly striding icon of sin and desire. The friend looked irritably at the Chinese man standing beside him, bursting with laughter.
"What are you smiling about? Cool, right?
" "Yeah, yeah, very, very good writing."
"The writing? Those characters? What's the point?"
- "Spring green tea promotion" - the Chinese snorted and walked away.
Beware of false prophets.
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