It was a day no one usually likes – Monday. A lunar day, and quite a day after Sunday, when half the population didn't go to church. Maybe they were at IKEA, or listening to the awful song "Important" from the speakers, Mezo, staring deliriously at the flashing red light with the word "Repeat."
Whatever they were doing, they had to be on their feet today, their own, not theirs, on the tram, heading to work, because without work, well, there are no "kołacz," no colored contact lenses, no tickets to a Snoop Dogg concert or Opole 2005. So people try to make sure they don't miss that tram, even though it's very early, maybe even earlier than they'd planned to go somewhere out in the world, on that beautiful day that no one ever habitually likes.
That's why, sometimes with a hateful glance from the eye of your imagination, which suggested a million situations, you might envy yours, like the fact that the lady has a child and it woke her up very early, and even though she didn't go to bed after a very polite party at 3 a.m., she had to get up at 4 a.m., so she basically slept the same number of hours as you. Maybe she didn't borrow anyone's hairdryer, or she wore a bra, maybe she didn't have size D breasts, the kind that make people stop and say: come on, Heniek, I like them with large breasts, but a huge one is too big. They move on, and so on, this one's too small, even though they like small ones, and this one's too medium, so don't worry, Henie, because the vodka ate your liver, hehe, like a raven or some other sparrow for Prometheus. With the slight difference that Prometheus at least brought you a fire with which you can light your pipe, while you gave no one anything but vodka, and in your school days, water with a dashed "O." It happened on the stairs, in some nice stairwell, and maybe your apartment is so nice? Yes, mine, mine, but only in a few months. Please, please. It took you a long time to get ready, my child. Then again, someone probably used that time better, I think, maybe like the one from Leviathan who has a perm. I wonder if a woman is in that "I don't have time to take care of myself" phase. Or maybe she takes care of herself, and this is the result? Oh, how she would cry if she found out what I'm writing here. She would be seething, after all, she was such a nice girl. I sold her four tickets this morning: two concessionary, two student, boo L. But who looks stylish in a Leviathan apron? A little understanding, ladies!
Trams at work, earning money for health and sex, don't make things any easier. Pippi. Stop. Pippi, off. A mega trip to the stars. Beep, wake up, because it's already 3:15, and the clock at the bus stop is beeping, beep, I'm telling you right, it's working, completely beep wrong. How is that man in the corner not ashamed to blow his nose so loudly? Curiosity is the first step to hell. He has a very old-fashioned handkerchief, a normal one, no writing, velvet, soft touch on your face, not even a paper butterfly came to life, no, it's a handkerchief from my great-great-someone, respect me and her, even though I blow my nose loudly.
And now, a course for detail, now, a course for cheapness. You turn your head to the right, and on your left you see a clearly visible window with a fogged-up window, as if a tram had been sweating, its beeping and stops. To your right, however, stands the very thing you were aiming for. A course for detail, Mr. sailor of another ship. My heart, her heart, our hearts are floating through the "Plac Wszystkich Świętych" stop in Krakow, on July 11th, a Monday, a day you usually don't like. Etc., etc.
The girl has red hair, the kind you've dreamed of all your life, ever since you read Anne of Green Gables. She has greenish eyes, maybe like lenses made of glass or something. You've seen this many times. Such a wonderful image of beauty, you've become accustomed to beauty in this life, and what will happen next? Will everything be as simple as today, when you borrow a hairdryer from your beautiful neighbor and walk and rush, daring to follow that red-haired beauty with your eyes, even though you're not a lesbian at all, and her existence intrigues you from a purely physical perspective. Isn't it time to end this gawking? Isn't it?
Monika got off at the stop titled "Kino Wanda." The cinema here is long gone. There are empty auditoriums, empty tapes and empty seats, empty viewers with empty pockets. There's an empty stop in the rain, on a Friday evening, where no one forbids anyone from going to the movies because it's Saturday, a safe, occasionally good, and favorable day. The cobblestones are paved with signs and car headlights, and Monika gets out, unaware yet that she's being followed. She doesn't know Krakow, she walks a bit blind, a bit intuitively, looking at the bushes, the railings, calmly contemplating their uninteresting reality. Monika's reality is even more barren than that juniper in the Planty park who keeps an eye on all the sleeping children in their strollers, making sure a hornbeam doesn't get caught in their hats. Everything for her is divided into categories: life, work, a piece of cake, and a Snoop Dogg concert. She jokes, Monika listens to techno, like her boyfriend Marcin. Marcin is a car mechanic, unaware that if he worked a little longer, he wouldn't have to buy Monika cigarettes or tights for no reason, but he'd rather come up with the idea of buying a canvas. Because no one knows this yet, but if Monika's brain were a little more abstract (something can be done about it), they'd have a true artist in the house. But her talent ended at the elementary school level, second grade "B," where her parents divorced, her mother earned much less without her father's bonus because she only sold pretzels. And there was no money for crayons—a difficult thing, to put it bluntly.
One day, her mother, who is now completely gray, woke up and suddenly remembered: Oh my God! After all, Monisia once painted such a beautiful horse!... Maybe this child would be something, what do you think, Monika's second-me-mother-in-this-case?
The second-me-Monika-mom-in-this-case agreed with the first. But they both fell asleep, Mrs. Monika's whole self woke up around maybe 9 a.m. and went selling pretzels on Kanonicza Street.
And those pretzels were a completely different story. There was salmonella, which thrived especially in Krakow's Market Square and especially in the heat. And all this crap wanted to eat them up, both Krakow and the delicious, crispy, baked crust of the pretzels.
Redhead Monika walked along, completely unaware of how ugly her plucked eyebrows would be. She wants to do it to them today, right after leaving the bank, right after she takes out a loan for her great-grandfather's house, which is already falling apart. But they'll fall for it, both at BPH and PKO, haha. Her eyebrows really annoy her; they're wide and black, hairy, and she hates hair. She once really wanted to get a haircut, but it didn't work out because it was too short. Yeah, she remembers something, I think she even liked to paint once. Yeah, and whatever, Frida had the same eyebrows as her. Hmm, very nice. Frida might have been as poor as she is now, she also had a terrible boyfriend, or maybe a girlfriend, who knows, because she was bi.
But now it'll be over, now she'll be rich and just drive around people's houses and buy herself a Toyota or a Ford. She'll have a brand-name Oriflame trunk. Everything will be different. They can take her great-grandfather's house, it doesn't matter, it's not livable anyway – she knows because she tried once. The stairs collapsed, and her heel came off on her brand-new shoes from Lidka, who smuggled a few pairs from the Czech Republic. Nothing worked. The kitchen couldn't be renovated, and where could I put a TV in the living room? It wouldn't work either. It would be better to at least give up the money for a few cool gadgets. But it's not just gadgets, it'll be her new work environment – Mrs. Ania said she'll make money very quickly. Apparently, you just need to have an idea where to sell the cosmetics. Well, Monika doesn't have that idea, but she'll think about it, and everything will be really okay. I'm sure it will be okay, especially if she takes out that loan.
You follow the girl with a very hungry gaze. The kebab man looks at you with the same look. He doesn't know that no one here is hungry, that he won't actually make anything on dog meat today (some Burek was running around here, I felt a bit sorry for him, hehe – that's what he'd joke if you asked if the meat was fresh and good). A longing glance at your hands immediately sees how beautiful they are, how you delicately draw with a pencil the shapes of buildings, a park, and a child with ice cream. He doesn't know, he will never know, how much anger and unlove you harbor.
Meanwhile, you've passed by without noticing the beautiful brunette in the window with the "KEBAB" sign. You haven't noticed the hundreds of trams, buses, cars, you can't see anything, you just walk, staring colorblindly at a single point of light called a traffic light, and with your squinting eye (the other, green one), you see the red dot of Monika's head. Monika is far away, the green light quite close. For a single moment, you hesitate whether to keep going, satisfying your brain with the nonsense from school, or run as if nothing had happened, chasing this lady this morning.
You'd probably choose the latter. You chase her thoughts, they race faster than yours. Here's Marcin with his dyed hair, there's some nasty aunt who doesn't want to die, and here it's all about money again. What hideous thoughts this beautiful girl has. Who would have thought? You see that thing about plucking her eyebrows again.
You'd approach, flashing that Snoop Dogg memory (di ol dabul ji) into your mind.
"I'm a beautician, can I pluck your eyebrows?" you ask, and she stares at you with such a blue expression that a passing cat looks at you in horror.
She doesn't know what to do, there's no excuse—you've hit the nail on the head—she was thinking about it right now, but you're smart, ugh.
Monika is in deep shock.
Monika is in
deep shock. She wouldn't take a step further now.
Your question, thrown so hopelessly into space, bounces back, resonates, and you divide the time of the bounce by two, because it had to come back.
You're standing in the plantations, and a long time passes, so much so that the leaves start to turn red, then they fall, covered in tacky snow, until they finally grow back. Monika plucked her eyebrows. PFU! You did it for her. One day she sits down, holding a dog in her hand, an Oriflame box:
"I think I'm in love."
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