Today, the day opened its eyes; even before six, before the bells rang, the sun was creeping through my eyelashes, though I hadn't slept long, long before.
Around eight o'clock, from our warehouse window, one can revel in the sight of everyday life. It's so good that just a few meters away, opposite, stands the monument to John Paul II. It's beneath it that most of the action takes place. People pass by, crossing themselves as if bidding farewell to crises, the sun peers directly into their eyes, sometimes they kneel, then the rays lick their backs, then they rise, smooth their hair, and the sun echoes between their fingers. And they walk on, dressed colorfully or simply, women, children, and men. One of them, of average height, middle age, and seemingly having had everything in his life, even at a moderate pace, is walking from the city center, looking around piously, with the cathedral watching from the side, and the Pope, and it probably wouldn't be any other way. And that's exactly how it should be. The man isn't in a hurry.
It's morning. Now the sun truly reigns supreme, not imposing or bothering, but preparing to reveal its majesty and the beauty of its ordinary, everyday power in a few hours. For now, it's enlivening the sidewalks, cleansing the air, in a cheerful, joyful tone.
Soon, however, I'll close the warehouse window and go downstairs to the arbait, or anything reminiscent of work. It's dark, it stinks, and on top of that, I have a hangover. This is MY everyday life today. And it started...
Yesterday, exactly, at work. I sat and wandered, alternating between almost no contact with the world and with one hemisphere of my brain barely moving its gray matter. The other was still on vacation. It wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't needed a change, which I'd been unnecessarily excited about since morning, so I had difficulty sitting anywhere. And then there she was. She seemed to have no idea what she wanted, so at some price she wanted to get my full attention. And I think she was deliberately wriggling like a weathercock. Constantly. And so I found my unlucky ending, even though I'd been dawdling. Yesterday was just like today—hot, sunny, and clear, so I could easily go out. Somewhere, anywhere, for a beer, so at the end of work, I decided
—let's go, I said, I see you're squirming like a loach.
After one beer, you feel strong, only she's talking and laughing, and a good thought germinates in you. Similarly after the second. But after the third, you cross that magical, invisible line and start spouting such nonsense that, on the other hand, it would be utterly embarrassing and shameful. But you talk and talk, and she asks you questions, picks up the pace, laughs, fixes her hair, goes lower, and matches the subtext. It's easier to find subtext then, and it would even be unnatural not to reduce concepts to their simplest form, just waiting for the moment to get out of here and end up in a properly made bed. But if you take that one more step down, you'll drown. And I can see that the girl is so worked up she barely understands what's happening now, so there's no way she's even considering what will happen tomorrow. Apparently, she even has a husband in the distant states... And you stop saying it's a shame and a disgrace, you just pinch her ass, laugh and drown, drown, in a single squall, squall, squall.
And that's how it was yesterday. An assassination. Yes, life needs momentum, but committing a crime must be punishable.
I returned disgraced, but still in an alcoholic mood. Yet the course of events, the hazy awareness of what would happen in a moment, in a few days, or a few years, didn't seem as hopeless as they actually turned out. I needed a doctor, limping along dirty sidewalks past littered squares near apartment buildings, and the remaining sun seemed to have puked on everyone. And I walked, practically dragged, pretending I didn't give a damn.
There are no characters. They're not allowed in this story, not even me. Because a drunken head embezzled it and sent it to Kamchatka.
When I dragged myself home to my seat, I collapsed on the couch. It wasn't hard at all; I was hungry. The offered bowl of soup seemed indifferent, but I was the opposite. I sat and listened to the twittering of my intestines, the trills of the drunkard's mouth, and other unidentifiable sounds that helped momentarily muffle the biggest noise – the gnawing conscience
– oh, my strength is failing me, which means a physical hangover is starting, and soon a moral one.
I hadn't slept a wink since midnight. I needed time, a lot of time, much more than a few hours; a few months would have been enough. Thinking about it, I unconsciously interrupted one train of thought, then another, another, another, another, which effectively robbed me of sleep. It makes me want to laugh, but I really needed a lot of sleep, a lot of time, and God knows, He did too. Unfortunately, none of that happened, mate...
Now, with the sun rising so early, I'm among the workers, pretending to be doing something too. Now, everyday life has taken over. And now I understand (oh, God, why only now?!) that I have to love her. Love her more than myself and my family, love her more than the clouds and the blue sky of life.
When every ounce of the windowsill, the half-closed window, the ajar door, the cashier at the grocery store, the local cleaning lady who makes a living, your cat, and a host of other details scream through the loudspeakers: SEE!
Only then do you open your eyes. And all these details have an advantage over you, are stronger with their steady, even duration. And only such a thing can give you support. And isn't it possible to admire an elderly woman entering a church for a moment, fixing a blonde's hair, smiling sincerely at her friend, a black cat that just happens to cross your path, always with a good intention, not a bad one, sunglasses, and a middle-aged man, average height, average build...
All for a moment, in a single second, as you open the window and gaze at the Pope's statue and the things around it that multiply by the handful.
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