Strange words

Strange words.

Empty head.

Ready.

For eggs.

Fried.

A slight pain has settled behind my right eye.

And it's tickling my left.

Something's wrong.

A small desert in my mouth.

The sun is beating

down. A taste for bubbles without gas.

My sweatshirt smells like smoked cheese.

A shooting star hit my pants.

Dog shit hit my sole .

Something's not right.

A hole in my wallet.

Papers spilled out, gills escaped.

Something tickles my left eye.

Something that's nested in my right.

A storm cloud, a slight feeling of discomfort.

Bubble water!

A hangover, a terrible hangover. A giant hangover worse than after a glass of wine at Aunt Józia's.

I lie on the bed, slowly returning from the embrace of Morpheus. I grope around the bed for anything containing H2O. My head is under the pillow. The alarm clock is blaring. A thousand bells are ringing in my head. My fingertips brush against a bottle. It's not bad. It's not bad. I reach as far as I can. Nothing. In the face. You have to get closer, which means movement.

And any movement in this state is not a good idea. What to do? This bad, this worse. I'm thirsty as hell. Okay. Physics risk.

With my eyes still closed, I board the life-giving liquid. I unscrew it. I tilt it. It flows. Down, according to the laws of gravity, thank God. It reaches my parched lips. It pours into my mouth. I swallow…

Trying to determine what this abomination was in that bottle, I remember

that it's been sitting there for a good two months. I should have labeled it "Dangerous Experiment!!!"

I swallow and spit it out, choking and spilling some of the contents onto the pillow and myself. The rest, along with the bottle, sits near the bed. A warning: don't drink, and you won't need me!

This completely revives me. The disgusting taste in my mouth and the wet sheets drive me out of bed. I trudge to the bathroom. I stick my head under the tap (sometimes tap water is really tasty) and brush my teeth.

Only then do I have the strength to face my reflection in the mirror...

Oh my. And it started so innocently.

I got home early the previous evening. Just in time for bedtime. Something was bothering me. I ate. I drank. I scratched my stomach. I scratched behind my ear. It didn't help. I went outside the building for a cigarette. I came back. I wandered and wandered around the house, and something was still bothering me.

A text to a friend: "Go to the city, citizen."

In Re, very gently. One beer. Ugh, oh, ą, ę. About culture, about film.

Him with a girl, me alone. "To dance," comes the slogan.

It hasn't even finished yet, and we're already in Łubu-doubu. Then Kitsch, some more Łubu, and we stagger back to Re. They have tea, so I have a beer. He's asleep. We talk about serious matters. She has tea. He's still asleep, so I have a beer. Red ears, red nose. My tongue starts to get tangled.

Fifteen minutes pass, two. They're going home, so I guess I'm going too.

We're getting ready slowly. But something's nagging at me again. Something's stirring in my twisted soul. It's still too early to go home.

Friends at the bar. I say goodbye to him and her and walk slowly

towards the bar.

"Will you give me a beer for a line?" I smile at the bartender. The bartender, I think, is Kasia. Young, nice, with a body out of this world.

"Will you give me a beer?" she asks. Maybe she's smiling, maybe not. She's clearly tired. Besides, she's only been working here a short time, and that's always stressful.

"I'll give it back, I'll give it back. A mug with two fingers of foam, please.

The company is unfamiliar to me, but pleasant. To my right sits the birthday boy. Or maybe the birthday boy. And in front of me is a stomach bug. And juice.

If I'd left then, it could have all ended in a minor headache. Unfortunately...

Pit asks me for a cigarette. Oh, I know what's coming. Pit doesn't smoke,

or rather, he smokes other things. He takes a cigarette. He disassembles and reassembles it, adding a little of this and that. Blancik prowls around. I order tea, though it's too late for her to help me anyway. A wise Pole after the damage.

The pub's long closed, only something's happening at the bar. As they're leaving, Gosia drops in twice, one of them my ex. Sad.

Home. Well, it's not easy. Some of the company is going one way. Gosia and I are going the other. To the potty. We chat about this and that. I drive her two stops. I hug myself, feeling homesick and sad. I hop off the bus melodramatic. Casablanca 2000.

I lie down on the next one. I wait. I get on. I fall asleep.

I wake up. The bus is stopped. The engine's off, and there are no passengers except me. I look out the window. It's dark. Nothing's lit. Wow! What kind of shithole is this? I get off

and start walking unsteadily in some unspecified direction. And since I don't know why I'm going this way, I turn and go the other way.

The security guard glares at me. "Where the hell did he get here?" I wonder. A mustache, a serious expression, a badge on his chest with the word "security" written on it. It's silly to ask what he's guarding. He probably won't tell me anyway. So I ask.

"Shit. By the way, what am I?"

He looks at me with a suspicious, security-type gaze. Am I perhaps a threat? Conscientious, maybe he'll become a detective someday.

"Bieńczyce.

" "Oh fuck," I think, having no idea where that is, or more precisely, which way to bed.

"And how about Wiślicka Street?" I manage to say it clearly.

He seems to think he's in no danger from me.

And rightly so, what could I possibly do to anyone?

"There's a bus stop on the left, around the corner. Bus 138.

" "Thank you," I reply. I'm cold and unwell, probably partly because of Gośka's reasons.

Half an hour later, I settle into my bed, forgetting to prepare my hangover breaker, aka H2O.

After leaving the bathroom, I wander around the house a bit more. I gather the necessary things and leave. swaying, unsteady. My backpack follows me step by step. It seems to be following me. Gosh, I'm so sleepy. Three hours in bed is definitely not enough, but what can I do? I have to catch a train. The capital is calling.

I sleep on the bus. People look at me strangely. I have no idea why.

I somehow make it to the train station and settle into my compartment. And here's a pleasant surprise: a second-class carriage, first-class standard. The train is almost empty, the whole compartment for me. And the door lock isn't broken. I wait for the conductor to fulfill his duty, in my kimono.

I sleep, as one does on a train, sometimes more deeply, sometimes more lightly. Suddenly, someone knocks on the door. I wake up wondering who it is. Maybe the conductor wants to check why the door is closed. I rub my eyes and open the compartment. A woman stands in front of me. Black skirt, white blouse, and a WARS badge. Next to her is a shopping cart modified for the train.

"Coffee? Tea?" she asks. Convinced I'm traveling by Intercity (free coffee and a cookie with the ticket), I say yes, I'd love to, coffee please.

The woman is almost pouring me a cup. She places a plastic cup under the tap. Her movements are routine, automated. Like a robot. I decide to shake her out of her trance.

"Do you have orange juice?" I ask. My sudden change of heart momentarily throws her off balance. She blinks, then, returning to her dancing to the rhythm of WARSA, replies that she has one.

"I'll have one."

She puts down the plastic cup and reaches for the juice bottle. She almost touches it when I feel compelled to disturb her inner peace with another question.

"Excuse me. Are we taking the Intercity or the Express?"

My words seep slowly through the space and pierce her eardrums. She glances at me suspiciously. There's a certain distance in her voice.

"We're taking the Express.

" "Oh, thank you," I say, and close the compartment door without waiting for her reaction. I close the curtains. I wrap myself in fleece. Warsaw is still an hour away, so I decide to continue sleeping.

The suffering stayed with me until the evening.