Balloon

It was supposed to be tomorrow, he knew it. He lay on the bed and inhaled another cigarette. His first trip somewhere farther than... It was supposed to be America! Eyes slightly closed, hands trembling, and in one of them, a cigarette. He lay on the bed surrounded by luggage, surrounded by a single large bag and backpack. It was supposed to be tomorrow, and tomorrow would come, he knew it. Every thought revolved around this, around the big city and its dark and bright streets, around yellow taxis and images he remembered from movies and music videos. Tomorrow he would leave her and his family, tomorrow he would experience the taste of himself and strangers. He took a deep breath, and after a moment, all before him was smoke, a gray fog, all unknown, but tomorrow...

She lay on his chest, feeling him swallow another sip of nicotine, feeling his heart beat ahead of his thoughts, and worst of all, feeling a metal rod pierce their bodies. She knew that the rod would remain until he returned, until he returned she would feel the rod cause pain, rust, and infect her blood. She looked again at the luggage, stuffed to the brim, swollen like a ripe plum. She looked at the walls of the room, which had been her walls for the past few months, which remembered her worst dreams and thoughts, which remembered how... She gritted her teeth, she had to be strong, she had to endure, she had to at all costs.

All this wasn't happening too quickly, it was all coming, and he knew it. He had waited a long time for this moment, for packing his bags, for the glances of people so close and yet so distant. For a long time, the only solution seemed to him to leave, to escape from thoughts and faces, from places that hadn't changed for as long as he could remember, to escape from places and people, because everything here was and still was constant.

One last look at the walls, at the painting, the great floating balloon. He looked and felt the emptiness; she lay there, warm. Just a moment, a few puffs of smoke, and he'd take it again, maybe a little more gently, more delicately than an hour ago, maybe a little differently than yesterday and the day before, because this time it really could be their last time together for several months, four months, to be exact, across the ocean.

Thousands

of new, fresh dots, neon lights glowed and blinded him, thousands of people on the streets, someone constantly honking. He looked around, everyone rushing somewhere, everyone chasing somewhere, the languages ​​of the world mixing in this vast cauldron, Time Square mixing them with the grace of a chef in the best restaurant. His head was still buzzing, thousands of kilometers, thousands from home and from her. And this air here, on a New York street, smelled different; he even longed differently here, he thought. He paled a little from all these new things, from these new thoughts, paled a little when he saw a man in women's clothes walking with another man in a suit into some alley. He paled a little, ordered a taxi, and drove away.

The taxi window, the rushing streets, and him racing in a car with some Latino driver. His head is pounding, the pressure is rising, everything is rushing, everything is bringing him closer to his destination, to the four walls of New York and his bed. The bed that will know him, that will know his sweat, fatigue, and tears, will know his tears for sure. He pressed his cheek against the window, didn't look, didn't want to, he'd had enough for today, for today he just needed sleep. One day this trip would be over, he thought, he'd wake up in a strange car and wouldn't know what to do next.

The door, the note with the address, the bell, and a nice woman saying something, he smiled, pushing inside, I want to sleep, I'm so sorry, I'm very tired. I don't want coffee, I don't want to talk to her, I want to meet her tomorrow, tomorrow he'd ask for coffee, everything tomorrow, not today, not in an hour. He threw his jacket in the room she'd led him to, to the apartment that would be his for four months. He threw his jacket and then himself onto the bed, today only sleep.

*

His first day of work was about to begin. It wasn't supposed to be a restaurant job, as they'd said in Poland. It turned out he'd be working as an ice cream vendor. He'd be an ice cream vendor in Harlem, he grimaced at the news, but money is money, not everything has to work out as he'd imagined. To sweeten this first day, he explained everything with adventure, adventure is adventure, even better when fate surprises. He was a little nervous, like his English, would he understand them? Or, or, or...? He had cigarettes in his pocket, took one out, lit one, washed down the bitter taste of smoke with sweet, strong coffee. He looked at his watch, it was time, he left.

The bustle of the street, hip-hop music, the bustle of children, the bustle of cars, the rapid pace of people, the honking of cars, and his small refrigerator, a small van full of ice cream. Harlem even smells black, he thought.

*

Ten hours a day at work, returning to an empty apartment, four walls that inhale his scent and loneliness. Ten hours a day at work, after work there's television, calls to his parents and girlfriend. After work there's beer and cigarettes, morning coffee, evening dinner, and thoughts.

Money is a subcutaneous injection of caffeine, it motivates, money is like pillows, helping him get used to a foreign city and a foreign mentality, it gives him comfort, food, and a place to live in Poland. Someday, when he returns, he'll be able to be with her, he'll want to be with her, he'll be with her, and nothing...

People buying ice cream are different; most are children, obese American creatures, a minority are yuppies. Sometimes couples in love, love is the same everywhere, he thought, eyes that don't see the salesperson, hands that search for each other, kisses he still sees after returning to his empty apartment. Someday he'll come back and be with her, and nothing will bother him, nothing and no one, no glances and no words, no strangers and no loved ones, it'll be just the two of them in their own apartment, in their own bed, the world will cease, it will be just them, and then they'll go for ice cream.

*

He sat down on the curb, taking a break, a sandwich, a salad, ham, next to it a Coca-Cola, lunch. 100 meters away, young boys were playing basketball, lots of laughter, but the rivalry was evident on their faces. I wonder what they were playing about. There was an argument in the shop next door, no one knew what it was about. New York was breathing nervously, New York was changing every day, every second, he thought.

Someone had nudged him, a kick and a scream. Give me a fucking kick! What are you looking at?!? In his hands were pistols, powerful Glocks, three muscular guys. He kicked himself a second time, a third, a fourth. He tried to get up, and on one occasion, he succeeded. He was breathing rapidly, feeling his heart doing its best, beating three times faster than usual, twice as fast as it had been in bed with her, faster than after taking pills at the club. He had no strength to stand, he could barely stand, he could barely look at them, his body swaying sideways, left and right, he felt like a twig on a young tree, like a twig in a storm. Then someone shot him, lightning, rain, the steady drops growing quieter, he fell, fell straight into a puddle. It must have rained heavily today, she thought, it must have.

At home, in Poland, on the wall hung a painting, a large floating balloon. Today she looked at that painting, watched, and knew that the balloon was actually empty inside. She felt empty.