Утро После (СИ)

Her name was Joan. She had thickly green eyes, the colour of the absinthe. She liked black and burgundy clothes. She had smooth dark hair, which had been always gathered up into a bun. She was very composed.

Joan liked organ music. She wanted to be a woman since her childhood: to be sophisticated, experienced woman with sensual mouth frowns and profound frown lines between eyebrows. Her lipstick was of the plum colour. Nails were sharp and red. Rings aimed to tear the black veil of tights, when she tightly fitted her bronzed calves.

She played the contrabass.

In the evening she used to undress, open her legs, and play. Her music blended with the stringy tail of woody fragrance and blew away into the dark space of the city. Nobody dared to reproach her. Everybody forgave, having seen her captivating shadow figure in the window.

III.

The time I`ve got acquainted with Joan, I felt blue. And vice versa. Feeling blue, sitting the vast august park, I caught her gaze.

- Do you like decadence?

- To tell the truth, not so much. It`s like a pill. You take it when you`re sick, and it tastes bitter in the mouth.

We laughed. We sat in the cafe.

IV.

Joan`s lips were hard and dry, they tasted like bitter chocolate with sea salt.

Sometimes I wanted to rip into them and sometimes just one sight of them made me sick - I was craving for some water...

She had only one man in her life - her contrabass. She shared him with me. In the dusty summer evenings, the contrabass sounds spread around the neighborhood as if rumbles of thunder. Sounds - drops, sounds - lightings were beating into the hearts, crushing the roofs. We did these natural disasters together. Together. Powerless and inexorably weak, we tore the chords.

Our silhouettes twitched convulsively, clearly distinguishable through the thin gossamer of white shades.

Joan`s wisps of hair strayed out of the bun, were clinging to her soaked face, to her pitchy eyebrows.

I liked to paint her. I drew her features on the margins of my notebook listening to the jejune lectures, in my note sitting in the bus, on the wet windows at home, on the wall when falling asleep... Standing down your windows, I could not help recognizing her back, the wisps of hair, her shape, and this oomph with which she was able to tear the chords.

V.

Pale morning scattered sea salt all over the seaside. Salty footprints. Salty tears. Colours...

I took my watercolours. I undressed. In my white dress I stood in the green sea and squeezed the red colour into the water. I felt joyful. Champagne of my soul petered out, failing to burst out to fill the cups of life.

Joan had always shared her contrabass with me. I had been always in love with her... Why should I be jealous?

2014 - 2017

His gaze is floured with soda...

His gaze is floured with soda. His words are like smoke of the cigarettes. His lips are dry and spicy -like cinnamon.

Great! He is just great!

No far-fetched arguments, sufferings, broken bloody hearts, no sleepless nights, no mawkish sentimentality - no feelings.

She tries to be like he is.

It just doesn't work. She feels her hands growing harder and drier, but she falls. It was just a dead branch of the tree, she held on to. She practices eye contact no longer. She suffocates with her silence. She swamps her feelings with everything what is able to kill them... She shivers, wrapping in the plaid and denies herself to weep herself out - she ought to be strong...

She cries of pain and with joy. She writes music and prose. She paints pictures. Often she laughs with contagious laughter and cuts her skin, trying to avoid emptiness in her heart. She loves light.

Her heart blazes with blood and fire. Her purity brakes against the white tile of the bathroom. She cannot live without him.

His gaze is floured with soda. His words are like smoke of the cigarettes. His lips are dry and spicy -like cinnamon.

Great! He is just great!

She is jealous of him, and often whispers in his ears: "Teach me to be like you are".

He laughs with his barbed short laughter, at the sound of which she feels uneasy, and replies - "You can`t".

She misses his hands, his lips, and his words awfully... But she forbade herself to give him this warmth. She wants to be just like he is...

When the night falls, he lies down to read the newspaper. And she lies beside him, exploring the features of his face. She misses his warmth and tenderness awfully...

She pillows her head on his chest and asks to be taught to this masculine obduracy... to this spicy and steady coldness, emitting the strength...

His incredulous, almost humiliating look. His dispassionate but scorching kiss - "As such?"

She turns to the wall. "Hit me" - pumps in her head. She awfully needs the pain, just because it is more or less acceptable for coldness and frigidity of the character, just because that is the only thing she allows to herself.

But he just leaves to have some wine... The tears are running across her face... She just does not know how to live....