On the theme of Love
AS LIGHT FAINTED
Mom sold a cow in a vicinal village; hence she looks out for it whenever driving past a herd of cattle. She never could discern the cow yet, so it hurts her. Sure she wouldn’t stop a bus by a pasture to look for her dear cow now, when so much time passed, though she still hopes that it would recognize the master. However, what for should she stop a regular bus there?
… I said that I wasn’t against doing shopping with her, why should I, and it was the only truth that I allowed myself that time. Shopping is ever a good chance for making choice, there is no compelling. She was looking for a gift to her friend Natasha, in spite that she keenly tried garments on herself.
For some reason she had almost no make-up and wore somber clothes. Or was it a make-up attracting little attention, one could never tell that. Still there was little color about her, except a red gym bag in her hand. What for had she called me and made a date: to inspect me, to look into an old mirror, a turbid one?Опоздание
After a little delay she had swiftly showed up at a bus station then. I was aware she would come without fail, no doubt, but I was taken aback when she cropped up. I didn’t give her a smack on the cheek, as if we hadn’t lived together several years ago. Five years ago. Then I had singled out her for dim light in her grey eyes, those turned into green while looking into them closely.
And again she made complaints against a chilly day, she felt cold as ever, as it had been with her previously. I had to break invisible ice and offered my hand, just to make her warm. I was so rash to wring her hand that it made her utter a scream: oh, you broke my nail! Her shriek in a loud voice in a near-empty bleak hall proved to be so natural. The same way she would cry out unconsciously when in bed with me once. I mused if she was crying out similarly when she was with her husband then.
However, could we consider our meeting a date? If only I could be driving up a sumptuous car with an armful of flowers to take her to a restaurant! Maybe all the years she has been expecting it: fancied to drive with her man to a grand restaurant! It meant – with me; that’s why she had called me possibly. And I just took her to a cafe to have coffee. Like students.
It hadn’t occurred to me to turn up with a bouquet of five roses then, reckoning the years passed. Well, in so much time she might appeared right for the forfeited cry that struck me, it burst out so easily as if had been prepared well beforehand.
In addition she said that she turned out to be a good housewife, regularly baking pasty. I couldn’t imagine her making jam in summer or pickling cucumbers for winter. Yes, when with me she did her best to turn a dinner into a feast, and I had nothing against it, but I never knew when I’d be back in the evening. And I never had desire to warm up a dish, even mouth-watering one.
I didn’t tell her much at the meeting. I didn’t say that I was ever glad to her calls, and I knew her voice right away. For some reason I didn’t tell her that. And she was eager to hear from me that she was still young, and attractive, and seducing. Who could confirm it but me?
I could have told her that she hadn’t changed much if she was after that. But I didn’t utter it; I didn’t meet happiness in her eyes. The light fainted, that’s why I hadn’t recognized her in a moment, and it was enough for her to see that.
Afterwards I had a dream as if I had failed to identify her at the bus station, and I startled in my bed. On the other hand, was it a bad dream?
…Driving back I watched three girls in my bus, they were friends, students, going home to my town. One had wonderful black eyes and a shade of a smile I never got completely. Another wasn’t so sweet, she wore stylish glasses and some deep thought seemed to be concealed behind. At a terminal station a young man was waiting for them, just by himself. He picked the third girl, I had paid no attention. She had been sleeping all the time while travelling, and she had a drowsy look. Like a cow. And he took her home.
Still and all, I love natural flowers, somewhat faded…
Author Biography
Mr. Valery Petrovskiy is a journalist and short story writer from Russia.
Не is an English Department graduate at Chuvash State University, Cheboksary, graduated in journalism at VKSch Higher School, Moscow. He has been writing prose since 2005. His writing has been published in English in Australia and the United States in The Scrambler, Rusty Typer, BRICKrethoric, NAP Magazine, Literary Burlesque, The Other Room, Curbside Quotidian, DANSE MACABRE, WidowMoon Press, PRIME MINCER, Apocrypha and Abstractions, The Legendary, The Fringe, Skive and Going Down Swinging magazines.