Honest Isak
The door was opened by a tiny woman with curly hair tied up in a bun, which was pinned on the top of her head like a giant chestnut. She couldn’t have been any taller than 5’3”, but my eyes still came in a good two and a half inches under the tips of her breasts, which were outlined on the gray cotton fabric of her long t-shirt. Besides this shirt-dress with its deep V-neck, which revealed her smooth naked shoulder, she wasn’t wearing anything else, as I would soon find out. She stood there barefoot, her skin tanned and taut, without any jewelry, birthmarks, make-up, or tattoos—just a few lines above her eyebrows and around her lips, which were noticeable when she smiled at me in a sign of greeting. I kissed her cheek without any anxiety of the type that usually rattles me on first encounters, because that smile of hers, plus her casual hand on my shoulder while I was on my way in, made it clear that she sensed my little deception. And that she was okay with it.
I adore the twenty-first century. Quick contacts, easy transfer of information, smart devices that store substantial collections of films and music, QR codes, binary language, the IT sector, working from home, cameras and filters, social networks and control over one’s self-representation. And Tinder, for fuck’s sake! A catalog of people you can be in touch with this very evening, if only you learn how to communicate, if you get the hang of it, you can tell which of these women is looking for a husband, which ones for experience, and which one for a partner for Instagram pictures. And I am a good and astute observer. I don’t have a lot of great qualities, just an interesting life story and some money; and the fact that I have given up on love and the typical route to a family keeps my expectations and pleasures pretty simple. If I had a choice, I couldn’t pick a better time to be alive. Except for some ancient civilizations, where I could be some well-hung god or at least a god’s apprentice, there is no historical period in which I would have gotten by all right. In the best-case scenario, they would have trained me like a pet—firing me out of a cannon in the circus or showing me at fairs. In the worst case, they would have done experiments on my body, stretched out my joints, cut me to the bone, implanted metal rods in my limbs, to see if I could stand up or if I would just die. All of that stuff passed me over me. When I had gotten through the traumas of puberty, all of those miserable little people who were looking to make the world a better place pulled me into their crybaby circles, and it was only then that I was able to free myself from hatred and become conscious of the kind of life I could lead. In contrast to them, I triumphed. In one meeting of the group, that frank thought popped into my head, and I said it out loud. After a short silence, a woman started to cry, and she wiped her nose on a handkerchief that she pulled out of the sleeve of her sweatshirt with a SpongeBob emblem on it. The others looked down at the floor. I let myself down from the chair, apologized if something was wrong, and declared that I wouldn’t be attending any more meetings.
On Tinder things didn’t go smoothly at first. There was this wall of mistrust—even towards standard, normal men, as my friends reported to me. But, in contrast to them, I understood women well. They’ve always admitted me to their company, as if I were their gay brother, safe, the one who didn’t count, in front of whom they could let their guard down. They revealed themselves to me, unburdened themselves, and touched me and let me lie in their laps. I smelled the sweat and perfume in their underarms. I learned about them.
On the web she’d introduced herself as Sonja. On the photos her face couldn’t be seen—only her figure, arms, big close-ups of her lips with a cigarette hanging out of them and that thick curly hair, which I meticulously imagined holding in my hands. She was imaginative, brazen, inspiring. But what drew me to her first was her age. Since I don’t exactly have a lot of opportunities to hook up with women my own age—either they’re not on social networks or they are frightened liars you can’t get anywhere near—I mostly date girls who are out there wanting to try everything, for a year, before they go finish their studies, move abroad, have children, or set out on some new struggle that will give them the possibility of an ordinary life. I don’t even need to mention that my partners were mostly artists, activists, self-aware women, or at least ones who didn’t dare admit that they were prejudiced. All of that was a plus for me, because we all know that feminists are the best fucks, although I would settle for less than that. Since I’m not in a position to be really choosy, I can say that my sex life is satisfying. I carefully positioned my photo on the profile, only my head and beard, dark glasses, no physique, no arms. Sometimes months of correspondence would happen before the first encounter, but then I’d have a story ready that would suppress the betrayed expectations. You’re not going to believe this, but only very rarely did I get rejected. Maybe it was because I reminded them of Peter Dinklage, and they in each of my attempts to be witty heard the sophisticated sarcasm of Tyrion Lannister from Game of Thrones. Conceited encounters work miracles. The other short-cut to their beds was sheer curiosity—for who, after a few drinks and joints, would miss the opportunity to see a midget’s dick?
Her apartment was comfortable and casual, sparsely furnished, just basic elements: a restored armchair from socialist times, a couch from IKEA, a little table of wooden boards, framed album covers from the ‘60s, a movie poster for the Yugoslav musical Ljubav i moda on one wall, a polished parquet floor with no carpet, a lemon tree with two dazzling fruits. I thought they were plastic. Something was suspicious about the whole set-up. It was too clean, as if it weren’t an apartment but the set for making commercials about products for a cozy urban life.
The living room was separated from the kitchen by a tall counter with barstools. I climbed up onto one with my eyes on the retro fridge and on Sonja, who was taking out of it a bottle of Finlandia. While bent over pulling out vodka and ice, her top opened down to her nipples, and I could see that they were erect from the cold. She put the bottle and two large glasses down on the counter, and then she turned back around to get blueberry juice in a bag bearing the logo of the supermarket at the end of the street. “I don’t like to drink it straight. You?”
When we started our correspondence on Tinder, while we were still in the phase of exchanging basic information and a few untruths, she told me that she worked as an illustrator.
She sent me a link to a website that sold tote-bags, shower curtains, toiletry bags, and linens, all with her original prints on them. For the most part these were reworkings of well-known artworks. Raphael’s Sistine Madonna she transformed into a beggar from the market, and onto an iconic St. George she drew breasts, a polka-dot dress, and tennis shoes. She turned a horse into a bicycle, and a spear became a taut cord, on the upper end of which a paper kite flapped in the wind. In the dragon’s place she put a dog that was pulling on the other end of the leash. Totally likable. I sensed good sex. But she didn’t tell me anything about how she actually earned a living. I assumed that behind her silences stood some husband-provider, but I didn’t care all that much about finding out that part of the story.
She noticed me looking around and drawing conclusions, so she came right out and said: “We rent this apartment out by the day. To tourists, people having affairs, families of patients at the hospital. It’s close to here. Across the park.” Her husband was away on a short trip. We could stay till the next morning if I wanted. Sonja spent a lot of time in this apartment. On the excuse that she was going out to clean up and wash the linens after guests had left, she used the free time and the empty space to be alone. Sometimes she would have a drink or two, because her husband, on account of a heart condition, had had to give up cigarettes, alcohol, and other vices, and Sonja was in solidarity with him. She came here to relax, watch a movie, listen to music, and work through some things for herself. She would spend five or six hours in the apartment and go back to her life relaxed. “Why? Don’t you like your life?” I asked, trying to reach her fingers with mine and stop their nervous drumming on the table. “On the contrary. I like it too much to screw it up,” she answered. She was as earnest as someone taking an oath in a courtroom. “What a load of crap. Excuse me. I’m nervous.” She covered her face with her hands, beneath which, as I could see, she was still smiling.
I didn’t expect her to be bashful. After the chats we’d had on Tinder and the crude comments we had exchanged, I couldn’t imagine her being this quiet and distant. I noticed she finished her vodka-and-blueberry before I did, and I decided she needed alcohol to feel free.
With the third glass, she became a different woman. Her tongue loosened and we started flirting the way I’d been hoping for the whole time. She settled onto a stool, ran her hand repeatedly over her neck and hair, and looked me in the eyes every time she took a sip, holding the liquid in her mouth for a long time. She kissed me first, leaning over the wooden table top between us and indicating the closed door on the far wall with her eyes. She walked off into the bedroom, shedding her shirt-dress as if she were heading for the shower. This speed was disappointing; I had expected a little more seduction, for us to look each other over for a while longer, but I didn’t call out for her to come back. Instead I jumped to my feet and followed her like a frisky pony. While I got rid of my tennis shoes and boxers, Sonja was already opening a box of condoms and offering me one. She planted me on the bed and straddled me. She was crazy wet, and I thought I might come as soon as I was inside her. She clenched my neck with her hands and panted into my face like this was her last fuck before the end of the world. She bobbed up and down on my cock in a jerky rhythm and swatted my face with her breasts. “Slow down…I’m gonna come…I don’t want to finish before you do…I want it to last—” I fought not to explode in the first minute. It was in vain, because Sonja went faster and faster. She looked at me from under her eyelashes, bit her lower lip, and counted out the seconds. One, two, three—and I was spent. Before I could sit up, Sonja was already completely dressed: t-shirt, pants, socks—I saw her through the open door. When I had pulled myself back together and gone out into that fucking hipster living room, I found her arranging prosciutto and cheese on a plate, swaying to the music playing from her laptop, singing in a quiet voice and downing big gulps of vodka-and-blueberry. I gathered that her excursions over to this empty apartment had never been about just two glasses of wine, but rather that she was a well-trained alcoholic. The Finlandia had been reduced to less than a third of a bottle, and I had barely had time for two shots over ice.
When she saw me approaching, she turned up the music and started to dance faster. “I walked the empty streets for ages and saw nothing but boredom,” she sang with her eyes closed. She waved her arms in the air like she was searching for me in space, and, despite my original intentions to get the hell out of there, I found myself in her embrace. I grasped her around the waist and tried to follow her rhythm, but after a few steps I had to escape the situation, which was clearly accentuating the difference in our heights. “I need to take a leak,” I said, squirming; she stroked my hair, bent over to kiss me, and sang: “Never tell me/that they broke us/and we’re unhappy/and gonna die.” I finally succeeded in extricating myself gently, kissing the palms of her hands. As I headed to the bathroom, I took out my phone and clicked on the Shazam app. It said; “Band: Dobri Isak. Song: ‘Let Me Stay in Your Bed.’”
I wasn’t unsatisfied, but everything was getting too silly and trite. This inebriated little artist-in-waiting, the wife of some well-established man, is attractive and secure and fucks men she doesn’t know and pretends to be insane. This is such a cliché. And I know my way around cliches. My life story is built on something similar.
I was washing my hands when she showed up in the doorway: “Now I need to pee.” She staggered to the toilet with her pants already off. She’d barely lowered her butt onto the rim when she started throwing up. I adroitly turned her around, positioning her head above the toilet bowl and holding onto her by the stomach and forehead. After two rounds she was finished, and she lay down on the bare tile floor. On her face, dark blotches had appeared. “Are you okay?” I asked. I wanted to hear her talk so that I could leave with a clear conscience. I was hoping that a convenient moment would present itself soon: I would look at my watch, raise an eyebrow, and say that I needed to go. She mumbled: “I’m okay. Okay.” “Why do you need all this?” I asked, mostly for my own sake. I didn’t think she was capable of answering, and I wasn’t prepared to hear her out. Her pants and underwear were still down at her knees after her unsuccessful attempt to pee, and now I tried to pull them back into place. I lifted her skirt and saw for the first time her thighs, streaked with narrow scars of various ages, thicknesses, and lengths. I recoiled as if I had done that to her myself, while I tried to cover them up again with her clothes, as quickly as possible. Sonja mumbled something that sounded to me like this: “I don’t deserve better. I don’t deserve anything better.”
“Well, what do you deserve then? You’re fucking crazy.” I’d had enough of all this, this tarted-up pseudo-apartment, the pathology that this woman was hiding and was now threatening to spill over into my life without my consent. “I don’t deserve better. I deserve a midget like you. I am no better than that, and I’m sorry if something went wrong here…” I left her to sleep it off on the bathroom floor and got ready to leave absolutely as fast as I could. On my way out I took her by the frayed chignon, lifted her head up off of the floor, and slapped her as hard as I could.
For a fraction of a second she opened her eyes and let out a sob, but a moment after she calmed down again and went on sleeping with her face glued to the cold tiles. Out of the corner of her mouth a thin line of drool had started to flow, and from her nose a drop of blood. I left the door open behind me and went down the stairs to the street. I decided I would walk home. Once again I had to win.
Dobri Isak
Vrata je otvorila sitna žena kovrdžave kose vezane u punđu, koja je kao ogroman kesten prikačena na njeno teme. Nije imala više od metar i šezdeset, pa je moj pogled za dobrih 10 cm promašio vrhove njenih grudi, koje su se ocrtavale na pamučnoj sivoj majici. Osim te tunike širokog otvora, koji joj je otkrivao glatko golo rame, na sebi, saznaću ubrzo, nije imala ništa više. Stajala je bosa, osunčane i zategnute kože, bez nakita, mladeža, šminke ili tetovaže, samo nekoliko bora iznad obrva i oko usana, koje su se otkrile kada mi se nasmešila u znak pozdrava. Poljubio sam je u obraz, bez ikakve strepnje, koja me obično prodrma pri prvom susretu, jer su mi taj njen smešak i opuštena ruka na mom ramenu dok sam ulazio jasno dali do znanja da je naslutila moju malu prevaru. I da je okej sa tim.
Obožavam XXI vek. Brze kontakte, lak prenos informacija, pametne aparate u koje 16 staju solidne kolekcije filmova i muzike, Q kodove, nule i jedinice, IT sektor, rad od kuće, kamere i filtere, društvene mreže i kontrolu samoreprezentacije. Tinder, jebote! Katalog ljudi s kojima možeš stupiti u kontakt još večeras, samo ako naučiš da komuniciraš, ako uđeš u štos koja od tih žena traži muža, koja iskustvo, a koja partnera za Instagram. A ja sam dobar i pronicljiv posmatrač. Nemam puno kvaliteta, tek zanimljivu životnu priču i nešto novca, a to što sam odustao od ljubavi i prosečnog porodičnog plana dosta mi je pojednostavilo očekivanja i zadovoljstva. Da sam birao, nisam mogao odabrati bolje vreme za život. S izuzetkom starih civilizacija, kada sam mogao da budem neki kurati bog ili bar božji šegrt, nema istorijskog perioda u kom bih dobro prošao. U najboljem slučaju bi me uzgajali kao kućnog ljubimca, ispaljivali iz topa u cirkusu i prikazivali na vašarima. U najgorem – izvodili bi eksperimente na mom telu, razvlačili mi zglobove, zasecali do kosti, ugrađivali mi metalne šipke u udove da saznaju hoću li ustati ili umreti. Mene je sve to mimoišlo. Kada sam prevazišao pubertetske traume, sve te jadne male ljude koji su tražili bolje mesto u svetu i uvlačili me u svoje plačljive kružoke, tek tada sam mogao da budem oslobođen gneva 17 i svestan života koji bih mogao da vodim. Za razliku od njih, ja sam pobedio. Na jednom sastanku grupe mi se ta iskrena misao otela iz glave, izgovorio sam je. Nakon kratkotrajnog muka neka žena je počela da plače i da briše lice maramicom koju je izvukla iz rukava dukserice sa likom Sunđer Boba. Ostali su gledali u pod. Ja sam se spustio sa stolice, izvinio ako nešto nije bilo u redu i izjavio da više neću dolaziti.
Na Tinderu isprva nije išlo glatko. Bilo je tu brdo nepoverenja, čak i prema standardnim muškarcima, pričali su mi prijatelji. Ali ja sam, za razliku od njih, žene razumevao mnogo bolje. Uvek su me lako puštale u svoje društvo, kao da sam njihov gej brat, bezopasan, onaj koji se ne računa, pred kojim mogu da budu opuštene. Otkrivale su mi se, rasterećeno me dodirivale i puštale me da im ležim u krilu. Mirisao sam znoj i parfem njihovih pazuha. Učio sam o njima.
Na mreži se predstavljala kao Sonja. Na fotografijama se nije videlo njeno lice, samo figura, ruke, krupni kadrovi usana sa kojih visi cigareta i ta bujna kovrdžava kosa, koju sam intenzivno zamišljao u svojim šakama. Bila je maštovita, bezobrazna, inspirativna. Ipak, ono što me je njoj najpre privuklo bile su njene godine. Pošto nemam baš puno prilike da se 18 spajam sa svojim vršnjakinjama – ili ih nema na mreži ili su uplašene lažljivice do kojih se ne može dopreti – uglavnom se viđam sa klinkama koje bi htele da probaju sve za godinu dana, a onda da završe studije, odu u inostranstvo, rode decu, započnu neke nove borbe koje će im dati mogućnost za običan život. Ne treba ni da napominjem da su moje partnerke bile mahom umetnice, aktivistkinje, samosvesne žene, ili makar one koje ne smeju da priznaju da imaju predrasude. U svemu tome sam bio samo na dobitku, jer znamo da se feministkinje najbolje jebu, mada bih ja pristao i na manje. Pošto nisam u poziciji da mnogo biram, mogu da kažem da vodim zadovoljavajući seksualni život. Pažljivo sam postavljao svoje fotografije na profil, samo bradata glava, tamne naočare, nikad figura, nikad ruke. Ponekad bi prošli meseci dopisivanja pre prvog susreta, ali tada sam već imao priču koja je mogla da potisne izneverena očekivanja. Nećete verovati, ali vrlo retko su me odbijale. Možda zbog toga što sam ih podsećao na Pitera Dinklidža, pa su u svakom mom pokušaju da budem duhovit čule vispreni sarkazam Tiriona Lanistera iz Igre prestola. Umišljeni doživljaji su čudo. Druga prečica do kreveta bila je prosta radoznalost – jer ko bi, 19 posle nekoliko pića i džointa, propustio priliku da vidi patuljkovu kitu.
Stan je bio ležeran, bez mnogo detalja, samo osnovni elementi: restaurirana fotelja iz doba socijalizma, kauč iz Ikee, stočić od drvenih paleta, uramljeni omoti ploča iz šezdesetih, plakat za film Ljubav i moda na jednom zidu, uglancan parket bez tepiha, limunovo drvo s dva blistava ploda. Pomislio sam da je plastično. Nešto mi je u čitavom aranžmanu bilo sumnjivo, previše čisto, kao da ovo nije stan već set za snimanje reklama o proizvodima za ugodan građanski život.
Dnevni boravak je od kuhinje odvajao visoki pult sa barskim stolicama. Popeo sam se na stolicu s pogledom na retro frižider i Sonju koja iz njega uzima bocu finlandije. Dok povijena izvlači votku i led, obod majice pada joj do bradavica i mogu da vidim da su očvrsnule od hladnoće. Na pult spušta flašu i dve velike čaše, pa se zatim vraća po sok od borovnice i kesu sa logom supermarketa s početka ulice. „Ne volim da pijem čistu. A ti?”
Kada smo započinjali prepisku na Tinderu, još dok smo bili u žanru razmene bazičnih informacija i poneke neistine, rekla mi je da se bavi ilustracijom. Poslala mi je link 20 od sajta gde su se prodavali cegeri, zavese za tuš-kabine, neseseri, posteljina sa njenim autorskim printovima. Uglavnom su to bile obrade poznatih motiva, koje je stavljala u novi kontekst. Rafaelovu Madonu sa detetom pretvorila je u prosjakinju sa pijace, a ikoničnom Sv. Đorđu je docrtala grudi, haljinu na tufne i patike. Konja je pretvorila u bicikl, a koplje je postalo zategnuti kanap, na čijem se visokom kraju njihao papirni zmaj na vetru. Namesto aždaje postavila je psa koji je potezao drugi kraj uzice. Krajnje simpatično. Slutio sam dobar seks. Ali nije mi ništa govorila o tome kako stvarno zarađuje. Pretpostavio sam da u tim prećutkivanjima leži neki muž-provajder, ali nije mi previše bilo stalo da saznam taj deo priče.
Primetila je da razgledam i donosim zaključke, pa mi je sama ispričala: „Ovaj stan rentamo na dan. Turistima, preljubnicima, porodicama koje dovode svoje bolesnike na terapiju u Gradskoj bolnici, to im je blizu ovde, preko parka.” Muž je trenutno na putu. Možemo da ostanemo do jutra, ako želim. Sonja često provodi vreme u ovom stanu. Pod izgovorom da odlazi da počisti i opere posteljinu nakon što posetioci odu, koristila je to prazno vreme i prostor da bude sama. Ponekad popije piće-dva, jer je muž zbog nekakvog srčanog problema morao da ostavi cigarete, alkohol i druge poroke, a Sonja se solidariše sa njim. Dolazi ovde da se opusti, pogleda film, sluša muziku, porazgovara sa sobom. Provede u stanu 5-6 sati i vrati se u svoj život relaksirana. „Što, zar ne voliš svoj život?”, upitah, pokušavajući da svojim prstima dohvatim njene i zaustavim ih u nervoznom tapkanju po stolu. „Naprotiv, previše ga volim da bih pravila sranja”, odgovorila je ozbiljno kao da daje zakletvu pred suđenje. „Kol’ko serem. Izvini, nervozna sam”, pokrila je lice šakama ispod kojih se, mogao sam da nazrem, ipak osmehivala.
Nisam očekivao da će biti stidljiva. Posle ćaskanja koje smo imali na Tinderu i bezobrazlucima koje smo razmenjivali, nisam mogao da je zamislim ovako tihu i distanciranu. Primetio sam da ispija votkaborovnicu brže od mene i zaključio da joj treba alkohola da se oslobodi. Kod treće čaše postala je druga žena. Jezik joj se opustio i počeli smo da flertujemo na način koji sam sve vreme priželjkivao. Nameštala se na stolici, pipkala se po vratu i kosi, gledala me u oči svaki put kad bi uzela gutljaj pića i dugo ga zadržavala u ustima. Prva me je poljubila, nagnuvši se preko drvene ploče između nas i pogledom pokazala na zatvorena vrata na drugom kraju prostorije. Krenula je u spavaću sobu, svlačeći tuniku kao da žuri na tuširanje. Razočarala me je ta brzina, očekivao sam još malo zavođenja, još malo da se gledamo, ali nisam je pozvao da se vrati, već sam dokaskao za njom kao napaljeni poni. Dok sam se ja oslobađao patika i bokserica, Sonja je već bila otvorila pakovanje kondoma i pružila mi jedan. Posadila me je na krevet i opkoračila. Bila je vlažna kao da ne folira i pomislio sam da bih mogao da svršim čim sam ušao u nju. Stisnula me je šakama za vrat i dahtala u lice kao da je ovo poslednje jebanje pred smak sveta, skakutala je na mom kurcu u odsečnom ritmu i šamarala me grudima po čelu. „Uspori… svršiću… neću pre tebe… hoću da traje”, borio sam se da ne eksplodiram u prvom minutu. Uzalud, jer Sonja je postajala sve brža. Gledala me je niz trepavice, grizla donju usnu i odbrojavala mi sekunde. Za jendva-tri ležao sam nokautiran. Pre nego što sam uspeo da se uspravim, Sonja je već bila skroz obučena, majica, pantalone, čarape, video sam kroz otvorena vrata. Kad sam se sastavio i izašao u jebenu hipstersku dnevnu sobu, zatekao sam je kako ređa pršutu i sir po tanjiru, njiše se uz muziku koju je pustila sa laptopa, peva u pola glasa i loče krupne gutljaje votka-borovnice. Shvatio sam da njene ekskurzije u prazan stan nisu nikad bile samo na dve čaše vina, već da je Sonja održavala dobru kondiciju u alkoholizmu. Finlandija je spala ispod trećine boce, a ja jedva da sam popio dve čiste s ledom.
Kad me je videla da joj se približavam, pojačala je muziku i počela da pleše žustrije. „Dugo sam hodao niz prazne ulice i nisam video ništa sem dosade”, pevala je zatvorenih očiju. Mahala je rukama po vazduhu kao da me traži u prostoru i ja sam se, uprkos prvobitnoj odluci da uhvatim maglu, našao u njenom zagrljaju. Obuhvatio sam je oko struka i pokušao da pratim njen ritam, ali sam posle nekoliko koraka morao da pobegnem iz situacije koja je jasno isticala razliku u visini. „Moram da pišam”, koprcao sam se, a ona me je milovala po kosi, savijala se da me poljubi, pevala: „Nikad ne reci mi da su nas slomili i da smo nesrećni, da ćemo umreti.” Konačno sam uspeo da se nežno izvučem, ljubeći joj dlanove. Na putu do kupatila uzeo sam telefon i aktivirao Shazam. Aplikacija je pokazala: Dobri Isak, Dozvoli mi da ostanem u tvome krevetu.
Nisam bio nezadovoljan, samo je sve ovo postalo previše bljutavo. Mala pijana umetnica u pokušaju, žena solidno ostvarenog čoveka, zgodna i obezbeđena, jebe se sa nepoznatim ljudima i glumi ludilo, to je takav kliše, a ja se bar u kliše razumem, moja biografija je izgrađena na nečemu sličnom.
Prao sam ruke kad se pojavila na vratima. „Piški mi se”, doteturala se do šolje sa već smaknutim pantalonama. Samo što je spustila dupe na dasku, počela je da povraća. Spretno sam je okrenuo, namestio joj glavu iznad školjke i pridržao je za stomak i čelo. Završila je u dva mlaza i legla na gole pločice. Po licu su joj se pojavili tamni pečati. „Jesi li okej?”, pitao sam tek da je čujem da priča, pa da mirne duše odem odavde. Nadao sam se da će se uskoro ukazati zgodan trenutak da pogledam na sat, podignem obrve i kažem da moram da krenem. Klimala je glavom i mrmljala jesam, jesam. „Pa šta tebi sve ovo treba?”, pitao sam, više za sebe. Nisam mislio da je sposobna da mi odgovori, a ni ja nisam bio spreman da je saslušam. Pantalone i gaćice su joj bile smaknute do kolena još od neuspelog pokušaja pišanja i sad sam se trudio da ih vratim na mesto. Zadigao sam joj majicu i tada prvi put ugledao njene butine, išarane tankim ožiljcima različite starosti, debljine i dužine. Trgnuo sam se kao da sam joj ih ja naneo. Dok sam se mučio da ih što pre sakrijem pod odeću, Sonja je mumlala 25 nešto što mi je zvučalo kao: „Nisam za bolje, ja nisam za bolje…”
„A za šta si, jebo te bog nenormalnu?”, bilo mi je dosta svega, ove našminkane gajbe, patologije koju ova žena krije, a koja sad preti da mi se izlije u život bez mog pristanka. „Nisam za bolje, ja sam za patuljka kao što si ti, nisam za bolje, i izvini ako nešto nije bilo u redu…” Ostavio sam je da spava na podu kupatila i spremio se za izlazak najbrže što sam mogao. Pre odlaska sam je dohvatio za raščerupanu punđu, odigao joj glavu sa poda i ošamario je iz sve snage. Na delić sekunde je otvorila oči i zagrcnula se, ali se začas opet umirila i nastavila da spava obraza prilepljenog za hladne pločice. Iz ugla usana krenula joj je tanka balava linija, iz nosa brza kap krvi. Ostavio sam otvorena vrata za sobom i spustio se stepeništem na ulicu. Rešio sam da hodam do kuće. Morao sam da pobedim i ovaj put.
JASNA DIMITRIJEVIĆ is a short story writer from Serbia. She studied literature at the University of Belgrade and is the author of two books. Her work has appeared in many regional journals and she has been awarded writing residencies in Sarajevo, Vienna, Tirana, and Priština. Her stories have been translated into German, Spanish, Italian, and several other languages. She lives and works in Belgrade.
JOHN K. COX is a professor of 20th-century East European history at North Dakota State University in Fargo (USA). He translates novels and short stories from Serbian (BCMS), Hungarian, German, and Slovene. He won the Serbian PEN Centre’s Translator of the Year award for 2021.
EDWARD MICHAEL SUPRANOWICZ is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up in Appalachia. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is a Jar, The Phoenix, and other journals. Edward is also a published poet.
