I got up; reached to the mirror, put the skin foundation. I was debating for some time between caramel and cowberry-red lipstick. Finally, I chose the caramel one. I rimmed my eyes with eyeliner. I put on the powdery-colored warm dress and full-fashioned stockings. I slipped into my coat. Ginger wings behind my back longingly shuddered.

The street was empty. I felt like a heroine of some beautiful French movie. I felt like champagne trapped in the bottle. I wanted to play. To play on the lips, heating the blood. You gave me my ginger-red wings and you were likely to leave my life. But I had the wings. You could not take them back...

With a bland smile on my face, I came to your house. I raised my head, looking at the windows, and saw the gorgeous female silhouette in your window. It was such a bittersweet feeling.

I wanted to be with both of you. I wanted to intervene or to assist, to paint you, to ink over your shadows on the walls, to accentuate the lips colour, and hardness of her nipples.

I wrapped myself tighter in the coat...

II.

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.