Haydamak (haydamak) wrote,
Haydamak
haydamak

Felicità

I have a friend. Let us call her O., though she is E. in reality.
A gorgeous maid. In terms of build she took after her father, a Cossack, whereas her eyes are black like those of her Armenian granny.
Her hair is pitch-black, she is tall with breasts like two melons.
When she puts on a white dress and lace lingerie under it, walks as a queen with gracious hip sway all weak-nerved men fall on their knees, and kiss her footprints.

She is really beautiful. Charming, with singsong voice and laughter of a water nymph.
She is also clever, and do not tell me it does not grace a girl.

She is great in everything, but still there should a flaw by the nature of things. And a flaw there is: she likes to get a fix.
She steers clear of hard drugs, but after a bit of grass, hash, junk or other shit a clever maid turns into a cold biscuit.
Definitely, everyone has his own demon.

I did not share her passion, because I stuck to boozing. But we managed to find something in common to talk of.
She trusted me; once I even was an LSD session “invigilator”. The point is that acid is retained for quite a while and a person should not be left unguarded, otherwise he may orchestrate Fear and Loathing in Las-Vegas.
I went to her place and instead of healthy, young sex she put a blotter under her tongue and spaced out.

She did not exhibit vital signs and I was scared shitless: that scenario was off-design. I started to think how would I explain being alone in the house with the dead body of a pretty girl? And that bastard Asmodeus whispered in my ear: “Go head, until she’s still warm!”
But she snapped out of it, though was brawling for about six hours on end after that; I almost turned grey and ran with sweat, as a whore in the church, and now know better than to meddle in LSD sessions. Hedge between keeps friendship green in this matter.

Thus, apart from this passion the maid is OK and we started to come together quite often on various occasions.
Once, as a true sentimentalist, I arranged to come together one pitch-dark night, at the tram terminus in Skotoprogonnaya Street; the scenery included the car barn, my dear Research Institute of Radio Communication, a mossy pond and a cemetery after him – nice place to impress a girl, I’d say.

In a message from her before the meeting, she asked: “Got something?”
I assured her that there was a bit of nature’s offerings. Back then, I always had a vessel or two from those shity rockers.
“Bring it!” – she agreed.
I scraped the cupboard, swept the flower bin and made a bun; then put it in the matchbox having taken away the matches before that.

I rumbled in my battered Zhiguli along the streetcar rails into the darkness of the Skotoprogonnaya and, lo and behold, she was standing there, totally ethereal, otherworldly beauty, in floor-length dress, with heaving breast and pendant on a gold chain between elevations.
I gave her the present right away; she looked at the box and read: “Fe-li-ci-tà!”
I also gave a closer look and noticed the inscription “Felicità” in various colors like diamonds in the sky. I had picked up the box in a pizzeria thinking nothing of it.
That sounded romantic.

Romantic it was, but we lost sight of each other after that.
We write to each other once in a year, try to come together but with no avail.

She had an idea of giving birth to a son, even chose a name for him, but divorced from the second husband.
Then she took out an awful mortgage for a lodging at the back of beyond, in Lyubertsy, with the repayment rate of about 50 or 60 thousand per month – zing and no joke! Thus, she had no time to think of sons or husbands, just toiled at three jobs.

The last time she refused to come together in town due to having been recently operated.
I am in the dark about the details: she says she did not want to wake up after intervention, but Beelzebub turned a deaf ear to her prayers.
I offered to come and see her in Lyubertsy, it was almost a heroic deed in the busy Moscow, and she again found a pretext to blow off.
Something is the matter with her.
I feel awfully sorry for the girl.

It’s funny when you come to think of it, but I did not even go to bed with her. I feel totally unexplainable, tender, platonic sentiment and felicità to her. We are like sister and her light-minded brother.
Thus, she is wasted somewhere, whereas I am unable to do anything about it.
Tags: Проба пера
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Я Александр "haydamak" Бутенко, и у меня много ипостасей, писательство - одна из них. Да, я пишу книги, мне это нравится, моим читателям тоже, и я намереваюсь какое-то время делать это и впредь. Что это за книги? Рассказываю про "Если бы Конфуций был блондинкой". Мои книги возможно…
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