You

Last night I had a dream about you. You were making the bed. I was standing there with my legs crossed dying to have sex – you kept the distance. Oh please, now you’re just acting out, – I thought. You made the bed and ordered to lay down in Jacks.

  • When did we start to sleep this way?
  • Just now.

He is such a poser, – I zoned out back to my thoughts.

  • I’m not a poser, some things just have to be done, – he read my mind.

What’s the reason behind this? Why? Why now, when everything feels so right: the place is right, as well as time, you are right and I am too. So why?

  • Our time has passed, – he continued whiles fluffing pillows.

In my opinion, it hasn’t yet come, – I replied, – I was too young. I couldn’t understand neither my-self, nor you and now… now everything is different, now it seems that I could have lived with the fact that you were my first and could become the last one.

  • You do not make any sense, – he cut me off already lying, – lie down next to me and sleep.
  • What is this, seventh grade? – I noted lying down, – I hope you washed your feet.
  • I did…
  • Come closer let me smell, – I asked with my face next to his left foot toe, – well indeed you did. Since you are all clean, maybe we could at least kiss?
  • Why did you leave me?
  • Are you asleep?

And then I woke up in single bed. Next to me on a matrass there was another man, who’s’ name I’ve forgotten and accidently called out yours.

  • Did you had a dream?
  • Yes, – I admitted yawning, – this is what happens when you are fond of someone, thoughts about that person haunt you even when everything is long over, so long that you cannot remember which part was true and which – a bare fantasy.
  • What time is it? – asked ex-lover who stayed over for one night. He, who now (and before) preferred to suck dicks rather than eat pussy.
  • Seven fourteen, – I uttered staring at the mobile phone screen, – have you dreamt about anything?
  • I have, – he replied resting his head on his arm, – I dreamt that I was making the bed and you stood there with your legs crossed dying to sleep with me.
  • What would you like for breakfast? – I changed the subject because the fact that we have same dreams is too awkward.
  • Scrambled egg, rye bread with butter on top and a cup of black coffee.

There was the other you in the kitchen, whom now I met at the wrong time. This time you were too young and couldn’t understand neither your-self, nor as a matter of fact me.

  • Good mooorning, – you prolonged.
  • …., – I replied with silence.
  • I am moving out, – you informed.
  • When? – I showed my interest holding to the cupboard door.
  • By the end of this week, – you confessed putting down the cigarette.
  • Do you have any milk?
  • I do, – you opened the refrigerator door, took the bottle of Sainsbury’s whole milk out and handed it to me.
  • Thanks, – I said, – could you kiss me?

We stood there in silence, you came closer, we looked at each other: the skin around your eyes started to wrinkle, eyes lost their sparkle, deep black hair turned grey, your shoulders bent and body lost weight. You sighed if wishing to say something, turned around, put up the volume on the radio and left the room.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds sang that we’ll never be apart again. I poured milk in a saucepan, cracked four eggs, turned the heat on.

All four of you sat around the table: you, who preferred men, the real you, you who loved me without me loving you back, and you who appear in my life accidently for a brief moment and vanished leaving fragments of discussions and music.

  • And what should I do with you now? – I ask in a low voice, sort of you in a four persons, sort of my-self.
  • Forget, – replied the one whom I barely remember.
  • How? How I supposed to do that? I tried, I did. I looked for you in others, I drank you down with wine, I meditated trying to re-connect with my inner self, but you were there, in most bazaar places: in the ear lobe, in the curve of my neck, in the tips of my fingers, underbelly, in the knee of my right leg, which you bit long time ago…
  • I remember, – smiled the real you.
  • Eggs will burn, – reminded the one, who loves men.
  • Does any of you four know how long it takes to prepare scrambled eggs?
  • Show me, – stood the one, who loves me, he came closer, stired eggs lightly and turned off the heat, – all you need to do now is put the lid on and once you spread butter on the bread it’s gonna be ready.

Whiles I was spreading the butter on bread everyone left but you, the real you.

  • Where is everyone?
  • I asked them to leave.  Four eggs won’t feed us all and we need to talk in private.

We talked thoustands of times about everything, we figured out that you love me and I love you. But there lies the issue, because love is not what we are looking for.

  • But then, what are we looking for?
  • Maybe an exit? – picking the eggs with the fork you said in doubt.
  • … oh, so this is what you were doing with your head stuck between other women legs – you were looking for an exit?

–         Such a manner of speaking does not suit your pretty face, – you said and I went quite because only you know what does and doesn’t suit me.

–         …

–         …

–         …

–         Thank you, – you thank me for the omelette.

–         Kiss me, – I put my lips together for a kiss, close my eyes and lean towards.

You kiss my lips, I open my eyes, and in front of me I see you, the one who loves me. I circle my lips with a tip of my thumb like Jean-Oaul Belmondo character in Breathless*.

–         Where were you? – I sigh.

–         Behind you…

–         All this time?

–         Yes.

–         Are you angry?

–         No, why should I be?

Sure, why should you? After all you are the same person only in different forms.

*Jean-Luc Godard „Breathless” (1960)

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Marija

"Lengva būtų visa tai pavadinti literatūriniu nudizmu, jei Marijos Djačenko kūryboje nebudėtų skaudus jautrumas tiems, kuriems atrodo, jog savo egzistenciją įmanoma pabrėžti ir susinaikinimu." - ROBERTAS KETURAKIS “It would be easy to call Marija Djačenko’s oeuvre literary nudism, if not the painful sensitivity to those who feel that their existence may be stressed by self destruction.” – ROBERTAS KETURAKIS