Cherries

I sat in the theatre buffet dribbling tears into raspberry jelly, thinking-over the last words of my ex-pseudo-husband-to-be. Words that were as illogical as negative reply from an employee that informs: you were unsuccessful because you’re overqualified for the position.

He (the ex-pseudo-husband-to-be) was slightly more creative and chose the following rejection:

  • I got a diamond in my hands and I roll it from one palm to another having got the least idea what to do with it.

The horror! The horror!

  • Is this seat taken?

Oh Lord… tears! Wipe your tears off, not your nose, you imbecile!

  • No, – I shake my head slightly.

This is him! In other words one of three orchestra trumpeters, that makes my palms wet and not only palms…

… and now what? What should I do? Pretend that something is in my eye? Smile flirtatiously despite the run-down mascara? Stand up and leave? What if I never ever have a chance like that again?

I wipe my snot discretely with a sleeve of my knitted jumper and push away the jelly another hand reaching for the mobile phone. Classic maneuver.

After a few minutes, I compose my-self and glance at the trumpeter. Looking smart: in black suit, snow-white shirt, a bow, hair slightly messy as if he took a nap somewhere on the way to the buffet. He is having black coffee. I bet – without sugar.

I press my thighs together and release a sensual: mmmm

  • Excuse me?

Seeeeex… shouts the inner slut, but instead of being an adult I shit my-self and reply:

  • I didn’t say a thing.
  • Oh, I thought I heard something.
  • No, not a word.
  • Not even a sound?
  • Not even a sensual “mmmm…”?

He did not say that. Did he?

My heart sank into my boots, last time it’s been there a couple of years ago when I was left sitting on the top of a mountain in Edinburg. That time my life flew by in front of my eyes. Three times.

“… we lack that animalistic desire, that animalistic instinct” I can hear ex-pseudo-husband-to-be contemplations. My sexuality did not find enough space between taking clothes off, folding them neatly, and brushing and flossing my teeth and climbing into crispy clean bed. My passion would fell asleep without even saying goodnight straight after the first unbuttoned button.

Using the opportunity whiles my soul drifted out of my body, trumpeter leans forward and takes the mobile phone out of my hands, then sits back and starts reading the message I wrote to my imaginary friend X telling him how much I would love to press the trumpeter to a wall like they do that in movies and…

He smiles with a smile of a satisfied man, I didn’t even have to touch him. Oh, how delicate! How romantic…

  • Aren’t you going to finish that jelly? Isn’t it tasty? Have you lost your appetite? – he asks me playing with my phone.
  • Would you like to try it? – I offer flirtatiously trying to read trumpeters sensations, – Was the performance cancelled?
  • Buratino is on coke today… – he informs without looking at me.
  • Oh, fuck…. – accidently sincere concern slips out.

In a few weeks’ time I became a part of separate world of theatre, into which, like Alisa through the rabbit hole, I fall in through the back door to the wonderland: rushing down the stairs passes Madam Butterfly, the cloakroom attendant discusses daily news with the Nutcracker.

Trumpeter replies with silence. I unconsciously start biting my nails.

  • What are you doing up there, Trumpeter? – I can’t stand the pressure any longer.
  • Arthur,  – he shakes my hand gently, – I am playing the snake…May I finish off your jelly?

I would allow him to eat that jelly from my naked breasts, he could lick melting bits from my belly. If he only like to – from other parts of my body too.

How intimate! I watch him digging the spoon into jelly that only a minute ago was soaked in my tears and I cannot stop my-self from poeticizing.

Arthur is swallowing my raspberry tears.

Arthur awakens the desire to create. Maybe poetry is love?

  • Oh…
  • You haven’t even looked at the phone screen yet, charming stranger, – quoting one of the operetta characters he reminds.
  • Purrrrrrr… – imitating a post pigeon I purr.

Electronic love letters of twenty first century, high school flirt in a form of text messages. Don’t shoot me, I’m only a woman.

Trumpeter is licking the spoon, his eyes following my shaking fingers reaching for the phone, when from nowhere into the half-empty buffet flies in a character from a fairy – Buratino, and drags me out of my sexual fantasy:

  • So what’s up? What’s new?

Trumpeter’s spoon fails to hold the last bit of jelly and it falls on to the ground. Buratino sets me free and after sighing “O!” jumps right under the table in search for the jelly leftovers.

  • I give up, – throwing the phone on to the table I let my hands down.
  • Hey, baby, – crawling backwards from underneath the table mumbles Buratino addressing neither the piece of jelly, nor me, – Arthur, having a day off?

Arthur straightens his bow nervously:

  • Shouldn’t you be on the stage now?
  • There aren’t any arias for me in Mendelssohn‘s March, – moving his jaw unnaturally Buratino talks crap.
  • You’re nose is growing…
  • Arthur, play us the March of Mendelssonhn, – commands Buratino.
  • Stranger, I hope to bump into you somewhere in the theatre corridors some time soon, – on his way out smiles my sexual fantasy Arthur.

Why is everyone leaving me? And why Buratino’s hand is on my thigh?

  • Buratino!
  • Jeez! – jumps up Buratino hitting the back of his head into the top of the table and drops unconscious.
  • Fuck this shit… – I protract and lean to see if Buratino is still alive.

Buratino lies prostrate and murmurs something under his nose unclearly, maybe calling Papa Carlo?

I stand up, look around at the audience that sat there through the whole melodrama, take a bow and leave the buffet.

In the corridors of the fairy- tale an ugly duckling from the “Swan Lake” flies by reminding me about the unread electronic love letter, in which the sexual fantasy modestly confess, that he does not watch this kind of movies, but last week he painted his walls white and bought a projector, so if I bring along „Nine ½ weeks“, he will get some cherries.

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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