Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
I see me bending down to slowly lick the drips from her breasts, her stomach, my tongue exploring everywhere, every inch, pretending I was not really in search of the sweet nectar between her legs. More ice cream lands on her giggling body, more licking, until she didn’t squirm or giggle anymore.
I turn away from the empty counter. I have never felt so alone in my life. I sit on the couch and pull my feet up. Not long before daylight. She would have arrived at her home by now. I call Sam.
‘All done,’ he says crisply.
‘Where did you drop her off?’
‘One street away.’
‘Right. Thanks.’
I drink until I can’t see straight, but the wanting doesn’t go away. I can’t face the bed. I close my eyes and sleep comes. I wake up at the sound of someone in the kitchen. My head is hammering. I look at the bottle rolling on the floor. It’s empty.
I groan when Irina comes into the room.
She is coming into the room bringing a small saucer. ‘Nikolashka,’ she says. Her voice rings like a fucking Church bell in my head.
It is an old Russian cure for a hangover. A slice of lemon with a teaspoon of sugar and a teaspoon of coffee on top.
I shake my head and pain shoots into it. ‘Nyet,’ I whisper.
‘It’s either this or haash.’ There is not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. Fuck that. Haash is a Caucasus thick stew that is prepared by cooking tripe and beef trotters for six hours, and to make it worse, it is consumed with radish and lots of garlic. I’d rather die than let one drop of that shit into my mouth.
I put my feet on the ground and a bolt of pain hits my brain.
‘Fuck,’ I curse, cradling my head.
Irina stands patiently next to me with her saucer.
I reach out a hand, take the lemon slice and, sliding it between my dry, crusty lips, chew it slowly. As soon as I have swallowed it, she nods with satisfaction and goes back to the kitchen. I stand up slowly and go straight into the bathroom. I switch on the shower and stand under the hot jet. The sluggish blood in my veins starts pumping. I roll my neck and stretch the knots from my shoulders. Last night feels like a dream. I get out of the shower, brush my teeth, and walk naked to the bedroom.
Slivers of sunlight slanting in through the window shutters make me squint. My eyes turn to the unmade bed. She was no dream. I walk to the bed and, grabbing a fistful of bedding, pull it up to my nostrils. Her smell clings to the bed sheets like early morning fog across a lake.
I can’t just let go of her like that. She belongs to me.
I go to the window and pull the shutters open. Bright yellow sunlight blinds me for an instant, then I see them. An Omen. In my head Babushka is saying, eto magiya (it’s magic). Two blackbirds have settled on the pillars on either side of my gate.
A dormant memory, fresh as if from yesterday, fills my mind.
Babushka’s hands with their bulbous knuckles are moving quickly. She is peeling red onions to make pickles for the winter. It always makes the whole house smell of vinegar. Around her head is the triangularly folded headscarf and I am reading the newspapers to her. Suddenly a bird flies in through the open window and perches on the inside ledge.
‘Look, Babushka?’ I gasp.
She looks at the bird.
‘What kind of bird is it?’ I whisper back.
‘It’s a blackbird,’ she says and smiles.
‘Is it a good omen?’ I ask curiously. Babushka assigned meaning and superstitions to even the smallest occurrences.
She throws a peeled onion into the bucket and picks up another one. ‘All the birds that wear robes of black come to tell us the seeds of change have been planted in our lives. Often they bring news of death because that is the greatest change of all.’
‘Who will die in our house?’ I whisper aghast.
‘No one. When you see a blackbird you must smile. Tis a great blessing. It is an early warning. Telling us to be prepared. To love those around us even more deeply than we think is possible because one day they will be no more.’
She smiles at me and I smile back.
‘Now sing,’ she says.
And I sang for her. I was eight years old.
That winter was the first time I knew Mama was ill. That time they cured her. The next time the illness came back I would be thirteen and this time she would suffer for two years two months and five days before she left Babushka and I forever.
For a moment I just stand and watch silently. What seeds of change have you brought? What do I have to be prepared for? Who do I have to love even more deeply than I think is possible before they are taken away from me forever?