Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne

Then we hear his wife’s cheerful voice explaining to him as she drains the pasta, “Yes, but that was different; now she doesn’t care if she dies!” So we book the first deal we can find and immediately change subjects and start talking about the spa. My friend brings out the list of available treatments and reads them, “Hydrotherapy Immersion Bath. It’s like a bubble bath with essential oils, but under water.” “Yes, but there’s an extra charge for that,” she replies and continues. “Eucalyptus bath, petal bath, salt bath; wow— blood bath, now you might find that one interesting.” And in this way, the miraculous power of words triumphs over action. Through the use and abuse of words you distance yourself from the idea of suicide, and it grows smaller and smaller. It’s true that it lingers there for a while, in the background. Protective. But every time the oven makes an appearance and you haven’t put your head in it, you have one more reason to laugh at yourself. What is it that separates the suicides that haven’t been carried out (always a bit pathetic, even comical) from the ones that have been (which, in contrast to the first, leave you in a state of infinite dismay)? What exactly is the distance that separates them, so small yet so immense? What is that step? According to my friend the expert, it’s that moment “And do they drown you?” I ask.


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