Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

She was hanging her nightgown out in the morning. Her pyjamas were not shining with cleanliness. No, my mother is careful in such situations. She pours so much bleach into the laundry that the neighbors praise her, “The cleanest laundry in our yard is Ano’s.” She’s so slow, so slow, her hands trembling – but of course I can’t see that, I just feel it instinctively. While she puts one edge of the cloth on the clothesline and attaches the clip, the wind blows out the other corner and the cloth is left hanging, so she has to start all over again. You have to attach them better, woman, stronger, press down on that clip. In a word, until she manages to hang up one nightgown, I drown in sweat and, of course, end up late for work. A new daily routine. I now only go to work like a regular person, then come back because I have an important, secret, pretty old lady. There are acacias in the space between my balcony and hers. They have blossomed into white flowers. If I could walk on air, I could step on the acacias, cross the street, step on the acacias again and end up on her balcony. That was the distance between her house and mine – acacia, street, acacia. Yes, our new girlfriend has guests today. I set up the hookah and place it ceremoniously next to me, the cat in my lap, and began to watch proceedings in the house across the street. They’re probably her grandchildren. They come out onto the balcony. The grandmother behind them, lazily, slowly. They sit. The tall one among then softly pats

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