Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Two Stories

would never lose track of one another, not even for a day. Left by himself, he walked the city inflamed, his chest swollen with pride, alone with his joyous secret, which dissolved and oozed, like molten gold, through his entire body. From the crossroads of the central boulevard, D. looked down on him with a gaze that was more vulnerable and emotional than the one on Maltsev Street, where a flash of her left breast peeked through slightly, and the expression in her eyes was a bit haughtier. On his way home, he jumped off the tram three stops early, turned off into the old alley and crossed her yard so as to catch a glimpse of the three windows on the fourth floor: he loved them even when they were dark and empty. Two days before her return from Milan, the boy sold to a classmate the CD player his mother had recently given him and bought his beloved a chic perfume. That April was quite warm, but the evenings were chilly. By the time he had reached her house, it was already dark. Somebody’s wayward Airedale terrier was racing across the yard. The boy raised his eyes – and froze. All the three windows were brightly lit. That means she returned early! He flew into the lobby, but abruptly put on the breaks between the second and third floors, embarrassed by the confusion in his thoughts and the loud thumping of his heart. Be calm, he said to himself.


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