– Who are you?
He was silent.
– Who are you? – I repeated. – Who, the f…cking bastard, are you?
I sat across from him, lit a cigarette, but couldn’t take even a puff – the hands were trembling.
– And what do you want? – I continued. –What do you want NOW?
He was silent.
– Oh, really? You… – my voice quavered, broke, shattered into hundred fragments of glass. – Why?
It was not a sound, just a wheeze. Why? The only word was in my head, in my mouth, on the tip of my tongue. Why? And I couldn’t spit it out, couldn’t spit it into his face. Why? Why did I meet him? Why did he choose me? Why? Why? Why?
It was 2 months ago – the day when I met him for the first time. We were sitting in the café where I used to bring all my girls. But that day I was there with Margarete. She insisted. She said all her friends had been there, all of them liked that place, all of them admired… and so on, so on, so on.
I knew she was lying. I knew she’d seen me there with another girl. I saw her through – it was easy. I read her like an open book. But that day I was in a good mood and decided to play along.
We were having coffee, when Margarete suddenly said:
– Such a pretty boy!
I turned my head. He was sitting at the next table looking at us. With no emotions, calmly, indifferently.
Fair hair, grey eyes and a face… Oh, Margarete wasn’t right. That boy wasn’t pretty, he was beautiful. Not handsome, not. He was beautiful, really beautiful. Like an angel. With that face, he could be a movie star, I thought.
But said instead:
– He isn’t pretty, Margarete. He looks like a Teddy bear.
– It’s not true! With that face, he can be a movie star!
– With that face, he can sell a stuff to bored housewives. – I was angry with Margarete for giving a voice to my thoughts. – Just be honest, Margarete, he is fit only for that.
– Oh, don’t be so rude, dear! – She laughed. – Or maybe… you are jealous, aren’t you?
– Of course, I am jealous. So jealous! You cannot imagine how jealous I am.
– I wish you were. – She whispered.
I chose not to hear that.
– You know, – she thought for a moment, – He looks like you. The same fair hair, the same eyes. He has the same eyes as you, the color of the autumn rain.
– Don’t say silly things with such a smart look, Margarete. It’s not like you. Let’s go, I’m tired of being stared at.
We were standing at the café door, when Margarete, all of a sudden, went back to that table, stood in front of the boy, and with a smile on her lips and the sun in her eyes, didn’t say but sang:
– Goodbye, pretty boy. Goodbye, pretty-pretty-pretty boy!
