Two Faces of the East Wind

The First Face

It is almost a year since I agreed to go on a blind date. It was with a complete stranger—but our mutual acquaintance assured me that we would “get along perfectly.”

I asked why.

“Because … well, just because. You know, you’re into anime and books, so is he. Plus, things between us have not, are not, and never will go well so I figured it’d be a pity to not introduce you to my best friend who is also single.”

I chose to ignore the negative implications and instead urged him to tell me more about this best friend.

“Um … he’s got brown hair, blue eyes, he’s starting uni this year—translation, English‑German.”

I won’t lie—I was suddenly excited! It isn’t everyday that you meet a blue‑eyed brunet with a knack for languages and literature. My interest level jumped up like Mario at a cube in mid‑air—and to hide my sudden zeal, I rolled my eyes and said that sure, I’d give it a go.

“Great! I’ll arrange it. Tomorrow?”

“What, so soon?”

“Yeah, he’s leaving for Italy next week.”

“Um … okay. How will we recognize each other?”

“Oh, he saw your photograph. He said you’re gorgeous. Anyway, I gotta go—I’ll write you soon, okay? I promise, you won’t regret this!” He smiled proudly like Ariel after successfully causing the shipwreck in The Tempest and flew away.

///

It was summer and with my family being out of town, I felt freedom—freedom to do what I wanted, to go wherever I wanted and, mainly, to be with whomever I wanted. So truly, I met this best friend the next day—by the statue of a gramophone located right next to the National Theatre. I can say that I arrived without any expectations—only just in case, I made an arrangement with my friend to call me an hour after our meeting time. We had the following code: if I wanted to stay, I’d say ,“I’ll be home later” and if I wanted to leave I’d say, “I’ll be on my way right away.” In short, I was ready for both catastrophe and good luck.

But it wasn’t needed—to this day I don’t know exactly what it was, but I honestly never felt such a connection with anyone on a first date. From the moment we said “hi” all the way to the good‑bye smile and embrace about three hours later, I enjoyed myself and so did he evidently. All nervousness or initial doubt disappeared into the shadows of vivid conversation on literature, history, travel, languages. I felt so relaxed I even began speaking in English to him—out of nowhere! Realizing this, I apologized.

“It’s okay, we can speak in English if you like.” Cliché as it sounds, my heart melted. Because unlike many Czech men, his English was fluent, choice of words imaginative, and he was fun.

///

Then came the call I completely forgot about. I excused myself and went outside the café.

“You have to go home.”

“I don’t want to.” A hum of surprise came from the other end of the line.

“Really? So it’s going well, I guess?”

“Too well. Gotta go, talk to you later.”

After returning to the table, he smiled and asked if everything was alright.

“Yes.”

And after looking at each other for a while, the same words simultaneously flew out of our mouths, “Why haven’t we met sooner?” and, simultaneously, we blushed.

///

I knew that at this point it was all too positive. I couldn’t believe it either—as we say in Czech, there had to be a dead body buried somewhere. So I began searching. I asked, “D. told me you’re going to study translation.”

He nodded.

“Where? Faculty of Arts?” My heart jumped in excitement at the thought of us both studying at the same university.

His smile disappeared as he responded, “University of Vienna. I’ve lived there already for a year, got a place of my own.”

There, I had discovered the body. And I was confused. I felt the urge to leave, thinking that this relationship had no future and I won’t lie—I was disappointed. And confused, because I had never experienced long‑distance dating and honestly, I wasn’t rushing into it either. So after a short while, I responded, “Oh.”

To this he quickly said, “But I have my family here, so I do come to Prague twice a month.”

I looked away.

“My dad partially works in Italy, my mum in Russia, so I do travel quite a lot to see them.”

I looked at him quizzically.

He took the hint. “I’m Russian.”

There—the second dead body. I immediately pictured my family’s reaction to me dating a Russian guy. It wasn’t bound to be a positive one—my mother works at a music high school where most of her students are Russian and it had happened more than once that she had said that “no Russian will enter my house.” In short, there is a general stigma over here against Russians—more among the older generation than my own, but still. I wanted to leave. But I didn’t—I stayed with him until the end of that afternoon and a second date was arranged.

///

My mind was up in the clouds for the next two days. I counted the hours until we would meet again. I fought the urge to write him. I lived in recollections of our last meeting. And I was hurting. I was confused. I withdrew into myself. I was lost in doubt and fear.

But still, I met him. It was warmer than the last time we had met and it felt even hotter when I was in his presence. We went to see an exhibition of Japanese calligraphy—like the characters, we were equally as close to each other, texture on texture, shoulder to shoulder . His hand orbited around me like a planet does around the sun. Occasionally, there was a collision—he pulled me towards him into an embrace, he put his hand around my waist or he stood behind me, his hot breath caused me to shiver. But in contrast to last time, words did not flow as easily—he seemed to be mentally elsewhere and his body did all the speaking.

It was a change that I should have paid more attention to before it went all wrong.

///

He accompanied me to my German class as well as to my house later on that day. I was bewildered by the way he gently kissed my cheek before parting the first time—and despite all reason, I made the initiative to more physical contact that evening. On the street, with the stars and bright moon as our witnesses, our lips curved and brushed, producing infinite kisses. I didn’t want those moments to end, but I couldn’t enjoy them as much as I wanted. He was to leave for Italy in a week—as D. had warned me—and between the embraces and kisses, I felt a clock ticking away in my mind.

He stared into my eyes and said, “I’ve been thinking. If you want, we can try to make it long‑distance. You come visit me every two weeks, I come here every two weeks. I want to be with you and I will understand if you say no.”

And weak and infatuated as I was, I nodded. I agreed to seeing him after he returned—this was a mistake.

So after parting, I decided to plan the entire week in a fashion that would enable me to forget his absence—in vain. My life felt suddenly incomplete and I anxiously waited for him to return. I dreamed about him in a way that I had to slap myself and go for a run or read a book. Looking back, there always was an impression of a ticking clock where he was concerned. Only it didn’t ring an alarm in me until it was too late to go back.

The Second Face

Indeed, he returned a week later. My infatuation was still strong, but not as strong as it had been a week earlier. Reason began kicking in—but it got kicked out the moment he said that he would be leaving for Vienna in two days to sort out some university stuff. I decided to live for the moment—and when he invited me to his house, I agreed. I knew it was a Russian roulette, because I barely knew him. But isn’t it the forbidden or unreasonable that we desire the most sometimes?

He picked me up after class. He took my hand. He let go of it. Took it again. Let go. We reached his house—a stereotypical family home with a white façade, sharp red roof, and a trimmed garden; and in this aspect, it resembled one from some real estate magazine. It was all ours that night.

///

I felt no fear entering it. I knew well enough what we were there for—I had known that “watching a movie” was a code the moment I had noticed there was no television and he had taken out a bottle of wine and two wine glasses.

“I don’t drink.”

He filled my glass anyway and emptied his. And again. He showed me into the living room where there was a collection of books. I immediately began studying them—he then excused himself for a while and left.

That while was longer than I found normal—I wondered what was happening in the bathroom. Squaring my shoulders, I returned to studying the books, most of which were in English. I guess I was studying them rather intensively, for I didn’t notice his return into the room.

///

“I’m back.”

I grabbed a book and turned around, holding it, ready to ask a question—but what I saw took me aback. He just stood in the doorway in nothing but a bathrobe. And I stood there, speechless—I hadn’t expected him to be this frank. He walked over and sat on the white leather sofa and nudged me to join him. I did, still speechless, but also feeling awkward from being fully dressed with a man in a bathrobe. Then I realized how else it all felt: disgusting, cheap, and repulsive. All initial enchantment was gone and I considered him to not be worth my time anymore. Still, I found magic in his sky‑blue eyes.

I stopped him half‑way in the act of embracing me and urged him to clarify the whole situation, for my sake. I knew it was a poisonous question, but I still posed it, “Where is this all heading?”

Soon enough, he answered, “Where? Nowhere. I am returning to Vienna two days from now, you are staying here and eventually leaving somewhere else to study. I mean, I’ve done some thinking and really, it couldn’t work out. It seemed a good idea at first, being together long‑distance, but I’ll be honest—you’re Czech, I’m Russian and you know that says it all. We haven’t got a chance.”

I wanted to kick him for being so narrow‑minded—but at the same time, I knew he was speaking the truth that I had dared not utter.

He began rumbling the usual bullshit, “You’re a great girl, really—I’m glad we met. I think we could have been great together, but—“

“Shush.” And what I said next surprised me as well as him, “As long as you’re here, before you leave, let’s be together.”

He smiled and nodded. The rest is history.

A very short history. The next morning he made sure I didn’t leave anything at the house and accompanied me to the subway. It was the strangest ten minute walk of my life (so far); once there, we exchanged good‑bye wishes and the famous line, “We’ll keep in touch.” But we both knew that wouldn’t happen. Because, to quote Frank Sinatra, “It was great fun, but it was just one of those things.”

///

I won’t lie—the “fun” maybe wasn’t worth it, as I felt low and miserable for an entire week. I fell into isolation and only went out after my friends insisted. Rock‑climbing, 10 a.m. start. It was a little challenging for me to get out so early after a small‑scale heartbreak, remedied by watching the series Sex and the City for days on end, eating little or nothing—but still, looking back, I’m glad I made it. Because one of my climbing partners was somebody who would become my best friend, shoulder to lean on, and partner who helped me quickly forget about the shock caused by the two‑faced east wind.

Jenna II.

It was when Jenna was nineteen

And Patrick was 18 years old

That they met by the drink machine

And wed before their love went cold.

Before divorce, Jenna felt unique –

Her husband Patrick was “the best”

While all the other men were bleak.

She was, she said, a wife that’s “blessed”

Jenna was pretty, smart and fit.

Though she had a thing for tattoos.

But one day Patrick said “I quit! –

I’d rather spend more time with booze.”

So Jenna ate biscuits and cake

As she was feeling sad and lost.

This she did to mend her heart-break

But all those treats came at a cost.

She was no more fit and pretty

Her arms turned flabby, boobs saggy.

And so she bought her first kitty

And named it bitterly Maggie.

Maggie was the poor kitten’s name.

Jenna soon became a mommy

Of three more furr-balls of the names

Whiskers, Bella and then Tommy.

One day she was cleaning the house

When over the four cats she tripped

No more blood could soak into her blouse –

She bled out due to temples ripped.

Thus the tragic tale of Jenna

And this is the story’s message:

Take time, get to know your fella

And don’t rush into marriage.

Though cookies are addictive and sweet

It’s better to cry for a week;

Then get out and someone new meet –

And stand on not two, but four feet.

Because though choc cakes are good stuff

It does not fill our souls as much

With love, kisses, hugs and cute fluff

As a pinch of true love’s touch.

The Message

She was waiting already 5 minutes for him. Holding her phone firmly in her hand, she wondered what was happening. He was so desperate to see her again, texting her for ages and now she’s waiting here alone! Suddenly, the phone vibrated:

“My shoelaces broke into pieces. Be right there.”

She frowned at the message. That’s such a strange reason to keep a girl waiting… Still, she continued to stand there, waiting.

Buses around her dropped off and drove away with passengers. In a crowd of people making their way into the subway, she was lonely. She glanced up at the big clock: 10 minutes late. She watched people climb up the mount of stairs and disappear, then reappear at the metro platform. The ground trembled from the dynamics of the trains and passengers again appeared and disappeared. Soon again she was joined y a swarm of people heading for the buses. He still didn’t arrive, but a new text did.

“Just remembered it’s my grandma’s birthday. Hang on, just gotta call her.”

She remembered how he didn’t keep her waiting that long on their last date. This was to be their second. It’s already quite bad and it had barely started! She then recalled the words of her best friend Charlene, who told her a few days back, almost threateningly:

“Don’t see him again.”

“Why?”

“A guy who asks for your number in the subway is not one to date.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’ He could be asking so many girls out on dates if he has the courage to ask you so confidently! He’s just fronting.’”

“But he gave me a flower.” Charlene lifted her eyebrow and slowly asked:

“What flower?”

“Uh, a white lily I think it was.” The friend gasped in horror.

“A white lily?! Girl, get away from him. Erase his number. Delete him from your mind. Bury him.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you know? Lilies are for funerals! No, that’s a bad guy. I’m letting a white lily date you.”

“But he’s cute.”

“Even if he’s cute! You’re my super-cute friend and this guy is a pose, a douche. Let him go, you deserve better.”

Her reverie was disrupted by the sudden vibration of the phone again. Opening the digital envelope, the message said:

“I have flowers for you. On my way, can’t wait”

Indeed, only roughly 20 minutes after the time of the arranged date, the boy appeared between the bus stops. He was holding a sunflower – but the girl he was supposed to meet was no longer there.

Breaking the Silence

It was a Tuesday night and like werewolves change form with the full moon, so does humanity after midnight. This was a time when the most dramatic of events happen. While children are tucked tight in bed, insomniac seniors read their books by their nightstand lamp and happy couples are committing acts of love in the comfort of the bed or elsewhere, the face of the city changes from the one of the day. Drunks queue at the 7/11 for a bottle that they claim to be their “last”, students tipsily stumble out of bars and unhappy couples fight and sob in the streets.

Clare and David were one of these couples. Sitting in silence next to each other on the doorstep of a bakery that will open in just a few hours, they were waiting for their night time bus.

“How much longer till it arrives?”, asked Clare, breaking the ice of silence. David squared his shoulders and staring ahead of him, he abruptly shot up his wrist with the watch. It hit Clare in the face.

“Ow!” she cried. “What was that for?”

“I dunno,” said David passively. “Maybe for asking my sister what pregnancy feels like for the 100^th time and causing us to be 1 minute late for the bus. And now we have to wait here for 30 minutes.” Clare lifted her eyebrows and sarcastically responded:

“I could’ve made it 2 minutes!” David looked away. After a while, Clare said: “Why does it suddenly annoy you so that I am closer with Sarah? Just a little while back you complained about us barely speaking and now it’s bad again that we are open with each other.” David squared his shoulders.

“I…”

“You what?” Clare nudged him.

“I… it just worries me a little when you two are close. You’re like besties now. You have to be talking what Peter and I are like in bed.” Clare laughed.

“Honestly, is this what this all is about? You thinking I won’t describe you as a beast in bed?” David was silent for a while, then smiled, realizing the absurdity of the situation.

“A ‘beast’ is a bit too much. Alpha male, superman or champion would be better.” Clare hugged his arm and kissed him on the cheek.

“Oh you!” David slipped away.

“Why? I mean, Peter doesn’t say anything about how things are going with Sarah, so it’s just not fair that you two discuss me. Not that I’d like to know, really…” he made a sour face. Clare smiled.

“Don’t worry – we only discuss pregnancy onwards.” David nodded contently.

***

It was David who then broke the silence:

“We should get a parrot.” Clare winced.

“A parrot?”  

“Yeah. Like one of those that live for 50-60 years and if it doesn’t die until then, that’s a sign we’re good parents and we can get a kid of our own.”

“Seriously?” Clare laughed. “My ovaries will be long retired by then!” David didn’t give up.

“Or let’s adopt a giant turtle at the zoo. Those live for 100 years – there’s one that’s already half-way dead so she could do.” Clare shook her head.

“You make no sense after midnight, David.” He looked away, sighing.

“I know. Where’s that bus?”

***

“Sorry about hitting your nose with my watch.”

“It’s alright, didn’t hurt too much.”

“I’ll try harder next time.”

“Don’t you dare.”

***

A bus arrived, but it wasn’t theirs. Clare frowned as she asked:

“Why are the lights inside the buses green at this hour?” David jumped in excitement.

“I know! To show sperm stains.” Clare play-punched his arm.

“You watch too much CSI.”

***

“Long story short Clare, maybe I don’t want a kid just yet.”

“I figured. You want a parrot or a turtle instead.”

“I was joking.”

“I figured. What do you want then, David?” she asked. He thought for a while.

“Time spent just with you. No bugger with buggers.”

“Aw.”

“And that bus.” And truly, finally their bus arrived and the couple jumped into it, turning green.

A Story of a Bloody Exam Period

I.

It wasn’t so long ago that an article about my wounded thumb was published here at TPR. And it wasn’t so long ago either that my boyfriend said (putting on a worrisome face when he watched me fiddle around with the bread knife in the kitchen), that people who cannot cut a symmetrical slice of bread have bad relations with others. “It’s a Czech proverb,” he said all‑knowingly and took the knife from me. I now believe that to have been some kind of prevision of what would happen about a month later.

Because I sliced open another finger with that same bread knife.

It was the winter exam period when the thumb infection occurred. And a single day before the start of the summer exam period, I cut my left index finger. It might look like I’m doing it on purpose, but I’m not. I actually hate to see my own blood pouring—but I do love medium‑rare steaks.

I blame the telephone—because when I was cutting a slice from a loaf of bread, it rang aggressively right in front of me and … suddenly, the index finger had an open triangular cut wound. For milliseconds, it seemed like that was alright; but once a whole second had passed, blood began rushing out at such an astonishing speed, I sprinted to the kitchen sink and under a strong water flow watched the astonishing quantity of red liquid gush out. I stood there (weeping from mere annoyance at having to now spend time doing something other than revision) for a good half hour and the flow didn’t calm down one bit. Mother then came into the kitchen in her cotton‑white terry‑cloth bathrobe, checked out the situation and sprinted upstairs. Soon enough (I had stopped crying by then), she appeared in a casual outfit and a box of issues.

“Put a few of these around your finger and put on a jumper—we’re going to the hospital.” I didn’t argue, did as told and soon we were on our way to Motol.

II.

The last time I was there was about two or three years ago when I had an allergic reaction to some spicy Thai food (probably the high amount of chili was to blame the most). It happened on a Thursday or Friday night and it wasn’t funny, especially when my throat began swelling up, but to this day my mother enjoys telling people how I looked that night.

“Like a duck! No, someone with an upper lip Botox! You should’ve seen her, a human platypus!” You get the picture. It’s an especially charming story when your boyfriend is over for dinner and it’s Thai night. Nothing is more enchanting than to hear about how your girlfriend resembled a duck, right. And how after an anti‑allergy injection, she snored all the way home before the spaces in her throat and nose widened again. As I said, charming. 

Back to last Sunday. Emergency room, waiting in the hallway to be called in by a male nurse with platinum blonde hair that was evidently bleached from brunette. Then the doctor looked at me and called my mother in. “Ma’m, this is the adults’ emergency room. The kids’ is two floors up.”

“She is an adult.”

He turned back at me. “Are you?”

I nodded, holding the tissues tightly around the still‑bleeding finger.

“Okay then, what’s your identity number?” I mentally scrambled around my mind, but came with a squaring of the shoulders instead. “You’re twenty years old and you don’t remember your identity number?”

The male nurse in the background did a tongue‑click of disbelief.

“I just don’t remember numbers well.”

They both shut up and bandaged the finger.

III.

The next morning I appeared at university for an exam—and in a group of classmates, the females gasped and demanded to know what had happened. The words “knife” and “cut” were enough to make them wince in agony at the image. I hadn’t thought that it was something ground‑breaking to have a bandaged finger and hand, but obviously it was that morning. Especially when most believed I was left‑handed and it was a written exam.

IV.

The day after I had an appointment at the dermatologist. Long story short, I left with one bandage below my chin and another on the side of my neck. When I boarded a tram, a row with three or four grandmas all watched me get out my notes.

One of them then shouted across the tram, “Everything alright, dear?”

Wait—I have my lecture notes, am after lunch, the sun is shining, so what exactly isn’t alright? The exams, perhaps, I don’t like those. And the temperature could be a little cooler. And linguistics could be compulsory. Still, I responded, “Yes, thank you.” And as I smiled, I felt the bandage under my chin unstick a little.

It hit me then—with the two bandages on my neck and chin and the bandaged finger, I must have looked like some kind of home abuse victim. The same kind of slightly shocked reaction followed me all the way home—in the metro, on the bus stop, then in the bus. A teenager even let me sit down—a teenager! I felt bad for letting those people think I was some victim when in truth I am just clumsy and health‑focused.

V.

Based on the experience of the previous day, I arrived to an exam the next day without any bandages. And it felt good to attract attention for my sailor dress and then to leave early.

Thumb Études

Thumb etude I.

It was a few days after my Korean exam when I noticed my right hand thumb was swelled up. Home and later doctor’s treatment did not improve its condition; the infection actually worsened and so one morning I found myself on the way to the surgeon’s. It was the first time in my life that I was heading there and my mother soothed me, saying that she knows the surgeon who is a “very nice gentleman” and the “old nurse with a glass eye” is kind too. Approaching my station, she said “Držím palce!” (Good luck), which was kind of an irony, since only touching the right thumb with anything was a toe-curling pain by that point. Shaking my head, I left the wagon.

At the clinic, I rang the doorbell to the surgeon’s office. After a while, the door opened – and a young blonde nurse checked me from head to toe and said in a teenage-like manner: “Well?”

I wanted to “well” her back, but knowing that my thumb was kinda at stake at that point, I smiled and explained the situation. She told me to wait and shut the thick door in my face. I waited for a while until she opened it again and I entered the office at the end of which an old doctor was sitting by his desk. I sat down and clarified the whole thumb situation to him; as I spoke, he hummed in understanding and then began typing a report on the computer. He was the pointing-finger kind of typist, who kept his head tilted backwards to see through the half-moon glasses that were placed on the tip of his nose. Beneath the nose were lips, seemingly glued to each other, creating a prudish look. What I found the most annoying was the centimetre-thick moustache that seemed half-way done. As in, there was still space between the moustache and the lips for a milk moustache. It actually fascinated me and kept my mind occupied until the moment he told me to lie down on the patient board.

I knew he was going to cut it open and as he anaesthetized my thumb, I stared into the ceiling. I promised myself not to yelp, cry or beg for mercy – I liked my right thumb and didn’t want to lose it, as over the past few days I realized how important it is! I mean, I use it to zip up my pants, to button my coat, to comb through my hair when washing it... And the thought of not having half of my thumb was motivating enough to just grit my teeth and endure the strange sensation of the inner thumb freezing and then being cut open. Just listening to the surgeon’s tools clicking against each other, it was an odd feeling to know that blood was pouring out of the poor finger and yet it was rather pleasant. For a slight moment I even thought I might like to re-live that feeling again.

Half an hour later in the tram on my way back home, I was cursing my half-hour back self. “’Pleasant’... pleasant! Stupid, so, so stupid” I thought to myself, twisting my mouth in pain and shaking my right hand furiously as if it were on fire - the nerves began awakening. A mother with a small child sitting nearby were watching me, suddenly the child asked: “Mummy, why is that girl shaking her hand like that?” The mother, after a while, responded: “She cannot wait to have a cigarette, sweetie.” I gave them a glare that they looked away – and once out of the tram in the cold February weather, I continued to shake my hand in attempt to put out the fire of provoked nerves raging within.

Thumb etude II.

I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t feel like eating. The surgeon’s order was not to wash anything and to keep the thumb both dry and calm. But over the next week when the finger was recovering, dirty dishes without mercy piled up beside the kitchen basin, the right half of my scalp was lousily washed and even holding a pen or pencil was slightly uncomfortable so I gave up writing. Luckily I could still work on the computer, noticing at one point that I barely use the right thumb, only to sometimes hit the space bar. It was writing essays and chatting that helped me forget the growing twitching in the little poor finger.

The bandage however began wearing off and loosening, despite my great care of not getting it wet or anything. It was the night before I was to go to the surgeon’s again for a check-up and though the order was not to change the bandage, my mother ripped it off (hence revealing the thumb’s Quasimodo state that made me wince in disgust). Before wrapping it into a fresh bandage, she dipped it into a balm that smelled of smoked meat. Though a passionate carnivore, this liniment I increasingly began to hate. Especially when at the check-up, the surgeon opened the bandage. Again with his head tilted backwards, he examined through his half-moon lunettes the finger that looked as if it were dipped in mustard. After a while of silence, he began swearing rather vehemently.

I shall not put his short monologue word by word here, but I’ll just say that it was a quite racy speech! It concluded with something like this: “Goddamn, why the f*ck did you do this? I told you not to change the damn bandage! Why, why...”

“My mother did it,” I peeped. He looked at me, his head tilted backwards again.

“Your mama did? Ah, but you’re a grown lady! Why do you listen to her?”

“She’s a teacher.” He tilted his white-haired head even more backwards as he laughed.

“A teacher! Oh yes, my wife was a professor too. Luckily she’s dead now, so I’m free.” I imagined Shakespeare’s Ariel in the way he extended the vowels in “free”; I grinned. Suddenly though, he grew serious again: “But the balm mixed with the blood, so this is going to hurt a little bit now.”

“What? Ow!” I hissed through my teeth as he plucked a part of the dried black bump. But I didn’t drop a single tear – this was nothing, compared to a few days ago, right. After again enveloping the finger in a bandage, he said that that should be the last time we’ll see each other and bid me good luck.

“Shame, just when he was becoming fun!” I thought to myself as I left the clinic. “But at least the thumb isn’t hurting anymore” and so I looked forward to getting home and examining the cut-up thumb a few days later.

Thumb etude III

A private school called me up for an interview for a creative writing teaching position. Only 20 minutes from my house and only asking for 2 hours’ of work a week for a more than decent pay, I wanted to make a good impression. My thumb was already set free (meaning it was no longer in a bandage) and I was only very conscious where the dried blocks of black blood were concerned. I did not want to appear unhygienic so I did my best to hide the finger during the interview, but eventually it surfaced. It was terribly itchy and I kept on scratching its corners, though the tickly sensation did not cease even a bit.

“What happened with your finger?” The English teacher behind a light amber brown wooden desk asked. Carefully yet honestly, I responded:

“I had this infection in there... Went to the surgeon’s a few days ago, it’s healing slowly though. I’m sorry that it’s not pretty.”

“Don’t worry,” he squared his shoulders and the conversation carried on. It was obvious that we went along well and I have created a good impression on him. Despite the black thumb. The major moment was when he extended his hand towards me, saying that they’ll let me know. We shook hands. I was excited and happy beyond myself, thinking that the job is mine - despite the black thumb and the bad luck I thought it would bring.

The moment we exchanged final words of goodbye though, an expected thing happened: blood began running from his nose. Like pouring, like water flows from a tap on highest flow or a summer storm rain. He excused himself and began running down the hall towards the bathrooms as I stood there, smiling. Thinking, "So we are kind of equal now" and I left.

PS: I didn't get the job. I suppose the teacher felt too embarrassed about what happened.

Jenna

Jenna was 18 years old

Patrick was nineteen.

They met by the school coffee machine

And they married before their love turned cold.

Until then, Jenna felt special and unique;

Her husband Patrick was “the best”

And she was as his wife “blessed”

And she found all the other girls’ boyfriends bleak.

She was pretty and fit

And she got a new tattoo

Whenever she accomplished something new

But soon Patrick got tired of her

and their marriage he quit.

Poor Jenna was sad and lost

Eating digestive biscuits and cake

In attempt to mend her heart-break

But all this came at a cost.

For Jenna was no longer fit and pretty;

Her arms grew flabby and forbidding

And her tattoos no longer looked pleasing

And all lonely and sad, she bought her first kitty.

Whiskers was the cute kitty’s name

And Jenna became a cat mommy

Of first Whiskers, Bella, then Tommy

And she felt lonely all the same.

One day she decided to clean the house

But over the cats she tripped;

Under her sharp hairclip her temple was ripped

And she bled to death

as no more blood could soak into her blouse.

Thus the tale of Jenna

And this is the message:

Don’t get too soon into marriage

And instead take your time

and get to know your fella.