8.

26 June, 7:05 AM, Czernograd, the Rawicz district

The phone kept ringing and Igor Svoboda, suspended somewhere in the netherworld between sleep and wakefulness, kept regretting his choice of a ringtone; the old, rotary-style dial phone that sounded like an alarm clock having hiccups.

Somewhere to his left, a naked body of a young woman gave out a soft groan as she pulled a pillow over her head. Igor could now vaguely remember – last night, late night, “Cafe Opera”, ever popular with students, bohemians, pretentious wankers, and dirty old men who were pretentious wankers but pretended to be bohemians. Vodka, laughter, more vodka, shreds of conversation, apartment somewhere south of the railway line, up the flight of stairs, more vodka, hot breath on his lips, perky breasts that fitted nicely in his hands, long blond hair thrown back, riding him and grinding him. After that it got really hazy.

Being a journalist could still open legs, if not doors - though last night it’s been both – of pathetically star-struck uni students who still haven’t mastered the art of holding their liquor. Igor’s conscience was clear; he never actually made any promises, even implied one, of that holy grail of young up-and-comers, the work experience, or even a lesser grail of a useful contact at “The Czernograd Gazette”. He wasn’t responsible for other people’s assumptions.

Igor slowly opened his eyes and looked through a mist at the curve of the woman’s spine and the firm round buttocks half hidden by a rumpled sheet, the body like a beautiful, precious musical instrument, a Stradivarius perhaps, resting on its side. He felt like reaching out and plucking the strings. This one might get a second time, he thought as his hand felt around the bedside table looking for his phone.

“Yeah,” he answered the call as rolled onto his back.

“Where are you?” the demanding voice at the other end gruff, sandpapered down by a pack a day of cheap and nasty Bulgarian cigarettes. Marek Lis. The head editor of the metro section.

“In heaven,” said Igor, cradling the phone to his ear while his hand went on another expedition, this time in search for his own cigarettes. Non-Bulgarian ones.

“Get your ass out of heaven then,” Lis sounded as if he knew. Probably because he did. “I want you under the King Nicholas bridge, the south end, as soon as you can put your clothes on. On the second thought, never mind the clothes, just get the hell out there pronto.”

“What’s up?” Igor asked, lighting up.

“A staking,” said Lis. “Or rather, a self-staking, it seems.”

“No shit,” Igor blew the smoke towards the ceiling. It was painted pale blue, and someone had stuck a fistful of little silver stars in the shape of some unknown constellations so that they glowed down at in darkness like a real night sky. Yes, he did remember now, the tiny points of light around her head like a halo.

“Yes, shit,” said Lis and hang up.

Igor took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew a ring towards the firmament.

Yes, shit.

He rolled on his side, towards the woman, worked his body down the bed and planted a soft kiss in the small of her back. His lingering lips sensed a shiver run through her body like a low-level electric current, and he heard a soft noise from underneath the pillow. Then he rolled out of the bed. No, he would put some clothes on this time, but he promised himself not to make a habit of it.

Photo by JOHN TOWNER on Unsplash