Free Crumbs by Miha Mazzini Page B

newsreel.
    As if she was aware of my associations, she had even accentuated her face with a shapeless gray jacket and ashitty light brown skirt. Probably a present from her grandmother. She didn’t smoke. When I mentioned cigarettes, she went and bought a packet. She didn’t have a bad figure. A nice, well proportioned ass. Under the straight-cut loose cardigan, you could just about make out large breasts. Not drooping, judging by her cleavage, which was in the right place. As she was bringing my cigarettes, I noticed knee-high white socks. I sighed sadly. Women who dressed as boringly as that were usually themselves boring.
    I looked in front of me. I couldn’t stand her loving look. A tender look as if it was intended for newborn kittens. What she wanted most was to cradle me in her arms, stroke me behind my ears. I regretted those two times at the party. Alcohol drives all my blood into my prick. Because there is a law which says that the same thing can’t be in two places at once, my brain stays without blood. As my lower head is smaller than the one on top, my intellectual capacities become correspondingly smaller. Thinking of one thing only. Maybe she wasn’t a whore and agreed to fuck me only because she wanted to tie me to her. I felt like a bastard.
    Oh, justice, where are you these days, we never see you around here anymore.
    Poet joined us. Immediately he got a beer.
    Your friends are my friends, too. The influence of cowboy stories is still very strong on some people.
    I finished my second beer and a third one was already on its way. Poet started rambling. He pulled his latest booklet out of his pocket, turned a few pages, and then started reading, ‘Soil…’
    A pause.
    â€˜And on it a forest…’
    I was fiddling with the bottle in my hands. At greatlength I studied the label and the date on it. I remembered the girl from the foundry. I thought of my malfunctioning glands. One hormone too much, another too little. My feelings come in waves, from happiness to hatred. But most often a mess of bittersweet sadness. Poet only needed his book as a prompt. He wasn’t reading anymore but reciting.
    â€˜And in the forest, trees…’
    I looked at our hostess. She was listening to him intently. Whining always finds hearts full of pain and frustration. There’s no real what-the-hell-do-I-care attitude in poets like there is in healthy people.
    Maybe that’s why nobody reads them.
    â€˜And on trees, branches…’
    I was bored to death. I kept turning the empty bottle in my hand. The girl really was in a trance. She didn’t notice that my beer was gone. A betrayal from within your own camp.
    I looked out on the empty street. I listened to the pensioners, who were going on about putting a stick up ‘their’ asses and roasting ‘them’ over a fire.
    It would be good to ask poet what the title of the poem was. ‘Botany for Beginners’?
    â€˜And on branches, leaves…’
    I moved to another chair and opened my legs. With my knee I touched her thigh. She didn’t move away.
    I put my hand on the bare skin. Pulled her skirt up and slid my palm towards the warmth between her legs.
    She squeezed her legs and grabbed my hand. Not in defence.
    â€˜And the leaves are moving in the wind…’
    My middle finger, the finger made for knocking on the door when visiting, penetrated first. My index fingerdidn’t want to be left behind.
    â€˜To and fro. They touch and then move away…’
    Poet didn’t notice anything. The booklet lay closed on the table.
    He was staring at the wall between the girl and me.
    â€˜Some meet, others don’t…’
    She tried to stay calm. Motionless. She was biting her lips. She wasn’t listening to Poet anymore. My usual flaw. I always want to be the centre of attention.
    â€˜The wind moves them, the wind carries them away…’
    She was kneading my arm. Her