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And her tick, it sets even the kinder salivating — Josephine’s hiding under the covers, suckling knees that’re maybe her own. Her mother, our hostess, her timer’s swept through its circle, has timed the rich round of her face in a licking of crumbs from her chins…and yet still — despite the overwhelmingly regular, even attractive, features, the sweet eyes and mouth and the long lashes and small ears behind which the short hair hides as if it fears her, too, her snap judgments, her nosy impatience — and yet still, despite everything made in the mirror, it’s a roundness lamentably random, without relative order, not as much a mistake that can be rectified as it is an object that must be reckoned with in its every imperfection, you have my apologies: her moles and wrinkles, the marks of such an expressioned though meaningless spanse…her flesh morning moisturized and madeup in a false cycle imposed on the raw, is what rankles, puts off, the excess blotchy and loose without cream—ding, ding, Ding. And into all this, with its own history, its own pledges and perils if lesser than any they’d left then no less dire within their own context: counters, a dishwasher, a sink like a pit without bottom, its wastes drained entire counties away — into this, our guests emerge: they come through the arch, the homehearth, the stove he says oven she says and how she’s always right, it’s her kitchen — they enter it, into a world tiled and stainless an ocean away, across, on the wind, on the smoke; with the round white detector making a noise, frightening, an alarm misinterpreted and so, for a moment, until a window’s opened to air, everyone’s frozen, stilled with a bad heart ticked between times…this process not so much a transubstantiation as a forgetting; an experience maybe better controlled with medication, prescription: two pills — one for the heart and one for the head — and they’re Out, then In again…in this kitchen, where their hostess has been cooking away since forever: rushing to the sidedoor in heels matching her mitts, to wave their smoke out into night.

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"Все маски будут сброшены" – такое предсказание я получила в канун Нового года. Я посчитала это ерундой, но когда в новогоднюю ночь застала своего любимого в постели с лучшей подругой, поняла, насколько предсказание оказалось правдиво. Толкаю дверь в спальню и тут же замираю, забывая дышать. Всё как я мечтала. Огромная кровать, украшенная огоньками и сердечками, вокруг лепестки роз. Только среди этой красоты любимый прямо сейчас целует не меня. Мою подругу! Его руки жадно ласкают её обнажённое тело. В этот момент Таня распахивает глаза, и мы встречаемся с ней взглядами. Я пропадаю окончательно. Её наглая улыбка пронзает стрелой моё остановившееся сердце. На лице лучшей подруги я не вижу ни удивления, ни раскаяния. Наоборот, там триумф и победная улыбка.

Екатерина Янова

Проза / Современная русская и зарубежная проза / Самиздат, сетевая литература / Современная проза