Point of Intersection

Point of intersection
(Blues-style monologues)

Cat on the windowsill

            They gave me the plebeian name of Murka, or they could have called me Elvira or Isabella. The murk evokes associations with a creature dull and primitive.

I remember, in the shelter, where my mother took me, these, figuratively speaking, torment was innumerable: an expressionless appearance, an inquisitive, limited mind. That's why they think we're dumber than dogs. Although I keep trying and I can't understand what the proverbial dog's ingenuity is. There's a dog running, I don't remember what the breed is called, and it's constantly shaking off in the drizzling rain. I wonder what to do when you get wet again in a minute. Normal, self-respecting cats are alien to this dog fussiness, as well as the fawning look, accompanied by salivation and wagging of the tail. And certainly no one could make me walk on a leash, even in the rain. And this coward is near, faithfully looks the owner in the eyes and does not understand that they took him out only so that he did not shit in the house. Please sit under a tree. He can't even bury himself. It's disgusting.

Teacher of pre-retirement age

When I realized that I had menopause, I immediately bought the book 100 recipes for happiness. I diagnosed myself before going to the doctor. Sitting, watching a TV program about health – and here are all the listed symptoms coincide: irritability, headaches, withering skin in all visible and hidden places, apathy and, of course, these terrible, unpredictable hot flashes. At night, it’s still hell with them, but during working hours, when you feel the scarlet face and neck when you talk to the headmaster, this old womanizer, and he perfectly understands the reason for the shame, you hate yourself and him, and the humiliation of such moments – in principle. A couple of years ago, sitting in a restaurant at a friend's birthday party, I saw her face suddenly purple, how she tried to wet the sweat with a napkin, but did not have time, and a few drops from her forehead rolled into the salad. And everyone pretended that nothing happened because people are grown up, brought up. Not that children are direct people. Yesterday, before she lost her voice, she explained her lesson. Everyone seems to have figured out how to write down slices of pizza cut into eight portions. Any questions? Got it. Why is your neck red? There was no happiness at home or at work.

I went to the bookstore on my way home today. I generally like this store next door to an Italian restaurant: a heavy, metal plated door, rotten cherry-colored carpets, fixtures on the walls; on such a rainy day, it is especially pleasant to go there. I wasn't looking for anything concrete, I was just digesting the workday, I didn't want to bring home the school aftertaste. I walked past the shelves, glided my eyes along the colorful roots, and my thoughts also slid without stopping at anything. Then she sat down in a chair and on an oval table saw a book with recipes for happiness thrown by someone. I opened it on the front page and read, “If everything annoys you, this book is for you.” Of course it was a sign and I went to pay.

The cashier, a miniature, handsome brunette in her thirties, grew up with a cell phone. Pressing it to his ear with a raised shoulder, she deftly accepted money, counted the change, and even sweetly smiled at customers. And they readily responded in the same way. I guess I was the only one not in the mood, so I told her that personal conversations should be left for later. She raised her professionally made-up eyes at me, looked at the mentally ill and sighed sympathetically. And I thought with schadenfreude - nothing, ten years from now your pretty, naturally nourished collagen muzzle will wrinkle, run with wrinkles, and no makeup will help to smear the bags that swell under your eyes, and you will stand in the morning at the mirror, with your fingers stroking saggy skin on your cheekbones, dullly repeating the mantra: I am young, I am beautiful, I am happy.

In fact, I believe that sometimes unspoken but heart-warming thoughts can achieve a goal. The cashier ostentatiously slammed the pearl lid of the phone, shoved it into the pocket of the work robe, then with graceful carelessness packed my book: first wrapped it with a cloud of cigarette paper, then lowered it into a glossy bag. And she looked through me. I thought I never learned. properly let your eyes down - to shades from light gray to black and the finest arrow at the edge of the century, and glitter on hairy cilia.

In my youth, in bookstores worked yellow-faced – from lack of vitamin D – “blue stockings” with a permanent perm or with hair taken in a colorless bundle. They were obsessed with books, carried home all the novelties to have time to read them at night, and in the morning put under the counter for special customers, as crazy as themselves.

And now everyone writes. Books are like garbage, and there are too many bad ones. That's why we need such barbie here in tight skirts and wide-open blouses. Everyone says I look much younger than my age. And if you make Botox...

- Here’s your purchase, the cashier smiled unfazed and put the phone ringing again to her ear.

I lingered at the door, opening my umbrella, and I heard, Sorry, cat, I had to switch off. A hysterical pensioner came here and bought happiness.”

Psychologist

            Every Wednesday, after the reception, I go to the Italian restaurant next door to the bookstore for dinner. I like Italian food, and here they make amazing minestrones. I've tried a dozen recipes - I can't make this soup.

The waitress brought smelly garlic bread, poured olive oil into a saucer. The black apron barely tied to her flattened waist. A year ago, she was much slimmer. So it's hormones. That's how my hair got cut. Stress? Yeah, that's probably it. On the finger trace from the wedding ring: maybe, left the husband, went to the young and agile. There's not a day that goes by that abandoned ones don't show up in the office. Although, to be honest, sometimes they cause not sympathy, but irritation, because they suffer from megalomania. And those who leave, they have no complaints. They don’t want to be alone, so they program themselves correctly.

The magic soup is fragrant and, importantly, hot. It warms from the inside. It's nice to sit in the warmth and watch the small, crumble-like beads of a cheap glass necklace hit the glass, the drops of the first autumn rain. I have no pain and everything is fine at home. It's happiness. Or peace, which is the same thing. It is fragile, like a Christmas tree toy: slightly compressed - there were fragments and light golden pollen at the tips of the fingers. Tooth sick, hemorrhoids came out, the phone rang – and instead of happiness – anxiety, which, feeding itself, multiplies like worms in the intestines, and as a result, can lead to emotional obstruction. Apparently, the woman at the next table is close to this if she bought 100 recipes for happiness. I wrote this nonsense for the sole purpose of making money for a house by the sea somewhere in Greece or Bulgaria. To go out on the porch, and in front - blue and it seems that you own not only a piece of this sandy coast, but also space - in the distance and up - to the horizon.

The premonition of fulfilling this dream inspired me for two years to write the book that this tired woman reads so enthusiastically. She drinks coffee, drenches her slightly sweaty, red face with a napkin. Most likely, turning the last page, she will understand that other people’s recipes do not suit her, because everyone has their own piggy bank of happy moments, their dreams and their understanding of happiness. But it's none of my business.

Waitress

I'm sick of those chewing mouths and the smell of pasta and garlic sauce. For thirty years I've been dragging trays in a restaurant. And that's how, in the blunt sway between the tables, from tips to tips, from opening to closing, life passed. I can't believe I was much prettier than the bookstore cashier my husband left for a year ago. Youthful scumbag, made up like a prostitute, with flaunted boobs, protruding ass and a sweet smile. I'd put this tray with two first and three second in her well-groomed handles. She's never picked up a book in her life. It's all airy, miniature, heeled.

I have the same shoes in my closet since the old days: I wore them until my veins swelled. And now it's so hard to watch. And the pain is aching, especially at night. The doctor insists on surgery. I'm scared. The hospital will still look after, help, and at home, except the cat, no one. And the ex does not want to ask for help.

There he is, going to meet his porch. I wrapped myself in a raincoat and brought her an umbrella. And the dog is there. He always wanted a dog, and I hated the spirit of a dog, and fifteen years ago I took a three-colored cat that my husband had learned to carry. Well, now, apparently, he's happy - got a dog. What is the name of this breed? I don't remember. It doesn’t matter if they all smell the same. Especially wet. Over the course of a year, my husband became a dog. So he and the dog stopped for a moment, at the same time shook off, spraying each other with splashes, and the same sluggish gait was thrashed across the road. Well, what's the point of dusting off in the rain?

But in the book that this irritable lady, the schoolteacher, left on the table, it says, “Stop looking for common sense and you will take a step toward happiness.”

What an endless working day it is. In this weather, there are more visitors - run to warm up and sit longer. Another hour, and I can go home to the lonely comfort of the apartment, where on the windowsill, peering into the autumn darkness, my Murka awaits me.

Zoe Master.