Anya Annetsun - New York Nights

1st day

Street. New York. Checkers of a taxi are endlessly flashing before our eyes. The liquid crystal screens of living billboards show how much nonsense mankind can do in its pursuit of comfort. I light a cigarette at a strange, marginal-looking peasant and walk inside the Paradise restaurant. Yes, it is always warm and tasty food here.

I wait for my seafood spaghetti to be served while flipping through my Facebook feed, which is replete with stupid posts like billboard ads.

A pretty blonde is sitting in the corner opposite. She smiles at her interlocutor with a beautiful scarlet mouth, occasionally casting glances in my direction.

I do not care. I love you Sarah. And I'm looking forward to our meeting. I betrayed you, I know that. How many days have I tortured myself, insulted, tried to humiliate my ego, for not picking up the phone that night. I heard your message only in the morning, but it was already late. Your message that you are alone, that you feel bad. That you need a friend. I was offended, and like a stupid boy, I postponed the conversation, hoping to dial your number in the morning and say a couple of kind, warm words. I promised myself to do it. But in the morning you didn’t pick up the phone.

They brought pasta. Smells pretty darn good and looks pretty darn good. Well. Let's have some food. Even if you are desperate, you need to eat. You just can't go on without stuffing a couple of other forks of pasta.

Let's eat and go to Gotham. There's a party there tonight. For people like me. Party of the outsiders. We get together every Friday to unwind. And have some fun. Outsiders can get lonely too. More precisely, to say, they are lonely more often than others. So we "hang out" with each other, like a gang of holy fools on a walk. So what? Bad company is also company. Or not?

After refreshing, I pay for dinner and go out into the street. It's frosty. The bright sky, as if painted by Matisse, sparkles with blue. I light a cigarette again at the passer-by. Heck. The lighter goes out in the wind. And my own – yes I do not have my own lighter. For as long as I can remember, since I started smoking, I have not carried matches or lighters with me for a day.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.