I am very lucky.
My good fortune always had been making it`s best. I am always facing to the luck’s ray. But I can`t say that I don`t deserve it. From an early age I was trying to be a good man. Walls of my school remember my notebooks which were hanging in the hall of fame, university professors had been wishing me a good morning with pleasure and love. At first I was a good pupil, then I turned into a good student of Humanitarian Faculty. I was so passionate about languages. I had a light of future in my eyes in those days and I was happy to share it with others. I was thankful to my parents, brother, that girl whom I saw in the window previous night. She had a lovely birthmark on her upper lip. But this history is not about that.
The point is that I was a nice man throughout my life. I was a polite guy. I learned to respect other people, especially women. Concepts such as `ladies comes forward`, `watch your language in company with ladies`, `true gentlemen keeps silent in the proper moment` had rooted in my green boy`s mind. At first I was a nice and polite guy, then I turned into a true gentlemen.
My woman – love of my life – had been proud of me. She loved my strong neck, big and soft hands. Rough elbows… Yes, I have rough elbows, because I used to chock my chin with my hand while sitting in the library and reading about morphology of romance languages. My elbows were rubbing the old dark table for many years. They helped me to get a respected post at the prestige university. She loved my post.
Then was our wedding. Loud and vain. There were wines, salted lamb, milky piglet, Forel with porcini, mutton with ginger and cilantro dressing. It seemed like the whole forest was cut down for our marriage. Those animals were killed for our love. That night I figured that our love was too expensive to this word. Her touches were too costly for me.
I was a good man. I am a good man now too. But my wife wasn’t. Her selfishness was sloudering in her wheat curls. She wanted more. I love dachshunds, she was dreaming about St. Bernard.
Yesterday she cooked a dinner. For the first time over the years since we moved in together. There were rabbit, young radish, spinach and old cheese with truffle on the table. Her long fingers were gracefully skewing the glass to the bottle of Shiraz, so that not a single drop of wine had come out. She was languid and beautiful.
`Mon ami, I forgot to buy mustard.`
`In the kitchen may be leftover. I`ll check.`
I love mustard, especially Dijon. I love it`s shades and indescribable gamma of tastes. It is full of life. It can be sweet or bitter, it also can make you cry. You never know what exactly will appear on the tip of your tongue.
I went in the kitchen and the lightness begun to play in my head. I took the right thing and went back to my wife. She was sitting at the table and adjusting the radio. Her long fingers sniffed out on the clumsy black box the vibrations of jazz. She stopped.
`Amore, dance with me.`
`It is a good idea, darling.`
My big but soft hand was slipping slowly through her waist. It seemed like the room was getting crowded : Sinatra`s sounds filled it. I took the knife which I brought from the kitchen and dug it into her stomach. We continued to dance. Her gentle cheek snuggled against my rough cheekbone. A red carpet of her light and bright life lay under our feet. She said goodbye to me.
I am a very lucky man. And it is not my fault that not everyone can be as lucky as me.
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