put at least one lone hair from her head under your pillow for the night, she, yes, the one, will visit you in your dreams that certain night...
He never doubted at all. And every damned night, unafraid even of that treacherous squeaking of an old door of her room, he brazenly broke into the shrine of his beloved and desperately obtained what he needed so much – hope. Today, just the same as during the months she’d been already living here, he was humbly awaited by a small fuchsia-colored wooden comb in its permanent place – the clumsy dressing table near her lavender bed. Wondering why fuchsia? He had guessed at first glance: fuchsia was about a challenge, about courage, disobedience… as was the color of her lips, as she was... Gently picking up the comb, he greedily, even with some kind of wild animal thirst, took away that dreamy golden hair of its owner, while she naively was having a bath in the modest basement shower room of their hostel, and inspired returned to his pillow, expecting the miracle. The cheated fuchsia comb fell down...
She was coming every night. But, of course, not to him… He never deserved neither the length of her legs, nor the pale velvet of her skin, and wouldn’t ever gain either the gold of her hair, or at least the instant touch of the fuchsia of her lips. He must have been suffering. She was being burned alive...
What would you choose: beauty or luck? She had been chosen by the beauty itself, and at the same time that beauty had sentenced her to the complete and total loss of her good fortune. He, on the contrary, wasn’t a fatalist. He always thought that we were the only responsible for own choices, but simultaneously he would never dare to reproach her for the chosen path.
Every new night = new bed, cold, strange, unfriendly. She was terribly tired and had only one thing to dream about: after combing the naughty long curls, to take a hot shower in the basement shower room of such an awfully familiar hostel, and then, in no hurry, without any painting of her lips with that senseless and poisonous fuchsia, to drink with him, yes, with the one, a cup or two of pleasantly warm milk on the shared hostel kitchen and finally be carried off in the arms of Morpheus, not some other horny fat guy…
He would never forget their first meeting. The smoky hostel kitchen. She, crying again. He, heating up milk. A moment and they were friends. Friends? Yes, as good as a poor builder minored in architecture and a prostitute with the true angel's appearance could be.
Did she at least conjecture about his purest feelings? Of course, no. How could someone feel something like that about a prostitute, about a slut, about a harlot?..
Returning from the shower room, wet and frosty, she quickly looked around the room in search of a cozy robe, but her attention was immediately drawn to the bright pink comb on the floor. Someone had come in! She excitedly reached for the drawer where she kept all of her savings. Money was in the place. She calmed down.
How long would it take for him? He was examining an unbleached ceiling of his room. Love, bright, pure, sincere, genuine... It was filling him up and didn't let him sleep, or she simply didn't want to come to his dreams. As usual, by the way, but he never minded…
Having done her make-up, she was staring at the mirror for a long time. What was the point of such existence? Knocking. No reaction. He came in.
Night. But again not for them. Why? Since after all, he was capable of only rare timid touches on her defiant and provocative fuchsia-colored comb, and she was with him, no, not with the one…
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