The morose poet Mayakovsky sits down next to her, and right from the beginning so that she cannot mistake his intentions, says:
—I do not exist.
Ok, she can cope with that.
—But you’ll have an orange juice… or a coffee, won’t you? You look like you need something.
The magic hour. He watches the bumbling carp in the dark green, ornamental, artificial pond. The moths hitting the surface tension.
He notices the sun’s oblique ray and shifts himself slightly, such that it now comes in over his left ear — more raffish — although, as he and the woman are on the same bench, identically facing, the effect is rather lost.
—You know what I’m going to bring you, don’t you, says Mayakovsky, after he has watched enough. What my message is.
—I do, says the woman.
—So should I bring it yet?
—I think you should get something, there’s a cafe, it’s only a kiosk, I’d be happy to…
It’s a false-start, he knows he must recover the situation quickly or lose the opportunity.
—It’s not really hunger, it’s more melancholy. I have medication for it.
He reaches over with his lips and kisses her.
In return, the woman puts out her hand, patting his knee to cheer him up:
—Time to say it, I guess.
Mayakovsky agrees, and does say it.
—For us, in the Soviet days, we had to keep our own thoughts private, but for you free people, you are controlled so effectively you don’t know your control.
—Will you be kissing me again? she asks (even though she doesn’t sense any vast passion in him, no trouser-stirring, with those neat turn-ups and that homburg hat).
—Absolutely, says the woman. Question is, can we do anything about it?